Chapter 20
The news that the British Tornados had missed their real target at Al Qubai badly shook the man known only as Jericho. It was as much as he could do to force himself to his feet and applaud the Rais with the adoration of all the rest.
In the blacked-out bus with the other generals being transported back into central Baghdad, he had sat in silence in back, wrapped in his own thoughts. That the use of the device now hidden elsewhere--at a place called Qa'ala, the Fortress, of which he had never heard and whose location he did not know--might cause many, many deaths, he cared not a jot.
It was his own position that absorbed him. For three years he had risked everything--exposure, ruin, and a terrible death--to betray his country's regime.
The point had not simply been to establish a huge personal fortune abroad; that he could probably have done by extortion and theft right here in Iraq, though there would have been risks to that as well.
The point had been to retire abroad with a new identity and background, provided by his foreign paymasters, secure under their mantle, safe from the vengeful assassination squads. He had seen the fate of those who simply stole and fled; they lived constantly in fear until, one day, the Iraqi avengers caught up.
He, Jericho, wanted both his fortune and security, which was why he had welcomed the transfer of his control from Israel to the Americans. They would look after him, abide by the agreement, and create the new identity, allowing him to become another man with another nationality, buy his mansion by the sea in Mexico, and live out a life of ease and comfort.
Now things had changed. If he kept silent and the device were used, the Americans would think he had lied about Al Qubai. He had not, but in their rage they would never believe that. Come hell or high water, the Americans would reject his account, and it would all have been for nothing.
Somehow he had to warn them that there had been a mistake. A few more risks, and it would all be over--Iraq defeated, the Rais brought down, and he, Jericho, out of there and far away.
In the privacy of his office he wrote his message, as always in Arabic, on the thin paper that took up so little space. He explained the conference of that evening; that when he sent his last message, the device had indeed been at Al Qubai, as he had said, but forty-eight hours later when the Tornados struck, it had been moved. That this was not his fault.
He went on to say all he knew: That there was a secret place called the Fortress; that the device was there, and from Qa'ala it would be launched when the first American crossed the border into Iraq.
Shortly after midnight, he took an unmarked car and disappeared into the back streets of Baghdad. No one queried his right to do so; no one would dare. He planted the message beneath a flagstone in an old courtyard off Abu Nawas Street, then made the chalk mark behind the Church of St. Joseph in the Area of the Christians.
This time the chalk mark was slightly different. He hoped the unseen man who collected his messages would waste no time.
As it happened, Mike Martin left the Soviet villa early on the morning of February 15. The Russian cook had given him a long list of fresh produce to buy, a list that was going to prove extremely hard to fill.
Food was running short. It was not the farmers in the countryside; it was the transportation problems. Most of the bridges were down. The central Iraqi plain is a land of rivers watering the spread of crops that feed Baghdad. Forced to pay ferry charges across them all, the producegrowers were choosing to stay home.
Luckily, Martin started with the spice market in Shurja Street, then pedaled around the Church of St. Joseph to the alley at the back. When he saw the chalk mark, he was jolted.
The mark of that particular wall was always supposed to be a figure eight on its side, with a single short stroke horizontally through the join of the two circles. But he had warned Jericho previously that if there were ever a real emergency, the single stroke should be replaced by two small crosses, one in each circle of the figure eight. Today the crosses were there.
Martin pedaled hard to the courtyard off Abu Nawas Street, waited till the coast was clear, stooped as always to adjust his sandal, slid a hand into the hiding place in the wall, and found the slim envelope. By midday, he was back at the villa, explaining to the angry cook that he had done his best but the produce would be later than ever reaching the city. He would have to go back in the afternoon.
When he read Jericho's message, it became all too plain why the man was in a panic. Martin composed a message of his own, explaining to Riyadh why he now felt he had been forced to take matters into his own hands and make his own decision.
There was no time left for conferences in Riyadh and a further interchange of messages. The worst part, for him, was Jericho's revelation that Iraqi Counterintelligence was aware of an illegal transmitter sending burst signals. He could not know how close they were, but he had to assume there could be no further extended exchange of messages with Riyadh. Therefore he was making the decision himself.
Martin read the Jericho message in Arabic first, then his own translation, into the tape recorder. He added his own message and prepared to send. He had no transmission window until late in the night--the night was always chosen so that the Kulikov household would be fast asleep.
But, like Jericho, he did have an emergency procedure. It was the transmission of a single long blast of sound, in this case a high-pitched whistle, on a completely different frequency, well outside the usual VHF band.
He checked that the Iraqi chauffeur was with First Secretary Kulikov at the embassy in the city center and that the Russian houseman and his wife were at lunch. Then, despite the risk of discovery, he erected the satellite dish near the open doorway and sent the whistle blast.
In the radio shack, a former bedroom in the SIS villa in Riyadh, a single light flashed on. It was half past one in the afternoon. The duty radio operator, handling the normal traffic between the villa and Century House in London, dropped what he was doing, yelled through the door for backup, and tuned to Receive on Martin's frequency-ofthe-day.
The second operator put his head around the door. "What's up?"
"Get Steve and Simon. Black Bear's coming on, and it's an emergency."
The man left.
Martin gave Riyadh fifteen minutes, then ran his main transmission. Riyadh was not the only radio mast that caught the burst. Outside Baghdad, another satellite dish, sweeping the VHF band relentlessly, caught part of it. The message was so long that, even shortened, it lasted four seconds. The Iraqi listeners caught the last two and got a fix.
As soon as he had sent, Martin closed down and packed away his equipment beneath the tiles of his floor. Hardly had he done so than he heard footsteps on the gravel. It was the Russian houseman who, in a fit of generosity, had crossed the yard to offer him a Balkan cigarette.
Martin accepted it with much bobbing and bowing and mutterings of "Shukran." The Russian, proud of his good nature, walked back to the house. "Poor bastard," he thought. "What a life."
When he was alone again, the poor bastard began to write in closely scripted Arabic on the pad of airmail paper he kept under his pallet.
As he did so, the radio genius called Major Zayeed pored over a verylarge-scale map of the city, particularly of the district of Mansour. When he had finished his calculations, he double-checked them and called Brigadier Hassan Rahmani at the Mukhabarat headquarters, barely five hundred yards from the diamond-shaped lozenge of Mansour that had been traced out in green ink. His appointment was fixed for four o'clock.
In Riyadh, Chip Barber was stomping around the main sitting room of the villa with a print-out in his hand, swearing in a manner he had not done since leaving the Marines thirty years earlier. "What the hell does he think he's doing?" He demanded of the two British intelligence officers in the room with him.
"Easy, Chip," said Laing. "He's had a hell of a long run. He's under massive strain. The bad guys are closing in. All our tradecraft tells us we should get him out of there--now."
"Yeah, I know, he's a great guy. But he has no right to do this. We're the people picking up the tab, remember?"
"We do remember," said Paxman, "but he's our man, and he's miles out in the cold. If he chooses to stay on, it's to finish the job, as much for you as for us."
Barber calmed down. "Three million dollars. How the hell am I to tell Langley he has offered Jericho a further three million greenbacks to get it right this time? That Iraqi asshole should have gotten it right the first time. For all we know, he could be dealing from the bottom of the deck, just to make more money."
"Chip," said Laing, "we're talking about a nuke here."
"Maybe," growled Barber, "maybe we're talking about a nuke. Maybe Saddam got enough uranium in time, maybe he put it all together in time. All we really have are the calculations of some scientists and Saddam's claim--if indeed he ever made the claim at all. Dammit, Jericho is a mercenary, he could be lying in his teeth. Scientists can be wrong, Saddam lies as he breathes. What have we actually gotten for all this money?"
"You want to take the risk?" asked Laing.
Barber slumped in a chair. "No," he said at length, "no, I don't. Okay, I'll clear it with Washington. Then we tell the generals. They have to know this. But I tell you guys one thing: One day I'm going to meet this Jericho, and if he's putting us on, I'm going to pull his arms off and beat him to death with the soggy end."
At four that afternoon, Major Zayeed brought his maps and his calculations to Hassan Rahmani's office. Carefully he explained that he had that day secured his third triangulation and narrowed the area down to the lozenge shown on the map of Mansour.
Rahmani gazed at it dubiously. "It's a hundred yards by a hundred yards," he said. "I thought modern technology could get these emission sources down to a square yard."
"If I get a long transmission, yes, I can," explained the young major patiently. "I can get a beam from the intercepting receiver no wider than a yard. Cross that with another intercept from a different point, and you get your square yard. But these are terribly short transmissions. They're on the air and off within two seconds. The best I can get is a very narrow cone, its point on the receiver, running out across country and getting wider as it goes. Maybe an angle of one second of one degree on the compass. But a couple of miles away, that becomes a hundred yards. Look, it's still a small area." Rahmani peered at the map. The marked lozenge had four buildings in it.
"Let's get down there and look at it," he suggested. The two men prowled Mansour with the map until they had traced the area shown. It was residential and very prosperous. The four residences were all detached, walled, and standing in their own grounds. It was getting dark by the time they finished.
"Raid them in the morning," said Rahmani. "I'll seal the area with troops, quietly. You know what you're looking for. You go in with your specialists and take all four places apart. You find it, we have the spy."
"One problem," said the major. "See that brass plaque over there? That's a Soviet embassy residence."
Rahmani thought it over. He would get no thanks for starting an international incident. "Do the other three first," he ordered. "If you get nothing, I'll clear the Soviet building with the Foreign Ministry."
While they talked, one of the staff of that Soviet villa was three miles away. The gardener Mahmoud Al-Khouri was in the old British cemetery, placing a slim envelope in a stone jar by a long-untended gravestone. Later, he made a chalk mark on the wall of the Union of Journalists building. On a late-night tour of the district, he noticed just before midnight that the chalk mark had been expunged.
That evening, there was a conference in Riyadh, a very private conference in a sealed office two floors below the Saudi Defense Ministry building. There were four generals present, one of them seated at the head of the table, and two civilians, Barber and Laing. When the civilians had finished speaking, the four military men sat in gloomy silence.
"Is this for real?" asked one of the Americans. "In terms of one hundred percent proof, we don't have that," said Barber. "But we think there is a very high likelihood that the information is accurate."
"What makes you so sure?" asked the USAF general.
"As you gentlemen have probably already guessed, we have for some months past had an asset working for us high in the hierarchy in Baghdad."
There was a series of assenting grunts. "Didn't figure all that target information was coming from Langley's crystal ball," said the Air Force general, who still resented the CIA doubting his pilots' hit record.
"The point is," said Laing, "so far, we have never found his information to be anything but bang-on accurate. If he's lying now, it's a hell of a scam. Second point is, can we take that risk?"
There was silence for several minutes. "There's one thing you guys are overlooking," said the USAF man. "Delivery."
"Delivery?" asked Barber.
"Right. Having a weapon is one thing; delivering it right on top of your enemy is another. Look, no one can believe Saddam is into miniaturization yet. That's hypertech. So he can't launch this thing, if he has it, from a tank gun. Or an artillery piece--same caliber. Or a Katyushka-type battery. Or a rocket."
"Why not a rocket, General?" "Payload," said the flier sarcastically. "Goddam payload. If this is a crude device, we have to be looking at half a ton. A thousand pounds, say. We now know the Al-Abeid and the Al-Tammuz rockets were still only in development when we smashed the facility at Saad-16. The Al-Abbas and the Al-Badr, same thing. Inoperative--either smashed up or a too-small payload."
"What about the Scud?" asked Laing. "Same thing," said the general. "The long-range so-called Al-Husayn keeps on breaking up on reentry and has a payload of 160 kilograms. Even the basic Soviet-supplied Scud has a maximum payload of 600 kilograms. Too small."
"There's still an aircraft-launched bomb," pointed out Barber.
The Air Force general glowered. "Gentlemen, I will give you my personal guarantee, here and now: From henceforth, not one single Iraqi warplane will reach the border. Most won't even get off the tarmac. Those that do and head south will be shot down halfway to the border. I have enough AWACS, enough fighters--I can guarantee it."
"And the Fortress?" asked Laing. "The launch pad?"
"A top-secret hangar, probably underground, a single runway leading from the mouth; housing a Mirage, a MiG, a Sukhoi--tooled up and ready to go. But we'll get it before the border. "
The decision rested with the American general at the head of the table. "Are you going to find the repository of this device, this so-called Fortress?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, sir," said Barber. "We are trying even now. We figure we may need a few more days."
"Find it, and we will destroy it."
"And the invasion in four days, sir?" asked Laing.
"I will let you know."
* * *
That evening, it was announced that the ground invasion of Kuwait and Iraq had been postponed and rescheduled for the twenty-fourth of February.
Later, historians gave two alternate reasons for this postponement. One was that the U.S. Marines wanted to alter their main axis of attack a few miles farther west and that this would require troop movements, transfer of stores, and further preparations. That was true, too.
A reason later advanced in the press was that two British computer hackers had cut into the Defence Ministry computer and badly dislocated the collation of weather reports for the attack area, causing confusion over the choice of the best day for the attack from the climatic point of view. In fact, the weather was fine and clear between the twentieth and the twenty-fourth, and it deteriorated just as the advance began.
General Norman Schwarzkopf was a big and very strong man, physically, mentally, and morally. But he would have been more, or perhaps less, than human if the sheer strain of those last few days had not begun to tell on him.
He had been working up to twenty hours a day for six months without a break. He had not only overseen the biggest and the fastest military buildup in history, a task that alone could have broken a lesser man, but he had coped with the complexities of relationships with the sensitivities of Saudi society, kept the peace when a dozen times internecine feuding could have wrecked the Coalition, and warded off endless well-meant but useless and exhausting interventions from Capitol Hill.
And yet it was not all this that disturbed his much-needed sleep in those last few days. It was the sheer responsibility of being in charge of all those young lives that brought the nightmare.
In the nightmare, there was the Triangle. Always the Triangle. It was a right-angled triangle of land, lying on its side. What would have been the base of the triangle was the coastline from Khafji down past Jubail to the three linked cities of Dammam, Al Khoba, and Dhahran.
The perpendicular line of the triangle was the border running west from the coast, first between Saudi Arabia and Kuwait, then on into the desert to become the Iraqi border. The hypotenuse was the slanting line linking the last western outpost in the desert to the coast at Dhahran.
Within that triangle almost half a million young men and women sat and waited for his order. Eighty percent of them were Americans. In the east were the Saudis, other Arab contingents, and the Marines. In the center were the great American armored and mechanized infantry units, and among them was the British First Armoured Division. On the extreme flank were the French.
Once, the nightmare had been tens of thousands of young men pouring into the breeches for the attack, to be soaked by a rain of poison gas and to die there between the sand walls and the razor wire. Now it was worse.
Only a week earlier, contemplating the triangle on a battle map, an Army intelligence officer had actually suggested, "Maybe Saddam intends to pop a nuke in there." The man thought he was joking.
That night, the commanding general tried again to sleep and failed. Always the Triangle. Too many men, too small a space.
At the SIS villa, Laing, Paxman, and the two radio technicians shared a crate of beer brought covertly from the British embassy. They too studied the map; they too saw the Triangle. They too felt the strain.
"One bloody bomb, one fucking small, crude, first-attempt sub- Hiroshima bomb in there, air burst or ground burst ...," said Laing.
They did not need to be scientists to know that the first explosion would kill more than a hundred thousand young soldiers. Within hours, the radiation cloud, sucking up billions of tons of active sand from the desert, would begin to drift, covering everything in its path with death.
The ships at sea would have time to batten down, but not the ground troops or the people of the Saudi cities.
Eastward it would drift, widening as it went, over Bahrain and the Allied airfields, poisoning the sea, across to the coast of Iran, there to exterminate one of the categories Saddam Hussein had pronounced to be unworthy of life--"Persians, Jews, and flies."
"He can't bloody launch it," said Paxman. "He hasn't a rocket or plane that can do it."
Far to the north, hidden in the Jebal al Hamreen, deep inside the breech of a gun with a barrel one hundred and eighty meters long and a range of a thousand kilometers, the Fist of God lay inert but ready to be called to fly.
The house in Qadisiyah was only half awake and quite unprepared for the visitors who came at dawn. When the owner had built it many years before, it had been set in the midst of orchards. It stood three miles away from the four villas in Mansour that Major Zayeed of Counterintelligence was even then preparing to put under surveillance.
The spread of the southwestern suburbs of Baghdad had enveloped the old house, and the new Qadisiyah Expressway roared through what had once been fields growing peaches and apricots. Still, it was a fine house, owned by a prosperous man now long retired, walled within its grounds and still retaining some fruit trees at the bottom of the garden.
There were two truckloads of AMAM soldiers under the command of a major, and they did not stand on ceremony. The lock of the main gate was shot off, the gate kicked open, and the soldiers poured in, smashing the front door and beating the decrepit servant who tried to stop them.
They ran through the house, ripping open cupboards and tearing down hangings, while the terrified old man who owned the house tried to shield and protect his wife. The soldiers stripped the place almost bare and found nothing.
When the old man pleaded with them to say what it was they wanted or sought, the major roughly told him he knew perfectly well, and the search went on.
After the house, the soldiers tried the garden. It was at the bottom near the wall that they found the freshly turned earth. Two of them held the old man while the soldiers dug. He protested he did not know why the earth was freshly turned; he had buried nothing.
But they found it all the same. It was in a burlap sack and all could see, when they emptied it out, that it was a radio set. The major knew nothing of radio sets, nor would he have cared, had he known, that the broken-down Morse-sender model in the burlap bag was a world away from the ultramodern satellite-based transmitter used by Mike Martin and still beneath the floor of his shack in First Secretary Kulikov's garden. For the AMAM major, radios were the tricks of spies, and that was all that mattered.
The old man began to wail that he had never seen it before, that someone must have come over the wall in the night to bury it there, but the AMAM soldiers knocked him down with their rifle butts, and his wife also when she screamed.
The major examined the trophy, and even he could see that some hieroglyphics on the containing sack appeared to be characters in Hebrew. They did not want the house servant or the old woman--just the man. He was over seventy, but they carried him out facedown, gripped at each ankle and wrist by four soldiers, and threw him in the back of one of the trucks like a sack of figs.
The major was happy. Acting on an anonymous tip, he had done his duty. His superiors would be pleased. This was not a case for the Abu Ghraib prison. He took his prisoner to the AMAM headquarters and the Gymnasium. That, he reasoned, was the only place for Israeli spies.
That same day, February 16, Gidi Barzilai was in Paris, showing his painting to Michel Levy. The old antiquarian sayan was delighted to help. Only once had he been asked before, and that was to lend some furniture to a katsa trying to gain entry to a certain house, posing as an antique dealer. For Michel Levy it was a pleasure and an excitement, something to enliven the existence of an old man, to be consulted by the Mossad, to be able to help in some way.
"Boulle," he said.
"I beg your pardon?" said Barzilai, who thought he was being rude. "Boulle," repeated the old man. "Also spelled B-u-h-l. The great French cabinetmaker. His style, you see, definitely. Mind you, this isn't by him. The period is too late for him."
"Then who is it by?"
Monsieur Levy was over eighty, with thin white hair plastered on a wrinkled scalp, but he had pink apple cheeks and bright eyes that sparkled with the pleasure of being alive. He had said kaddish for so many of his own generation.
"Well, Boulle when he died handed over his workshop to his prot間? the German Oeben. He in turn handed the tradition over to another German, Riesener. I would think this is from the Riesener period. Certainly by a pupil, perhaps by the master himself. Are you going to buy it?" He was teasing, of course. He knew the Mossad did not buy works of art. His eyes danced with merriment.
"Let's just say I am interested in it," said Barzilai.
Levy was delighted. They were up to their naughty tricks again. He would never know what, but it was fun anyway.
"Do these desks--"
"Bureaux," said Levy, "it's a bureau." "All right, do these bureaux ever have secret compartments in them?"
Better and better--delightful! Oh, the excitement! "Ah, you mean a cachette. Of course. You know, young man, many years ago, when a man could be called out and killed in a duel over a matter of honor, a lady having an affair had to be very discreet. No telephones, then, no fax, no videos. All her lover's naughty thoughts had to be put on paper. Then where should she hide them from her husband?
"Not in a wall safe--there weren't any. Nor an iron box--her husband would demand the key. So the society people of those days
commissioned pieces of furniture with a cachette. Not all the time, but sometimes. Had to be good workmanship, mind, or it would be too visible."
"How would one know if a piece one was ... thinking of buying had such a cachette. Oh, this was wonderful.
The man from the Mossad was not going to buy a Riesener bureau, he was going to break into one.
"Would you like to see one?" asked Levy. He made several phone calls, and at length they left his shop and took a cab. It was another dealer. Levy had a whispered conversation, and the man nodded and left them alone. Levy had said if he could secure a sale, there'd be a small finder's fee, nothing more. The dealer was satisfied; it is often thus in the antique world.
The desk they examined was remarkably like the one in Vienna. "Now," said Levy, "the cachette will not be large, or it would be detectable in the measurements, external as opposed to internal. So it will be slim, vertical or horizontal. Probably no more than two centimeters thick, hiding in a panel that appears to be solid, three centimeters thick, but is in fact two wafers of wood with the cachette between them. The clue is the release knob."
He took out one of the top drawers. "Feel in there," he said. Barzilai reached in until his fingertips touched the back. "Feel around." "Nothing," said the katsa. "That's because there isn't anything," said Levy. "Not in this one. But there might be a knob, a catch, or a button. A smooth button, you press it; a knob, you turn it; a catch, move it from side to side, and see what happens."
"What should happen?"
"A low click, and a small piece of marquetry pops out, spring-loaded. Behind that is the cachette."
Even the ingenuity of the cabinetmakers of the eighteenth century had its limits. Within an hour, Monsieur Levy had taught the katsa the basic ten places to look for the hidden catch that would release the spring to open the compartment.
"Never try to use force to find one," Levy insisted. "You won't anyway, with force, and besides, it leaves traces on the woodwork." He nudged Barzilai and grinned.
Barzilai gave the old man a good lunch at the Coupole, then took a taxi back to the airport to return to Vienna.
Early that morning, February 16, Major Zayeed and his team presented themselves at the first of the three villas that were to be searched. The other two were sealed, with men posted at all the entrances and the bewildered occupants confined inside. The major was perfectly polite, but his authority brooked no objection.
Unlike the AMAM team a mile and a half away in Qadisiyah, Zayeed's men were experts, caused very little permanent damage, and were the more efficient for it. Beginning at the ground level, searching for access to a hiding place beneath the floor tiles, they worked their way steadily through the house, room by room, cupboard by cupboard, and cavity by cavity. The garden was also searched, but not a trace was found.
Before midday, the major was satisfied at last, made his apologies to the occupants, and left. Next door, he began to work through the second house.
In the basement beneath the AMAM headquarters in Saadun, the old man was on his back, strapped at his wrists and waist to a stout wooden table and surrounded by the four experts who would extract his confession. Apart from these, there was a doctor present, and Brigadier Omar Khatib consulting in a corner with Sergeant Ali.
It was the head of the AMAM who decided on the menu of afflictions to be undertaken. Sergeant Ali raised an eyebrow; he would, he realized, certainly need his coveralls this day.
Omar Khatib nodded curtly and left. He had paperwork to attend to in his upstairs office.
The old man continued to plead that he knew nothing of any transmitter, that he had not been in the garden for days due to the inclement weather. ... The interrogators were not interested.
They bound both ankles to a broom handle running across the insteps. Two of the four raised the feet to the required position with the soles facing the room, while Ali and his remaining colleague took down from the walls the heavy quirts of electrical flex.
When the bastinado began, the old man screamed, as they all did, until the voice broke, then fainted. A bucket of icy water from the corner, where a row of them were stacked, brought him around.
Occasionally, through the morning, the men rested, easing the muscles of their arms, which had become tired with their endeavors. While they rested, cups of brine were dashed against the pulpy feet. Then, refreshed, they resumed.
Between bouts of fainting, the old man continued to protest that he could not even operate a radio transmitter and there must have been some mistake. By midmorning, the skin and meat of the soles of both feet had been
whipped away and the white bones glinted through the blood.
Sergeant Ali sighed and nodded that this process should cease. He lit a cigarette and savored the smoke while his assistant used a short iron bar to crack the leg bones from ankle to knees.
The old man pleaded with the doctor, as one medical practitioner to another, but the AMAM physician stared at the ceiling. He had his orders, which were to keep the prisoner alive and conscious.
Across the city, Major Zayeed finished his search of the second villa at four o'clock, just as Gidi Barzilai and Michel Levy were rising from their table in Paris. Again, he had found nothing. Making his courteous apologies to the terrified couple who had watched their home being systematically stripped, he left and with his rummage crew moved on to the third and last villa.
* * *
In Saadun, the old man was fainting more frequently, and the doctor protested to the interrogators that he needed time to recover.
An injection was prepared and pumped into the prisoner's bloodstream. It had an almost immediate effect, bringing him back from his near-coma to wakefulness and rousing the nerves to fresh sensitivity.
When the needles in the brazier glowed red-white, they were driven slowly through the shriveled scrotum and the desiccated testicles within. Just after six the old man went into a coma again, and this time the doctor was too late. He worked furiously, the sweat of fear pouring down his face, but all his stimulants, injected directly into the heart, failed to suffice.
Ali left the room and returned after five minutes with Omar Khatib. The brigadier looked at the body, and years of experience told him something for which he needed no medical degree. He turned, and his open palm caught the cringing doctor a fearsome crack across the side of the face. The force of the blow as much as the reputation of the man who administered it sent the doctor crashing to the floor among his syringes and vials. "Cretin," hissed Khatib. "Get out of here."
The doctor gathered his bits into his bag and left on hands and knees. The Tormentor looked at Ali's handiwork. There was the sweet smell in the air both men knew of old, an admixture of sweat, terror, urine, excrement, blood, vomit, and a faint aroma of burnt meat.
"He still protested to the end," said Ali. "I swear, if he knew something, we'd have had it out of him."
"Put him in a bag," snapped Omar Khatib, "and return him to his wife for burial."
It was a strong white canvas sack six feet long and two feet wide, and it was dumped on the doorstep of the house in Qadisiyah at ten that evening. Slowly and with great difficulty, for both were old, the widow and the house servant lifted the bag, brought it inside, and laid it on the dining table.
The woman took up her station at the end of the table and began to keen her grief. The bewildered old servant, Talat, went to the telephone, but it had been ripped from the wall and did not work.
Taking his mistress's phone book, which he could not read, he went down the road to the house of the pharmacist and asked the neighbor to try to contact the young master--either of the young masters would do.
At the same hour, as the pharmacist tried to get a call through Iraq's wrecked internal telephone system, and Gidi Barzilai, back in Vienna, composed a fresh cable to Kobi Dror, Major Zayeed was reporting his day's lack of progress to Hassan Rahmani. "It just wasn't there," he told the head of Counterintelligence. "If it had been, we'd have found it. So it has to be the fourth villa, the home of the diplomat."
"You're sure you can't be wrong?" asked Rahmani. "It couldn't be in another house?"
"No, sir. The nearest house to those four is well outside the area indicated by the crossed beams. The source of those burst transmissions was inside that diamond on the map. I'd swear to it."
Rahmani was hesitant. Diplomats were the very devil to investigate, always prepared to rush to the Foreign Ministry with a complaint. To get inside Comrade Kulikov's residence, he would have to go high--as high as he could.
When the major was gone, Rahmani phoned the Foreign Ministry. He was in luck; the Foreign Minister, who had been traveling almost constantly for months, was in Baghdad. More, he was still at his desk. Rahmani secured his interview for ten the next morning.
The pharmacist was a kindly man, and he just kept trying all through the night. He never did reach the older son, but using a contact in the Army, he managed to get a message through to the younger of his dead friend's two boys. He could not speak to the man himself, but the Army contact passed it on.
The message reached the younger son at his base far away from Baghdad at dawn. As soon as he heard it, the officer took his car and began to drive. Normally it would have taken him no more than two hours. That day, February 17, it took him six.
There were patrols and roadblocks. Using his rank, he could drive to the head of the line, flash his pass, and be waved on. That did not work for the wrecked bridges. At each one he had to wait for the ferry.
It was midday when he arrived at his parents' house in Qadisiyah. His mother ran into his embrace and cried against his shoulder. He tried to extract from her details of precisely what had happened, but she was no longer young herself and was hysterical.
Finally, he picked her up and carried her to her room. In the mess of medications the soldiers had left strewn all over the bathroom floor, he found a bottle of sleeping pills his father had used when winter cold brought on the arthritis. He gave his mother two, and soon she slept.
In the kitchen he ordered old Talat to make them both a coffee, and they sat at the table while the servant described what had happened since dawn of the previous day. When he was finished, he showed his dead master's son the hole in the garden where the soldiers had found the bag with the radio set.
The younger man shinnied lip the garden wall and found the scratches where the intruder had come over in the night to bury it. Then he went back to the house.
Hassan Rahmani was kept waiting, which he did not like, but he had his appointment with the Foreign Minister, Tariq Aziz, just before eleven.
"I don't think I quite understand you," said the gray-haired minister, peering owlishly through his glasses. "Embassies are allowed to communicate with their capitals by radio, and their transmissions are always coded."
"Yes, Minister, and they come from the Chancery building. That is part of normal diplomatic traffic. This is different. We are talking here about a covert transmitter, as used by spies, sending burst transmissions to a receiver we are sure is not in Moscow but much closer."
"Burst transmissions?" asked Aziz.
Rahmani explained what they were.
"I still fail to follow you. Why should some agent of the KGB--and presumably this must be a KGB operation--be sending burst messages from the residence of the First Secretary, when they have a perfect right to send them on much more powerful transmitters from the embassy?"
"I do not know."
"Then you must offer me some kind of better explanation. Brigadier. Have you any idea what is going on outside your own office? Do you not know that late yesterday I arrived back from Moscow after intensive discussions with Mr. Gorbachev and his representative Yevgeny Primakov, who was here last week? Do you not know that I brought with me a peace proposal that, if the Rais accepts it--and I am presenting it to him in two hours--could cause the Soviet Union to recall the Security Council and forbid the Americans to attack us?
"And in the face of all this, at this precise moment, you expect me to humiliate the Soviet Union by ordering a raid on their First Secretary's villa? Frankly, Brigadier, you must be mad."
That was the end of it. Hassan Rahmani left the Ministry seething but helpless.
There was one thing, however, that Tariq Aziz had not forbidden. Within the walls of his house, Kulikov might be impregnable. Inside his car he might be untouchable. But the streets did not belong to Kulikov.
"I want it surrounded," Rahmani told his best surveillance team, when he returned to his office. "Keep it quiet, discreet, low-profile. But I want total surveillance of that building. When visitors come and go--and there must be visitors--I want them tailed."
By noon, the watcher teams were in place. They sat in parked cars beneath the trees covering all four walls of the Kulikov compound and monitored both ends of the only street that led to it. Others, farther away but linked by radio, would report on anyone approaching and follow anyone who left.
The younger son sat in the dining room of his parents' house and looked at the long canvas bag that contained his father. He let the tears run down his face to make damp marks on the jacket of his uniform, and he thought of the good days long ago.
His father had been a prosperous doctor then, with a large practice, even tending to the families of some of the British community after being introduced to them by his friend Nigel Martin. He thought of the times he and his brother had played in the Martins' garden with Mike and Terry, and he wondered what had ever happened to those two.
After an hour he noticed some stains on the canvas that seemed to be larger than they had been. He rose and went to the door. "Talat." "Master?" "Bring scissors and a kitchen knife."
Alone in the room, Colonel Osman Badri cut open the canvas bag, along the top, down one side and along the bottom. Then he pulled the top of the sack away and rolled it back. His father's body was still quite naked.
According to tradition, it was supposed to be woman's work, but this was no task for his mother. He called for water and bandages, bathed and cleaned the ravaged body, bound up the broken feet, straightened and swaddled the shattered legs, and covered the blackened genitalia. As he worked, he cried; and as he cried, he changed.
At dusk he called the Imam at the Alwazia cemetery in Risafa and made arrangements for a funeral the next morning.
Mike Martin had in fact been into the city on his bicycle that Sunday morning, February 17, but he had returned after buying his groceries and checking the three walls for any chalk marks, arriving back at the villa just before midday.
During the afternoon he was kept busy tending the garden. Mr. Kulikov, while neither Christian nor Moslem and celebrating neither the Moslem holy day on Friday nor the Christian sabbath on Sunday, was at home with a cold, complaining about the state of his roses.
While Martin worked over the flower beds, the Mukhabarat watcher teams were quietly sliding into place beyond the wall. Jericho, he reasoned, could not possibly have news in less than two days; Martin would patrol his chalk marks again the following evening.
The burial of Dr. Badri took place at Alwazia shortly after nine o'clock. The cemeteries of Baghdad were busy in those times, and the Imam had much to do. Only a few days earlier, the Americans had bombed a public air raid shelter, causing more than three hundred deaths. Feelings were running high.
Several mourners at another funeral close by asked the silent colonel if his relative had died from American bombs. He replied shortly that death had been by natural causes.
In Moslem custom, burial takes place quickly, with no long period of waiting between death and interment. And there was no wooden coffin in the manner of Christians; the body was wrapped in cloth. The pharmacist came, supporting Mrs. Badri, and they left in a group when the brief ceremony was over.
Colonel Badri was barely yards from the gate of Alwazia when he heard his name called. Standing a few yards away was a limousine with blackened windows. One at the rear was half open. The voice called him again. Colonel Badri asked the pharmacist to take his mother home to Qadisiyah; he would join them later.
When they had gone, he walked over to the car. The voice said: "Please join me, Colonel. We need to talk." He opened the car door and peered inside. The sole occupant had moved to the far side to make space. Badri thought he knew the face, but vaguely. He had seen it somewhere. He climbed in and closed the door. The man in the dark gray suit pressed a button, and the window rose, shutting out the sounds from outside.
"You have just buried your father." "Yes." Who was this man? Why could he not place the face?
"It was foul, what was done to him. If I had learned in time, I might have stopped it. I learned too late."
Osman Badri felt something like a punch in the stomach. He realized to whom he was talking--a man who had been pointed out to him at a military reception two years earlier. "I am going to say something to you, Colonel, that, if you were to report it, would cause me to die more terribly than your father."
There was only one such thing, thought Badri. Treason. "Once," said the man quietly, "I loved the Rais."
"So did I," said Badri.
"But things change. He has gone mad. In his madness he piles cruelty upon cruelty. He must be stopped. You know about the Qa'ala, of course."
Badri was surprised again, this time by the sudden change of subject. "Of course. I built it." "Exactly. Do you know what now resides within it?" "No." The senior officer told him.
"He cannot be serious," said Badri. "He is completely serious. He intends to use it against the Americans. That may not be our concern. But do you know what America will do in return? It will reply in kind. Not a brick here will stand on brick, not a stone on stone. The Rais alone will survive. Do you want to be part of this?"
Colonel Badri thought of the body in the cemetery, over which the sextons were even then still heaping the dry earth.
"What do you want?" he asked. "Tell me about Qa'ala." "Why?"
"The Americans will destroy it." "You can get this information to them?" "Trust me, there are ways. The Qa'ala ..." So Colonel Osman Badri, the young engineer who had once wanted to design fine buildings to last for centuries, as his ancestors had done, told the man called Jericho. "Grid reference." Badri gave him that too. "Go back to your post, Colonel. You will be safe."
Colonel Badri left the car and walked away. His stomach was heaving, turning and turning. Within a hundred yards he began to ask himself, over and again: What have I done?
Suddenly, he knew he had to talk to his brother, that older brother who had always had the cooler head, the wiser counsel.
The man the Mossad team called the spotter arrived back in Vienna that Monday, summoned from Tel Aviv. Once again he was a prestigious lawyer from New York, with all the necessary identifying paperwork to prove it. Even though the real lawyer was no longer on vacation, the chances that Gemuetlich, who hated telephones and fax machines, would telephone New York to check were regarded as minimal. It was a risk the Mossad was prepared to take.
Once again the spotter installed himself at the Sheraton and wrote a personal letter to Herr Gemuetlich. He again apologized for his unannounced arrival in the Austrian capital but explained he was accompanied by his firm's accountant, and that the pair of them wished to make a first substantial deposit on behalf of their client.
The letter was delivered by hand in the late afternoon, and the following morning Gemuetlich's reply arrived at the hotel, offering a meeting at ten in the morning.
The spotter was indeed accompanied. The man with him was known simply as the cracksman, for that was his speciality.
If the Mossad possesses at its Tel Aviv headquarters a virtually unrivaled collection of dummy companies, false passports, letterhead stationery, and all the other paraphernalia for deception, pride of place must still go to its safecrackers and locksmiths.
The Mossad's ability to break into locked places has its own niche in the covert world. At the science of burglary, the Mossad has long been regarded simply as the best. Had a neviot team been in charge at the Watergate, no one would ever have known.
So high is the reputation of Israeli lock-pickers that when British manufacturers sent a new product to the SIS for their comments, Century House would pass it on to Tel Aviv.
The Mossad, devious to a fault, would study it, find how to pick it, then return it to London as "impregnable."
The SIS found out about this. The next time a British lock company came up with a particularly brilliant new lock, Century House asked them to take it back, keep it, but provide a slightly easier one for analysis. It was the easier one that was sent to Tel Aviv. There it was studied and finally picked, then returned to London as "unbreakable." But it was the original lock that the SIS advised the manufacturer to market.
This led to an embarrassing incident a year later, when a Mossad locksmith spent three sweaty and infuriating hours working at such a lock in the corridor of an office building in a European capital before emerging livid with rage. Since then, the British have tested their own locks and left the Mossad to work it out for themselves.
The lock-picker brought from Tel Aviv was not the best in Israel but the second best. There was a reason for this: He had something the best lock-pick did not have.
During the night the young man underwent a six-hour briefing from Gidi Barzilai on the subject of the eighteenth-century work of the German-French cabinetmaker Riesener, and a full description by the spotter of the internal layout of the Winkler building.
The yarid, surveillance team completed his education with a rundown of the movements of the nightwatch, as observed by the times and places of lights going on and off inside the bank during the night.
That same Monday, Mike Martin waited until five in the afternoon before he wheeled his bone-shaker bicycle across the graveled yard to the rear gate of the Kulikov garden, opened the gate, and let himself out. He mounted and began to ride down the road in the direction of the nearest ferry crossing of the river, at the place where the Jumhuriya Bridge used to be before the Tornados offered it their personal attention.
He turned the corner, out of sight of the villa, and saw the first parked car. Then the second, farther on. When the two men emerged from the second car and took up position in the center of the road, his stomach began to tighten. He risked a glance behind him; two men from the other car had blocked any retreat. Knowing it was all over, he pedaled on. There was nothing else to do. One of the men ahead of him pointed to the side of the road. "Hey you!" he shouted. "Over here!"
He came to a stop under the trees by the side of the road. Three more men emerged, soldiers. Their guns pointed straight at him. Slowly he raised his hands.