The Fist of God Page 13

  The room to which the eight guests were led was two floors below ground level. Terry Martin had heard of the warren of shockproof, bugproof chambers where the most delicate matters of state could be discussed in complete discretion below the innocent-looking building opposite the Cenotaph.

  Sir Paul Spruce took the chair, an urbane and experienced bureaucrat with the rank of Assistant Permanent Secretary to the Cabinet. He introduced himself and then everyone to everyone. The American embassy and thus the United States was represented by the Assistant Defense Attaché and Harry Sinclair, an astute and experienced officer from Langley who had headed the CIA’s London station for the past three years. Sinclair was a tall, angular man who favored tweed jackets, frequented the opera, and got along extremely well with his British counterparts.

  The CIA man nodded and winked at Simon Paxman, whom he had met once at a meeting of the Joint Intelligence Committee, on which the CIA has a permanent seat in London.

  Sinclair’s job would be to note anything of interest that the British scientists might come up with and convey that information back to Washington, where the considerably larger American end of the Medusa Committee was also in session. All the findings would then be collated and compared in the continuing search to analyze Iraq’s potential to cause appalling casualties.

  There were two scientists from Aldermaston, the Weapons Research Establishment in Berkshire—they like to drop the word atomic in front of WRE, but that is what Aldermaston is all about. Their job would be to try and elucidate from information out of the United States, Europe, and anywhere else it could be gleaned, plus air photographs of possible Iraqi nuclear research facilities, just how far, if at all, Iraq had proceeded in its quest to crack the technology of making an atomic bomb of her own.

  There were two other scientists, from Porton Down. One was a chemist, the other a biologist specializing in bacteriology.

  Porton Down has often been accused in the press of researching chemical and bacteriological weapons for British use. In fact, its research has for years been concentrated on seeking antidotes to any and all forms of gas and germ warfare that might be leveled at British and allied troops. Unfortunately, it is impossible to develop antidotes to anything without first studying the properties of the toxin. The two scientists from Porton therefore had under their aegis, and in conditions of massive security, some very nasty substances. But then so, that August 13, had Mr. Saddam Hussein. The difference was, the Allies had no intention of using them on Iraqis, but it was felt that Mr. Hussein might not be so forbearing.

  The Porton men’s job would be to see if, from lists of chemicals purchased by Iraq over a period of years, they could deduce what he had, how much, how nasty, and if it was usable. They would also study air photographs of a range of factories and plants in Iraq to see if any telltale signs in the form of structures of certain size and shape—decontamination units, emission scrubbers—might identify the poison gas factories.

  “Now, gentlemen,” Sir Paul began, addressing the four scientists, “the principal burden rests upon you.

  The rest of us will assist and support where we can.

  “I have here two volumes of intelligence so far received from our people abroad, embassy staff, trade missions, and the—ah—covert gentlemen. Early days yet. These are the first results from the cull of export licenses to Iraq over the past decade, and needless to say, they come from governments that are being most promptly helpful.

  “We have thrown the net as wide as possible. Reference is made to exports of chemicals, building materials, laboratory equipment, specialized engineering products—just about everything but umbrellas, knitting wool, and cuddly toys.

  “Some of these exports, indeed probably the majority, will turn out to be quite normal purchases by a developing Arab country for peaceful purposes, and I apologize for what may turn out to be wasted time studying them. But please concentrate not only on specialized purchases for the manufacture of weapons of mass destruction, but also on dual-use purchases—items that could be adapted or cannibalized for a purpose other than that stated.

  “Now, I believe our American colleagues have also been at work.”

  Sir Paul handed one of his files to the men from Porton Down and one to those from Aldermaston. The man from the CIA produced two files and did the same. The bewildered scientists sat facing a block of paperwork.

  “We have tried,” explained Sir Paul, “not to duplicate—the Americans and ourselves—but, alas, there may be some element of duplication. I apologize again. And now, Mr. Sinclair.”

  The CIA Head of Station, unlike the Whitehall civil servant who had almost sent the scientists to sleep with his verbosity, was direct and to the point.

  “The thing is, gentlemen, we may have to fight these bastards.”

  This was more like it. Sinclair spoke as the British like to think Americans speak—direct, and unafraid to mince words. The four scientists gave him their rapt attention.

  “If that day ever comes, we will go in first with air power. Like the British, we will want to lose the absolute minimum possible in casualties. So we’ll go for their infantry, their guns, tanks, and planes. We’ll target their SAM missile sites, communications links, command centers. But if Saddam uses weapons of mass destruction, we would take awful casualties, both of us. So we need to know two things.

  “One, what has he got? Then we can plan for gas masks, capes, chemical antidotes. Two, where the hell has he put it? Then we can target the factories and the storage depots—destroy it all before he can use it.

  So study the photographs, use magnifying glasses, look for the telltale signs. We’ll keep tracing and interviewing the contractors who built him these factories and the scientists who equipped them. That should tell us a lot. But the Iraqis may have moved it around a bit. So it comes back to you gentlemen, the analysts. You could get to save a lot of lives here, so give it your best shot. Identify the WMD for us, and we’ll go in and bomb seven shits out of it.”

  The four scientists were smitten. They had a job to do, and they knew what it was. Sir Paul was looking slightly shell-shocked.

  “Yes, well, I’m sure we’re all deeply grateful to Mr. Sinclair for his—er—explanation. May I suggest we reconvene when either Aldermaston or Porton Down has something for us?”

  When they left the building, Simon Paxman and Terry Martin strolled in the warm August sunshine out of Whitehall and into Parliament Square. It was thronged with the usual columns of tourist buses. They found an empty bench close to the marble statue of Winston Churchill, glowering down on the impudent mortals who clustered beneath him.

  “You’ve seen the latest from Baghdad?” asked Paxman.

  “Of course.”

  Saddam Hussein had just offered to pull out of Kuwait if Israel pulled out of the West Bank and Syria out of Lebanon. An attempt at linkage. The United Nations had rejected it out of hand. The resolutions continued to roll out of the Security Council: cutting off Iraq’s trade, oil exports, currency movements, air travel, resources. And the systematic destruction of Kuwait by the occupying army went on.

  “Any significance?”

  “No, just the usual huff and puff. Predictable. Playing to the audience. The PLO liked it, of course, but that’s all. It’s not a game plan.”

  “Has he got a game plan?” asked Paxman. “If so, no one can work it out. The Americans think he’s crazy.”

  “I know. I saw Bush last night on TV.”

  “Is he crazy, Saddam?”

  “Like a fox.”

  “Then why doesn’t he move south into the Saudi oil fields while he has the chance? The American buildup is only starting—ours, too. A few squadrons, carriers in the Gulf, but nothing on the ground. Air power alone can’t stop him. That American general they’ve just appointed ...”

  “Schwarzkopf,” said Martin. “Norman Schwarzkopf.”

  “That’s the chap. He reckons he’ll need two full months before he has the forces to stop and rol
l back a full-scale invasion. So why not attack now?”

  “Because that would be attacking a fellow Arab state with which he has no quarrel. It would bring shame. It would alienate every Arab. It is against the culture. He wants to rule the Arab world, to be acclaimed by it, not reviled by it.”

  “He invaded Kuwait,” Paxman pointed out.

  “That was different. He could claim that was correcting an imperialist injustice because Kuwait was always historically part of Iraq. Like Nehru invading Portuguese Goa.”

  “Oh, come on, Terry. Saddam invaded Kuwait because he’s bankrupt. We all know it.”

  “Yes, that’s the real reason. But the up-front reason is that he was reclaiming rightful Iraqi territory.

  Look, it happens all over the world. India took Goa, China took Tibet, Indonesia has taken East Timor.

  Argentina tried for the Falklands. Each time, the claim is retaking a chunk of rightful territory. It’s very popular with the home crowd, you know.”

  “Then why are his fellow Arabs turning against him?”

  “Because they think he won’t get away with it,” said Martin.

  “And he won’t get away with it. They’re right.”

  “Only because of America, not because of the Arab world. If he is to gain the acclamation of the Arab world, he must humiliate America, not his Arabian neighbor. Have you been to Baghdad?”

  “Not recently,” said Paxman.

  “It’s full of pictures of Saddam portrayed as the desert warrior on a white charger with raised sword. All bunkum, of course; the man’s a back-street shooter. But that’s how he sees himself.”

  Paxman rose.

  “It’s all very theoretical,’ Terry. But thanks for your thoughts, anyway. Trouble is, I have to deal with hard facts. In any case, no one can see how he can humiliate America. The Yanks have all the power, all the technology. When they’re ready, they can go in there and blow his army and air force away.”

  Terry Martin squinted up against the sun.

  “Casualties, Simon. America can take many things, but she cannot take massive casualties. Saddam can.

  They don’t matter to him.”

  “But there aren’t enough Americans there yet.”

  “Precisely.”

  The Rolls-Royce bearing Ahmed Al-Khalifa swept up to the front of the office building that announced itself in English and Arabic as the headquarters of Al-Khalifa Trading Corporation Ltd. and hissed to a stop.

  The driver, a big manservant, half chauffeur and half bodyguard, stepped out of the driver’s seat and went to the rear to open the door for his master.

  Perhaps it had been foolish to bring the Rolls, but the Kuwaiti millionaire had brushed aside all pleas to use the Volvo for fear of offending the Iraqi soldiers on the roadblocks.

  “Let them rot in hell,” he had growled over breakfast. In fact, the drive had been uneventful from his sumptuous home in its walled garden in the luxurious suburb of Andalus to the office building in Shamiya.

  Within ten days of the invasion, the disciplined and professional soldiers of the Iraqi Republican Guard had been withdrawn from Kuwait City, to be replaced by the conscript rabble of the Popular Army. If he had hated the first, he had nothing but contempt for the latter.

  In their first few days, the Guards had looted his city, but systematically and deliberately. He had seen them enter the national bank and remove the $5 billion worth of gold bullion that constituted the national reserve. But this was not looting for personal gain. The bullion bars had been placed in containers, sealed in trucks, and driven to Baghdad.

  The gold Soukh had yielded another billion dollars in solid gold artifacts, and that had gone the same way.

  The roadblocks of the Guards, who were distinguishable by their black berets and general bearing, had been strict and professional. Then, quite suddenly, they had been needed farther south, to take up position on the southern border facing Saudi Arabia.

  In their place had come the Popular Army, ragged, unshaven, and undisciplined and, for that reason, more unpredictable and dangerous. The occasional killing of a Kuwaiti for refusing to hand over his watch or his car gave testimony to that.

  By the middle of August, the heat was coming down like a hammer on an anvil. The Iraqi soldiers, seeking shelter, ripped up paving slabs and built themselves small stone huts down the streets they were supposed to be checking, and crawled inside. In the cool of the dawn and the evening they emerged to pretend to be soldiers. Then they harassed civilians and looted food and valuables under pretense of checking cars for contraband.

  Mr. Al-Khalifa normally liked to be at work by seven in the morning but by delaying until ten, when the sun was hot, he had swept past the stone bivouacs with the Popular Army inside them and no one had stopped him. Two soldiers, scruffy and hatless, had actually thrown up an inept salute at the Rolls-Royce, assuming it must contain some notable of their own side.

  It could not last, of course. Some thug would steal the Rolls at gunpoint sooner or later. So what? When he had been driven back home—he was convinced he would be, but he did not know how—he would buy another.

  He stepped out onto the pavement in gleaming white thob , the light cotton material of the ghutra , secured around his head with two black cords, falling about his face. The driver closed the door and returned to the other side of the car to take it away to the company garage.

  “Alms, sayidi , alms. For one who has not eaten for three days.”

  He had only half seen the man squatted on the sidewalk close to the door, apparently asleep in the sun, a sight common in any Middle Eastern city. Now the man was beside him, a Bedou in stained robes, hand outstretched.

  His driver was striding back around the Rolls to send the mendicant away with a stream of curses.

  Ahmed Al-Khalifa held up his hand. He was a practicing Moslem who tried to abide by the teachings of the Holy Koran, one of which is that a man should give alms as generously as he can.

  “Park the car,” he ordered. From the side pocket of his robe, he withdrew his wallet and extracted a ten-dinar note. The Bedou took the bill in both hands, the gesture indicating that the gift of the benefactor is so weighty that it needs two hands to support it.

  “Shukron, sayidi, shukran.” Then without changing his tone of voice, the man added, “When you are in your office, send for me. I have news from your son in the south.”

  The merchant thought he must have misheard. The man was shuffling away down the pavement, pocketing the banknote. Al-Khalifa entered the office building, nodded in greeting to the commissionaire, and went up to his top-floor office in something of a daze. When he was seated at his desk, he thought for a moment, then pressed the intercom.

  “There is a Bedouin tribesman on the pavement outside. I wish to speak to him. Please send him up.”

  If his private secretary thought her employer had gone mad, she gave no sign of it. Only her wrinkled nose, as she showed the Bedou into the cool of the office five minutes later, indicated what she thought of the personal odor of her boss’s unlikely guest.

  When she left, the merchant gestured to a chair.

  “You said you had seen my son?” he asked shortly. He half thought the man might be here for an even bigger banknote.

  “Yes, Mr. Al-Khalifa. I was with him two days ago in Khafji.”

  The Kuwaiti’s heart leaped. It had been two weeks and no news. He had learned only indirectly that his only son had taken off that morning from Ahmadi air base, and after that—nothing. None of his contacts seemed to know what had happened. There had been much confusion that day, August 2.

  “You have a message from him?”

  “Yes, sayidi .”

  Al-Khalifa held out his hand.

  “Please give it to me. I will reward you well.”

  “It is in my head. I could bring no paper with me, so I memorized it.”

  “Very well. Please tell me what he said.”

  Mike Martin recited the one-page letter that
the Skyhawk pilot had written, word for word.

  “ ‘My dear father, despite his appearance the man in front of you is a British officer. ...’ ”

  Al-Khalifa jerked in his chair and stared at Martin, having some difficulty believing his eyes or ears.

  “ ‘He has come into Kuwait under cover. Now that you know this, you hold his life in your hands. I beg you to trust him, as he must now trust you, for he will seek your help.

  “ ‘I am safe and well and based with the Saudi Air Force at Dhahran. I was able to fly one mission against the Iraqis, destroying one tank and a truck. I will fly with the Royal Saudi Air Force until the liberation of our country.

  “ ‘Each day I pray to Allah that the hours will speed by until I can return and embrace you again. Your dutiful son, Khaled.’ ”

  Martin stopped. Ahmed Al-Khalifa rose, walked to the window, and stared out. He took several long, deep breaths. When he had composed himself, he returned to his chair.

  “Thank you. Thank you. What is it you wish?”

  “The occupation of Kuwait will not last a few hours or a few days. It will take some months, unless Saddam Hussein can be persuaded to pull out.”

  “The Americans will not come quickly?”

  “The Americans and the British and the French and the rest of the Coalition will need time to build up their forces. Saddam has the fourth-largest standing army in the world, over a million men. Some are rubbish, but many are not. This occupation force will not be dislodged by a handful of soldiers.”

  “Very well. I understand.”

  “In the meantime, it is felt that every Iraqi soldier and tank and gun that can be pinned down in the occupation of Kuwait cannot be used on the frontier—”

  “You are talking of resistance, armed resistance, fighting back,” said Al-Khalifa. “Some wild boys have tried. They have shot at Iraqi patrols. They were gunned down like dogs.”