Hostile Fire (8 page)

“That’s a relief. Well, I better get back to work on this contingency plan. Any deadline on it?”

“Sooner the better.”

Salah hurried back to his small office and put down the papers. The only thing he could think about was what the major had said. Closer to Damascus, Syria, than to Baghdad. That could put it way out in the Syrian Desert. But there were hundreds of square miles of sand and grass and wadis out there. He had to get a more precise location. But how?

Falda. He had met her several times at military functions. She usually was there as an entertainer, a dancer, sometimes a singer. She was something of a mystery to him. He had heard hints that she might be an undercover spy for the British, but no one knew for sure. She was beautiful, slender with big breasts that she didn’t mind showing off.

At noon he went to a phone booth in the lobby of a hotel and made a call. A sensuous female voice answered.

“Yes, good afternoon.”

“Falda?”

“Perhaps. Who is calling?”

“Captain Rahmani. You probably don’t remember me.”

“Of course I do. I remember all the handsome men I meet. You were at the general’s thirtieth anniversary party, just last week at the Welcome Hotel.”

“Amazing. I wonder if you have time so we could take a walk and talk?”

“That sounds interesting. Nothing we can do over the phone?”

“No, it’s more personal than that.”

“Now I am intrigued. You know the Grotsky Park?”

“Yes.”

“Be there within a half hour. By the Saddam statue.”

“I can do that.”

They hung up. Salah smiled. She just might be a British spy after all. If she was, he’d find out, and maybe then they could combine their efforts. He hurried out of the hotel and flagged down a cab. This was an emergency. He had to make the meeting on time.

When he arrived in the park, he found her sitting on a bench near the statue. She saw him coming and stood, walking toward him with a dancer’s movement, smooth, flowing. She was much prettier than he remembered, and without her stage makeup, she was more approachable.

“You came,” she said.

“Of course. We need to talk.”

“What about?”

“I understand you spent some time in England?”

“Only a brief vacation.”

“Did you talk with any important people?”

“Not a one. Why?”

“Just wondered. I hear many interesting things about you. You move in high official government circles. As a woman, you are given extensive privileges other women don’t get. It makes me wonder.”

She laughed. “You think I’m a British spy? How interesting. Yes, I am friends with many people. I dance for many functions and I know the men and some of their wives. I am not a British spy.”

“Then I won’t have to report you to my superiors.”

“They wouldn’t believe you, anyway. I hear some strange things about you, Salah. Do you know that you are being watched? Everywhere you go someone is following you.”

“Why would they do that? Can’t they afford a bike of their own?”

“They can and it kills them. They would rather follow you in a car. They take turns bicycling behind you to and from work. They curse and swear at you, but they follow. You spent three years in America.”

“It was four years, for my university study. I was sent by the government to learn all I could about the American army and how it works. I was commissioned a second lieutenant in the U.S. Army.”

“And now you ask questions about our nuclear project.”

“Yes, I’d just as soon it isn’t in Baghdad. One mistake by one scientist and we’re all atomic dust.”

“You know where we keep them?”

“In the desert I would guess, far away from Baghdad.”

“Good guess. Oh, we found your fancy radio.”

“What radio?”

“The one called SATCOM. The one you sent your spy messages on to the CIA.”

“I what? You must have the wrong captain.”

“Oh, no, you’re the right one. The radio proved that. We’re sure that your wife is innocent and knows nothing of your spy work.” She signaled and two men in long black coats came and walked beside them.

“We were delighted with the find of the SATCOM, anxious to learn its secrets so we could listen in on U.S. classified messages. You know what happened. When our men opened it without the proper code on the panel, it exploded, killing our three men and totally destroying the powerful radio.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You will, soon. These two men have many questions to ask you. I’ll have to leave you now. The big black car just ahead is for you. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

Salah Rahmani knew then that they must have been watching him for months. How else would they know about the SATCOM? He hadn’t checked on it for two weeks. He jolted away from the woman’s side and sprinted into the grassy park, pulled the small H&K P7 semiautomatic pistol from his pocket and turned just as the two special investigators fired their weapons. He felt one round hit his leg and he went down. He fired four times, putting one of the black coats down before he rolled to get out of the line of fire. But three of the heavy rounds from the second investigator’s pistol hit Rahmani in the back. One ripped through his spinal
cord and another plowed through his lung and lodged in his heart. He died before he could fire again, and with him died his big dream of returning to the United States with his family.

The Farm
Langley, Virginia

At oh-ten-hundred that first morning at The Farm, Murdock, Rafii, and Ching came out of the wardrobe building wearing typical Iraqi clothing. All had on cotton pants, belts, white shirts on the outside, and a variety of hats: a New York Yankees baseball cap, one straw hat, and the other a felt floppy. Ching and Murdock had their faces, hands, and arms colored a light brown to more closely match Rafii. He grinned as he saw the transformation.

“Hey, you two can be my homeboys. We’ll do fine in Baghdad. I’ll be the front man and you guys are my muscle. We’ll sweep down one of those streets and take care of anybody who looks cross-eyed at us.”

A man they had met early that morning studied them. Slowly he nodded. He was Rolph Sedgewick, a Brit who came to the U.S. before the Second World War and had settled into the CIA as one of its European specialists.

“Yes, you’ll pass. I want you to live the parts you’ll play for the next two days. You’ll eat Iraqi food, hear Iraqi music, ride in an old Renault with Iraqi license plates, and speak Arabic whenever possible. He shifted into Arabic then and Rafii knew exactly what he said. Murdock caught the main idea, but Ching only frowned. The three moved toward the classroom building that Sedgewick had told them about in Arabic. Ching hesitated then hurried with them.

“Will somebody tell me what he said?” he yelped.

“He told us it’s class time,” Rafii said. “We start to get some basic instruction in things Iraqi so we can stay alive.”

“I’m in favor of that,” Ching said.

The classroom was set up to train half a dozen students,
with chalkboard, wipe board, desks, projectors, and video. Their instructor met them and introduced himself.

“I’m Taliva, George Taliva for convenience. I’ll be your language instructor and hope to make you able to speak enough Arabic to complete your mission. First we have a general introduction to Iraqi society courtesy of some travel agency.”

They watched a video of the current street scenes in Baghdad, some of the tourist attractions, and a display of a holiday festival. When it was over, the instructor, an Iraqi who’d spent twenty years in Iraq, let them ask questions.

“I thought Muslim women had to have their faces covered in public,” Murdock said.

“That’s a general misconception about Iraq,” the instructor said. “For decades now Iraqi women have enjoyed greater equality and opportunity than have the women of neighboring Arab countries such as Iran and Syria. Iraqi women have struggled for equal rights for nearly a hundred years. Women in Iraq began taking positions in the mainstream job market as early as the 1920s.

“Under Saddam Hussein’s regime, these rights continued. Men and women receive the same salary when doing the same job, and many pursue professions usually thought to be for men. Iraqi women are not required to cover themselves from head to toe the way women are in Iran and Saudi Arabia. Women also receive five years’ maternity leave from their employers.

“At the same time, United Nations sanctions against Iraq have created enormous suffering among women and children. Traditionally women had only one job, but now many must hold down two or even three to feed their families. Women-headed families are not uncommon in Iraq, which lost many soldiers in the Iran-Iraq war in the 1980s and again in the Gulf War in 1991. A schoolteacher who once could live relatively well on her salary must now take in sewing and bake goods to sell for extra money. The government makes rations available for the needy, but these last only about ten days a month.

“In Iraq women may hold down jobs outside the home, may drive cars, girls go to school, and they can move about
outside the home without a male relative. All of these rights are not granted to women in fundamentalist Muslim countries such as Iran and Saudi Arabia.

“So, when you go into Baghdad, expect to see many women on the streets, and in jobs and doing ordinary things that they couldn’t do in other Arab nations.

“However, this is not Hillsboro, Michigan. Iraq is still a military dictatorship. Voting is done for one party and one candidate. The men run the military and the military runs the country. Many laws are strict and the punishment harsh and not fair by Western standards. Soldiers from the army and from the elite Republican Guard are frequently seen on the streets enforcing laws, arresting people, and maintaining the rule of the military.

“After lunch, we’ll start our language units, and we will speak nothing but Arabic. Next this morning we have two more films on Iraq. One is from the Iraqi Ministry of Information, so take it all with a large dose of disbelief. It does show Baghdad today in some of its best sides. So watch it closely. The signs won’t mean much to you, but relate them to what is going on in the named store or shop. Pay close attention to the restaurant where a jazz combo is playing Frank Sinatra and Louis Armstrong songs. That may sound weird, but it is happening in Baghdad. Listen up.”

The two films turned out to be videos and not the slickest production, but good enough to get across the points the makers wanted to show, and to give the three SEALs a lot more information about Iraq.

At noon they went to the visiting chow line and found the rest of the platoon.

“Hey look, ladies,” Jaybird shouted. “We’ve got visitors from outer space.”

Murdock bellowed a sharp command at him in Arabic and Jaybird jolted back a step, then the platoon laughed at him. Murdock saw one new member of the platoon. The person was smaller than the rest, dressed the same in desert cammies, but he could see short brown hair sticking out below her floppy hat.

“Hey, Garnet,” Murdock called.

Katherine, “Kat” Garnet turned and grinned. “About time
you showed up, Commander. We’ve been holding the chow line until you got here. My, you’ve developed quite a tan since I saw you last.” He said hello to her in Arabic and held out his hand. She smiled and gave him a hug instead.

She was the same Kat. About five-eight with brown eyes, a tempered athlete’s body under the cammies. She did iron woman triathlons just for the fun of it. She had won the classic Hawaiian women’s race twice.

“I hear you’re going to be going on the picnic with us,” Murdock said.

“I’ll go, but I get to play with the toys only if you guys can find them. Any idea where they could be?”

“Our only hint so far is that they are in the desert. But that involves hundreds of square miles. We have a man in Baghdad who is supposed to give us the coordinates.”

“You and Ching and this man I don’t know will be going into Baghdad to help him. Be careful.”

Murdock pulled up Rafii. “Kat, this is Omar Rafii, one of our SEALs. Rafii, this is the little lady who makes the atomic weapons go poof instead of bang. At least she did before, twice, and we all survived. We hope she can do it again.” The two shook hands. “Kat, are you just as good with a sub gun as you used to be?”

They moved up in the cafeteria line, picked out what they wanted, and soon were seated at tables with real chairs.

“A sub gun. You had to remind me. I’m afraid I’m out of practice. But then I haven’t had to kill anybody in the office where I work. You would have to remind me of that.”

“Hey, you saved my skin out there in the boonies. I’m not about to let you forget that. I still owe you big time.”

She grinned. “You still all tied up with that tall blonde from Washington, DC?”

“No. Ardith lives in San Diego now. We just bought a condo.”

Kat scowled for a moment then lifted her brows. “You really know how to spoil a girl’s day. Well, I guess it’s just business then.”

“Right, just business.”

After lunch, the three SEALs reported back to the classroom. Sedgewick, their trainer for the day, nodded as they
came in. “Before we get started on our language unit, I have some news. Our man in Baghdad who had been feeding us most of our information is no longer communicating with us. He was supposed to give us a general area where the Iraqi bombs were being stored. On his last report he said he had a contact who should be able to get the general area for us. He had a scaled-down version of the SATCOM to use to contact us. It had a built-in safety device. The operator had to punch in a special code to deactivate the self-destruct charges. If it is turned on, or opened in any way without that code, there is a ten-second delay. During that delay the set automatically broadcasts a distress call on all frequencies notifying us that it is in the delay mode and will soon self-destruct. We received the distress call just after twelve-twenty
P.M.
in Washington and here. If the set is dead, we can be sure that our agent there is either dead, compromised, or being interrogated.”

“So we have no help in Baghdad?”