Mission Compromised (18 page)

“But how?” Kamil asked his brother-in-law. He chose his words carefully and thought of the implications of his questions. “How can we do this? The weapons that I have built are defensive and short range. We cannot deliver these weapons against the Jews, much less the
Americans living in another hemisphere. Our planes would be shot down in minutes, and we do not have enough rocket capability for long-range destruction. It is true that we will soon have enough sarin gas and anthrax to kill many Jews, and perhaps many Americans, but how are we to deliver these agents?”

Qusay only smiled as if he had all the answers.

Kamil continued to ask the serious questions. “And the personnel. Think of the cost in having our technicians and scientists trying to put these agents into warheads. They are highly toxic and dangerous. More than likely, anyone using these agents would die in the process of using them against our enemies. We have so few skilled workers now that I am afraid that—”

Once again Qusay interrupted his brother-in-law. “Do not worry so much; we will not have to sacrifice your precious scientists and skilled technicians,” he said.

Kamil looked morose. “That must mean, Qusay, that you are thinking of our nuclear weapons. I must tell you, that is even more difficult. We have only two nuclear bombs, and we haven't been able to test them yet. Besides, none of our aircraft is big enough to carry such a weapon, even to Tel Aviv. Maybe in awhile, a couple of years, we might be able to do something. Once the UN inspectors leave—”

“Forget the atomic weapons, my dear Kamil,” Qusay said. “You are quite correct. The time for using them is later, not now. But we can use the other weapons to kill many Jews and Americans—your chemicals and germs. This is the time for using them.”

“But how? Who will deliver them if we do not use our scientists and technicians? And how will we get them to Israel and America? These are nerve agents and biotoxins. They have to be delivered and used in specific ways, mainly in confined spaces. Men will have to be
recruited to take these weapons to the enemy, knowing full well that they themselves will be killed in the process. They will die a horrible death. Where will we find people to carry out such an order?”

“That's just the point, my dear Kamil,” Qusay replied. “We do not have to. Others will do this for us—others who will be glad to die a martyr's death just to have a chance at killing many Americans or Jews with the materials that you provide.” Kamil noticed that Qusay had a cruel smile beneath his mustache.
It is the first time I have noticed how much he looks like a younger version of his father
, thought Kamil.

It was a startling revelation. Kamil stared at his brother-in-law, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses. They both knew, though no one would ever say so openly, that there was no one in Iraq willing to die for Saddam Hussein. Certainly there were Palestinians in the Hamas organization who strapped on blocks of C-4 plastic explosives and blasting caps and blew themselves up in crowded Tel Aviv markets and restaurants. But these “martyrs” were killing themselves for a cause in which they believed. Nobody in Iraq believed in Saddam enough to do something like that.

And both men knew about the zealots of Islamic jihad and Hizballah, who built “suicide” cars and trucks in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley so they could blow themselves up in front of an Israeli military checkpoint, school, or shopping center. But these were young Shiite men who killed themselves willingly at the direction of the mullahs in Tehran.

“You said, ‘others will do this for us,'” Kamil said. “What others, Qusay?” He leaned forward now, elbows on the table. “Who are these ‘others' who will take these nerve agents and biological toxins to America? Whom do you know who would kill themselves by releasing these poisons in American cities? This is an evil plan, to kill thousands of innocent people …”

Kamil stopped himself midsentence, realizing that he was going too far. If Qusay was here delivering a decision his father had already made rather than a self-concocted, harebrained scheme, what he had been about to say could be used to try him for treason. He took a deep breath and tried a different approach.

“What I mean to say, Qusay, is that I have never considered using these weapons in that way. I built these weapons to defend our homeland against the Jews and Persians and their Shiite hoards. They are
defensive
weapons. I never imagined that …” He didn't need to complete the thought.

For an awkward moment neither man spoke. Then Kamil said, “When your father asked me to rebuild these weapons, he told me that we should be prepared to use them against the Jews if they ever attack an Arab nation again. Now you tell me that he wants to use them to punish the Americans in their homeland. Honestly, Qusay, I do not know how to do that. And I don't know who
does
know.”

Qusay's smile quickly turned downward. He had never liked his sister's husband. Yes, Kamil was bright, but he was weak. He was a technician, well educated in the ways of the West, and thus able to do things that others could not. But he lacked courage, and courage in these times was a most essential quality. Up to this point, Qusay had tried to be patient with this overcautious weakling. But the hour was late and he was losing patience. His face flushed with anger, Qusay spat out curses in guttural Arabic, the language he had learned from his father, and which his father had learned as an urchin in the dusty, filthy streets of Tikrit. “Kamil, you useless eunuch! You miserable woman equipped like a man! Where is your courage? Did you lose your courage with your manhood? Who is the father of my sister's children? It couldn't have been you!”

Kamil sat back in his chair and stared at his brother-in-law, stunned by the outburst.

Qusay sighed deeply as if to demonstrate unusual patience and then spoke again, this time with his voice once again under control. “I will tell you, dear Kamil, who will do this for us. He is a man with a thousand times your courage—Osama bin Laden.”

Kamil was aghast at what he had just heard. Osama bin Laden was a charismatic, ruthless, and uncontrollable fanatic. He and his Al-Qaeda organization had betrayed everyone with whom they had ever worked. Kamil drew in a deep breath to frame his next words mentally. He could think of nothing better than the blunt question that first came to him: “Do you think that is prudent?”

Qusay looked up at Kamil, puzzled.

Getting no verbal response and misunderstanding his brother-in-law's quizzical expression, Kamil continued in his normal, analytical tone. “Except for those closest to bin Laden himself, his people are zealous but not wise. Most are barely educated. Do you not remember what happened last year in Mogadishu? He sent two dozen of his Mujahedeen into Somalia to help Mohammed Aidid drive out the Americans—their Rangers killed nearly ten thousand Somalis. Osama bin Laden's men were useless in Africa and indirectly caused the death of thousands. How many of us will die if he comes to help us?” Kamil asked.

Qusay's impatience was near the boiling point, but he clenched his teeth and spoke slowly and deliberately, as to a child. “You do not understand, Kamil. Who cares how many Africans died? What does it matter? What matters is that Osama sent his people to organize and train the Somali fighters, and they killed nineteen of the arrogant U.S. Army Rangers and the Delta Force butchers.”

“Yes, and the television pictures showing their bodies being dragged through the streets of Mogadishu provoked the sympathy of the entire world,” Kamil reminded him. “Besides, it was a terrible violation of Islamic laws and teaching against the desecration of the dead.”

Qusay erupted. Kamil had an excuse for everything. Pounding the table with his fist, Qusay shouted, “Kamil, you weakling! Where is your spine? You don't have an ounce of the courage that Osama bin Laden has in his finger! You talk of fear, but he talks of power and might. Don't you see, by dragging those bodies through the streets of Mogadishu, Osama proved that the Americans are not invincible! He did what our own Republican Guard divisions could not do in 1991 He
killed their soldiers!
And seven months before that, at their Trade Center towers in New York, Osama killed Americans
where they work!
Because of him, Americans are no longer safe in their island of conceit. Their towers can be humbled.”

Qusay was shouting now, though his listener was only four feet away. He rose to his feet, gesturing dramatically and spewing spittle on the polished tabletop as he sneered at Kamil. “This is not a matter for you to determine,” he informed his brother-in-law. “This is not some German scientist that you are bribing to help you redesign one of your laboratories. This matter has already been decided!”

Kamil looked up and blinked. Qusay continued his tirade. “Yes, it is true. It is already decided. Osama has been invited here. I have already dispatched two trusted officers of the Mukhabarat to Khartoum to extend my father's invitation. When they return from the Sudan, you will make all the necessary arrangements for bin Laden to visit your chemical and biological research centers. You are to provide him with whatever information and materials that he needs. You will use only your best and most trusted officers in Amn Al-Khass to
oversee this process. Be sure to tell them that if the American swine or the British vipers or the Israeli scorpions ever learn about Osama's visit here, I will personally torture and disembowel their children while they watch! Those are my father's orders. Do you understand?”

Kamil nodded and stood up as Qusay grabbed his attaché case and stormed out the door.

It was then that Kamil Hussein realized that his days in power were numbered. That night he considered how he could escape Saddam's clutches. Though he did not know it then, his escape plan would cost many Americans their lives—and Peter Newman would be right in the middle of it.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

Area 35

________________________________________

Andrews Air Force Base

Wednesday, 30 November 1994

0700 Hours, Local

 

N
ewman, McDade, Coombs, and Robertson were being given the royal treatment. All four had arrived at the Andrews Air Force Base main gate within minutes of one another at 0600 hours. Newman had traveled the farthest, leaving his house on Creswell a little before 0450. As he'd turned right onto a quiet residential street, he had looked back to see if he was once again being followed. He couldn't tell.

Once he was headed west on Arlington Boulevard, Newman had a straight shot to I-495 and the “outer loop” of the Washington Beltway, which would take him across the Potomac and into Maryland and the
sprawling Andrews Air Force Base. The eight-lane highway that encircled Washington was both a blessing and a curse. When traffic was moving, it couldn't be beat. But as Newman knew well, the slightest “fender bender” could shut the whole thing down, leaving people stranded for hours in both directions.

This morning, the Woodrow Wilson drawbridge didn't stop traffic across the Potomac, there were no accidents, and while it was cold from a hard frost, at least it wasn't snowing. Newman made the twenty-eight-mile trip in just over forty minutes. As he turned off Exit 9 onto Allentown Road, he checked his watch and the rearview mirror, once again trying to see if he was being followed. Since it was still early, he pulled into the McDonald's directly across from the large sign that read
ANDREWS AFB - MAIN GATE.

Newman was a big believer in that old infantry axiom: “You never know when or where you'll get your next meal. Eat when you can.” He ordered a breakfast sandwich, an orange juice, and a cup of coffee, and ate in his car. At exactly 0555, he pulled up to the sentry booth at the main gate, flashed his White House badge, and was directed by the sentry to a small parking area off to the right. McDade, Coombs, and Robertson pulled in behind him a couple of minutes later.

The base duty officer, an Air Force major, had met them there and directed them to some VIP parking behind a brick building labeled
BASE SECURITY.
There, they boarded a dark-blue Air Force van. Newman jumped into the front seat of the van before the others could lay claim to the seat. He wanted to see where they were going. Their escort climbed in the back with the others; Newman could hear them as they struck up the usual conversation, using the starter line soldiers and sailors have uttered ever since there have been armies and navies: “Where are you from?”

Newman had been to Andrews dozens of times. But he'd never been to where they were headed now. To their right was an orange glow from thousands of sodium-vapor lights. Newman could see the long North-South runway, enormous hangars, maintenance sheds, and barracks buildings. Soon they were headed back to the south. He kept track of the names of the streets, memorizing them as he would terrain features on a reconnaissance patrol: Tyler Road, Patrick Avenue, Fechet Avenue, Trenton Street, Pearl Harbor Drive, Watson Drive—all famous people and places in military aviation history. And then, after driving for a good fifteen minutes, they were well south of the main runway. As the van rolled past the intersection with Wisconsin Road, he could see a lake off to their left. The rest of the base had been well lighted, but as the van turned left off the main road onto a smaller road, there were no lights at all except for the van's headlights. As they pulled through a stand of large pines, they came upon a number of low brick buildings and what looked like a small hangar, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. An armed Air Force security man dressed in a parka, his breath billowing out from beneath the fur-lined hood, admitted them into the compound.