With Hostile Intent

Chapter Three Baghdad

No blindfold.

That’s the way he wanted it, and they had granted him that much. The Guardsmen would have to look him in the eye. Observe him watching them over the sights of their carbines. Colonel Jabbar would not cringe or beg or weep. He would not grant them the privilege of seeing a professional officer disgrace himself.

At least he had the pleasure of knowing the President was enraged. According to his interrogator and former colleague, Major General Zirun, the President had had such a tantrum when he was informed about the death of his nephew, he ordered the executions not only of Colonel Jabbar but of the base commander, the wing commander, and each of the lowly GCI controllers who had failed to save Saddam’s nephew from the American murderers. Saddam wanted everyone associated with the death of Al-Fariz consigned to Allah.

Jabbar wished he could have witnessed the tantrum. Saddam’s fits, it was reported, could reach such intensity that he would be transformed to a seething, spittle-dripping maniac. His fury was so towering that he sometimes dispensed with formal death sentences and immediately executed offenders with his own automatic pistol.

Of course, it had all been very predictable. Even before he entered the interrogation room, Jabbar knew he was a dead man. The irony was, he might have saved himself. Somewhere over the desert he could have ejected from the MiG instead of delivering it safely back to Al-Taqqadum. He might have been able to escape, shed his identity, blend into the peasant population of Iraq. He could have fled to Turkey.

But that was not Colonel Jabbar’s style. He was not a peasant, not an unwashed goat herder like these ignorant Guardsmen who were gazing at him over their Simonov carbines. Despite his country’s misguided leadership, Jabbar had always considered himself a loyal warrior. For his country’s cause, right or wrong, he had killed many men and had risked being killed. Death did not frighten him.

The six riflemen of the firing squad faced him from ten meters away. A Republican Guard captain, wearing his dress blue tunic with a holstered pistol on his belt, barked an order. Jabbar saw the riflemen work the slide actions of the carbines, heard the metallic clack! as the 7.62 rounds rammed into the chambers.

Another order from the captain. All six open muzzles were trained on Jabbar.

Where? he wondered. His chest? His heart? His face? Would he see muzzle flashes? Would he experience a nanosecond of terror — or exhilaration — before the lead projectiles shattered his body?

I must not blink, Jabbar told himself. He would leave with his dignity intact. He would die like a soldier.

Another barked order. Jabbar tensed his body… Do not blink!… The bullets would arrive before the sound… look for the muzzle flashes…

More barked orders. Jabbar tensed even more, his breath held tightly in his chest.

Something was happening. Another Republican Guard officer — a major, perhaps a colonel — was shouting at the captain. The captain was arguing with him.

Jabbar kept his eyes fixed on the firing squad. The carbines were lowering. The soldiers glanced at each other, at the captain, at Jabbar. They looked confused.

The officer — Jabbar could see now that he was a colonel of the Republican Guard — was walking toward him. The captain was shouting something to the firing squad.

Jabbar heard a succession of metallic clacks! The Guardsmen were unloading their weapons. Colonel Jabbar resumed breathing.

Chris Tyrwhitt tossed down his Scotch and gazed around the bar. The big walnut-paneled lounge was empty. No Lufthansa or Swiss Air or Sabena flight attendants. No European secretaries finished with work and out for a drink. Not even the semi-professional pick ups that used to hang out here at the Rasheed Hotel bar.

It should have been cocktail hour, but the place was deserted except for a couple of safari-suited Iraqi bureaucrats and a cluster of East European types who were drunk and arguing in a language Tyrwhitt couldn’t understand.

“This is a fucking bore,” he declared.

“A sign of the times, mate,” said Baxter, the BBC correspondent. Baxter was Tyrwhitt’s only drinking companion these days. “They lost a war, they can’t sell their oil, and nobody with half a brain wants to come to Baghdad. The only reason you and I are here is cover the next war.”

“What war? This country is so poor it couldn’t attack Ethiopia.”

“Don’t believe it,” said Baxter. “Uncle Whiskers is always good for a few surprises.” “Uncle Whiskers” was Baxter’s name for the President of Iraq.

Tyrwhitt, being an Australian, made a habit of disregarding Brits like Baxter, especially when they rambled on like this. Baxter liked to pose as an expert on Saddam’s hidden weapons. Tyrwhitt and Baxter were among the few reporters left in Baghdad, and the subject of Saddam’s invisible weapons was about the only item of bar conversation they had left. Did Saddam have them or not? If he did, what would he do with them? If he didn’t, why didn’t he just comply with the UN resolutions and get the sanctions lifted?

In any case, Tyrwhitt was bored with the whole subject. He yawned and stared blearily at his image in the mirror over the bar. “You know something, Baxter? You’re full of shit. The only surprise Saddam has is which poor bugger on his staff he will execute next.”

Baxter waited until the bartender walked down the bar to where the East European contingent was still arguing. “What I’m hearing is that he’s cranking up the big weapons. He’s gone berserk about that MiG he lost last week.”

“One worn-out Russian MiG? Why would he care? You’re getting desperate, Baxter. When you don’t have a story, you invent one.”

“Not the MiG. The pilot. He was Saddam’s nephew.”

“Which means one less family member he has to provide with a palace,” said Tyrwhitt. “Two more Scotches, Efraim,” he yelled down the bar. “Your problem, Baxter, is you’re not drunk enough. You have to be drunk to understand that nothing in Baghdad makes any difference. Nothing matters and nobody gives a stuff.”

“How can you call yourself a reporter, Tyrwhitt? You don’t care about anything except drinking.”

“That’s an absolute lie,” said Tyrwhitt. “I also care about fornicating. Trouble is, here in Baghdad both activities are exorbitantly expensive and inferior in quality.”

They had another round. And then several more rounds. Tyrwhitt observed that he was right about the Scotch. It wasn’t good, nor was it cheap, even in nearly worthless Iraqi dinars. But the Rasheed Hotel was one of the few establishments in Baghdad where you could still obtain whiskey. In the old pre-war days, it was a place where you could pick up European women. No more. A grimness seemed to have settled over the Rasheed, just as it had over all of Baghdad. No airline flight attendants were showing up, no secretaries, no women of any ilk.

Tyrwhitt felt depressed. Perhaps, he thought, he should go back up to his room and try calling Claire. She was on assignment in Dubai, probably checked into the Hilton. At times like this, he missed her caustic wit, her laugh, even the flashing-eyed fury when he drank too much or flirted too much or came home a day too late. In his mind he could see her long, trim legs, the little freckles on her breasts, the way her auburn hair splayed on the pillow when they made love.

Forget it, mate, he told himself. She’d hang up, just like last time when he rang her in — where? — Tel Aviv? He couldn’t blame her, really. But still, maybe he would try —

“Look,” said Baxter, nodding toward the lobby. “Our escorts.”

Tyrwhitt looked up. In the lobby, wearing their ubiquitous brown safari suits, sat a couple of unsmiling hotel guests. Tyrwhitt knew who they were. Agents of the Bazrum — the Iraqi secret service — were easy to spot. They didn’t even bother trying to conceal themselves anymore. These days the agents were as common as the street vendors who sold fake watches and jewelry. They were there to observe the activities of each foreign correspondent stationed in Baghdad.

Darkness settled over the city. No one was left in the bar when the two reporters paid their bill. They wobbled unsteadily through the lobby and out to the street. Baxter spotted a lone taxi, a decrepit Trabent that looked like it had been through a sand storm. “Let’s go to dinner over at the Jinnah.”

“I’m not riding in that thing,” said Tyrwhitt. “You’re on your own, Baxter.”

Baxter climbed into the Trabent. “I know what you’re up to, mate. Be careful. Don’t catch a disease.”

As the taxi clattered off with Baxter inside, Tyrwhitt saw a black Fiat pull out of a street-side parking area and fall in trail. That was another standard fixture in Baghdad: a shadow. Wherever you went, either in a vehicle or afoot, you could expect to be followed. You got used to it.

Tyrwhitt started off down the street, then stopped and glanced over his shoulder. One of the safari suits from the lobby was peering at him through the glass door of the hotel. Tyrwhitt gave him a wave, then continued down the sidewalk.

“Were you followed?”

“Of course,” said Tyrwhitt. “He was an idiot. He’s still looking for me in the Al-Faisah district, back at the whore house.”

“Are you certain?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve done this before.”

Tyrwhitt didn’t know the man’s name. He only knew that he was an officer assigned to a senior position somewhere in the Iraqi military. This was their second meeting.

“You stink of whiskey. Can you remember what I tell you?”

“I’m okay. I remember everything.”

Tyrwhitt hadn’t seen the man’s face, at least not close up and in the light. By his voice and his manner he seemed to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties. With Iraqis, it was hard to tell. He had the demeanor of a man accustomed to command. Tyrwhitt guessed that he was a colonel, perhaps a brigadier.

The souk — the open-air market — was the perfect meeting place. It was easy to lose yourself after dark in the teeming throng that swarmed through the yellow-lighted stalls. Baghdad’s economy was in tatters, and almost all the essential commerce of daily life took place here. There were money changers and black marketers and merchants hawking used appliances and dried fruits and live chickens. A hubbub swelled over the market place like the rumble of a distant storm.

Inside the Al-Faisah brothel, Tyrwhitt had replaced his blue denim shirt with the standard Iraqi beige safari shirt. Wearing a kaffiyeh, he was able to slip out the back of the brothel, then wind his way through the ancient streets to the souk. In his costume, even with his ruddy, red-haired features, Tyrwhitt could blend into the throng. After a fair amount of meandering among the vendors, he stopped at a stall near the exit of the souk where a toothless old merchant was peddling cheap carpets.

Stooped over, inspecting one of the carpets, was a nondescript man in a long kaffiyeh that shielded most of his face. Tyrwhitt glimpsed a hawk-like nose, a black mustache tinged with gray. He stood with his back to the man. They alternated speaking in broken English, then Arabic.

“Your Arabic has improved.”

“I’ve been studying,” said Tyrwhitt.

“In the whorehouse?”

Tyrwhitt couldn’t tell if the man was joking. He didn’t know, for that matter, if he even possessed a sense of humor. It would be difficult, he thought, for anyone to make jokes in a situation so filled with danger. Tyrwhitt wondered again what motivated the man to take such a risk. Did he despise the country’s leadership so much he was willing to betray them? Did he expect some reward? Did he have a personal vendetta against Saddam? Was he a patriot? Or a scoundrel?

The officer spoke in short, staccato sentences. Tyrwhitt listened, startled at what he was hearing. The information was so explosive, so unbelievable, that at first he thought that he had misunderstood.

He asked the officer to repeat the information. He hadn’t misunderstood.

Tyrwhitt felt compelled to ask, “You know this to be absolutely true?”

“Do you think me a liar?”

“I mean, is it verifiable?”

“I have seen it myself.”

It had to be true, Tyrwhitt thought. The man couldn’t be making it up. Not if he wanted to maintain any credibility.

They made an arrangement for their next meeting, this one at another souk, the one near the B’aath building downtown. The officer lingered a few more minutes, examining another carpet. Then he lay it aside and wandered away from the stall.

Tyrwhitt took his usual route back through the souk, out the southerly exit onto a narrow, winding street. After several blocks he entered a darkened alley. He waited several minutes, making sure he wasn’t followed. Then he shed the safari shirt, replacing it again with the denim. He removed the kaffiyeh and stuffed it into his tote bag.

The agent — the same one who had followed him to the brothel — fell into trail when Tyrwhitt was within a block of the Rasheed. Tyrwhitt nodded cordially to him. No hard feelings, mate. I’m just better at my job than you are at yours.

Once he’d let himself into his room on the sixth floor, Tyrwhitt wasted no time. What he had to do now was too important to wait. In any case, he was sure that the Iraqis did not yet feel the need to prevent or intercept or even understand what he was doing.

The Cyfonika was still in its satchel in the closet. Tyrwhitt knew that Bazrum agents had already searched his room, several times probably. They had seen the Cyfonika and figured out what it was: a hand held satellite communications device. It was a commercially marketed tool, manufactured in the United States, that anyone, including the Iraqis, could purchase. With the Cyfonika phone you could speak real-time with anyone anywhere on the planet. Using a constellation of dedicated satellites, devices like the Cyfonika were becoming the chosen communications medium for global businesses, news services, shipping companies, government bureaus.

And spies.

Already Tyrwhitt had been hauled in for violating the strict Iraqi censorship laws. He had managed to convince the Bazrum interrogators that what he transmitted via his satellite phone was already being monitored by them and consisted, in fact, of dispatches that had been cleared by their own censors. Because Tyrwhitt and his news agency were not affiliated with the devil-allied Americans, and because his dispatches usually portrayed the Iraqis in a sympathetic light, they allowed him to keep the Cyfonika. So long as he transmitted only pre-cleared dispatches, he could continue what he was doing.

What the Iraqis did not yet understand was the rest of the technology. Tyrwhitt himself had only a vague notion of how the thing worked. As it had been explained to him, the SatComm device contained a micro-router that bundled compressed packets of encrypted data. The data, when delivered by voice to the mouthpiece of the Cyfonika, could be encrypted and transmitted simultaneously within a parent stream of uncoded data — and it was virtually undetectable. On electronic surveillance screens and passive monitoring devices, the appearance of the Cyfonika transmissions had an almost normal wave length pattern, with just a few, odd-shaped squiggles that suggested poor antenna stabilization. Or perhaps imprecise wave propagation. Or just some peculiar atmospheric anomaly.

The Bazrum, of course, already suspected him. But in Tyrwhitt’s opinion, that was not bad. In a way it was good, because it meant that they were giving him no special attention. The paranoia of the Iraqis had reached such a level that they suspected every foreigner in Baghdad was a spy. Even Baxter, who loved to pose as some sort of undercover agent, had been dragged into an interrogation room and held overnight. He was released the next morning, thoroughly terrified by the Bazrum.

Tyrwhitt extended the antenna of the Cyfonika and positioned it in the open window. He knew that observers in the building across the street from the hotel, or in the street below, would detect the antenna. That was okay. They would also intercept and translate the censored dispatch that Tyrwhitt had been authorized to send to his editor in Sydney. The dispatch consisted of a press release from the office of Deputy Premier Tariq Aziz declaring, once again, that due to last week’s aggression by American warplanes inside sovereign Iraqi air space, Iraq would henceforth shoot down any and all intruding foreign aircraft.

Ho-hum, thought Tyrwhitt. More of Aziz’s standard chest-thumping response to every encounter in the disputed No Fly Zone. And he could count on sympathetic foreign correspondents like Chris Tyrwhitt to accommodate the beleaguered Iraqis by passing their message of defiance to the rest of the world.

But there was more. What the Bazrum would not intercept — or at least Tyrwhitt fervently hoped they wouldn’t — was the encrypted message within the news dispatch. Unlike the news about Aziz’s press release, which would be passed by satellite to Sydney, the encrypted message was intended for a different audience. It would be received by an umbrella-shaped antenna atop a gray, slab-sided building in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Within the bowels of the nondescript building specialists of the United States Central Intelligence Agency would decrypt this latest and most urgent report from their agent in Baghdad.