Mission Compromised (48 page)

THE CHOICE:
“For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 6:23)

GOD'S PROVISION:
“But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)

CHRIST'S SACRIFICE:
“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved.” (John 3:16–17)

YOUR PART IS FAITH:
“For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast.” (Ephesians 2:8—9)

“He who believes in the Son has everlasting life; and he who does not believe the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God abides on him.” (John 3:36)

IT'S UP TO YOU:
“Behold, I [Jesus] stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him.” (Revelation 3:20)

“For with the heart one believes unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.” (Romans 10:10)

 

It struck Rachel as peculiar that so many of the verses listed were ones that had been discussed in the Bible study she had attended with Sandy, and she felt this was more than coincidence. And then the pastor got up to begin the service with prayer, which he introduced with another Bible verse: “Draw near to Him, and He will draw near to you.” Rachel felt he was speaking directly to her. She was here because she wanted to get nearer to God and know more about Him. The congregation rose, sang the Doxology and sat down again.

Then the pastor quoted from the Scriptures: “Being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.”

When the music started, Rachel was still thinking about those words from the Bible—everything she was hearing seemed directed at
her.
Then she focused on the choir and the words they were singing. It was an anthem of praise, and she strained to understand the words: “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.…” It was the familiar tune the bagpiper had played beside Jim Newman's grave at Arlington Cemetery, and its old melody stirred her.

There were other musical selections; some were sung by a small group of singers and others by the congregation. Then the pastor prayed again,
an offering was taken, and he began his sermon. As Rachel listened, she prayed silently.
God… if You're there … I want to understand. I want to know about Jesus … and all the other things I've been hearing about since Sandy and I went to that Bible study. I know I don't have any right… I feel really guilty now … but if that song means anything, God … can You … would You save a wretch like me?

The sermon also felt directed to her. At its conclusion, the pastor said that he'd like to pray for anyone who wasn't sure about his or her spiritual condition. “If you're seeking God and want Him to change your life, I want to pray for you,” he said to his listeners. When he prayed, Rachel felt the love that he had been telling her about flow over her; tears began to course down her cheeks as she stood with her head bowed in the back of the church.

The service over, Rachel still sat by herself in her seat. Most of the people had left the church or were chatting in the vestibule of the sanctuary. Though her thoughts were still a jumble, some things were starting to make sense. Then, as if on cue, a woman sat down beside her. “Hi, I'm Lucy, Pastor Brooks's wife. I saw you sitting here, and you looked like your heart was breaking. Would you like me to pray with you?”

Rachel looked at the woman—attractive, about forty, with eyes that were full of sympathy and concern. And suddenly, Rachel couldn't hold it in any longer. She poured out her thoughts in a torrent of frustration and regret for the life that she had been living. Rachel also expressed hope that she hadn't gone so far away from God that He might abandon her. Mrs. Brooks assured her that God's love was still available. For about twenty minutes they talked, and then, with the church nearly empty, Lucy Brooks said, “I want to pray with you, Rachel. You're in real anguish and you don't need to be. You don't have to say a thing. Here, give me your hand.”

Rachel put her hand in Lucy's, and the pastor's wife quietly prayed. Once again the tears flowed down Rachel's cheeks as her new friend ended her prayer with a plea: “Lord, help Rachel to see that Your grace is sufficient, that all things work together for good for those who put their trust in You, and most importantly, Lord, help Rachel to know that the salvation You offered all of us on Calvary is available for her as well.”

Lucy reached in her purse and pulled out a little package of tissues and handed them to Rachel. “Do you have plans for Sunday after church? Could you join my husband and me for brunch at Terranova's?”

“Oh, that's kind of you but—”

“Please, if you have no plans, we'd be delighted if you'd join us. My husband is a wonderful teacher and counselor, and I know that he'd be pleased to help you deal with what's weighing you down.”

Rachel smiled and nodded. The two women stood and walked toward the front doors.

 

Baghdad-Mosul Highway

________________________________________

5 km S of Tikrit
Friday, 3 March 1995
2000 Hours, Local

 

As Leonid Dotensk bent to tighten the lug nuts on the left rear wheel of his Mercedes, he added this tire change to the long list of reasons why he hated Americans. The tire he had just changed—as he'd done with so many other tires in Iraq—had gone flat from running over a piece of shrapnel, a shard of razor-sharp steel from an American bomb dropped more than four years ago.
This filthy country is covered with American scrap metal, and now they have made me late!
he thought. As Dotensk stood up, a jet aircraft roared over his head at both a very high speed and very low altitude. The Ukrainian double agent threw himself on the ground in terror
and started to crawl toward the ditch beside the road, trying to get away from the car. As he did so, a second aircraft passed right behind the first.

Immediately after he reached the ditch, an anti-aircraft gun opened up from Tikrit South, the air base directly to his north.
The fools; what do they think they are going to hit?

Dotensk spent ten more minutes huddled in the ditch and then, when the firing stopped, he climbed out, brushed himself off as best he could, got back in his car, started it up, and began driving very slowly toward the small city of Tikrit, claimed by Saddam as his hometown.

The Ukrainian was driving on the only four-lane highway in the country. Saddam had constructed it as a showpiece, widening the roadbed that the British had built along the west bank of the Tigris River after they inherited Iraq from the Ottoman Empire at the end of World War I. In the fashion of dictators the world over, Saddam had made the highway a monument to himself, connecting Karbala and Al Hillah in the south through Baghdad with Mosul in the north. For most of its route, the road paralleled the Tigris.

What made the going so slow were the craters and blown bridges left unrepaired from American and British bombs during the Gulf War—and the millions of pieces of tire-shredding sharp steel strewn on and in the pavement from hundreds of bombs, rockets, and missiles. Dotensk proceeded at a snail's pace. He didn't have to worry about holding up any other traffic—in fact, the Ukrainian didn't even
see
another vehicle until he was stopped at the checkpoint just south of Tikrit. As he pulled out his documents, he could see flames and sooty black smoke rising from the Tikrit South Air Base to his left.

The Republican Guards officer who examined his paperwork gazed carefully at the Amn Al-Khass seal on Dotensk's travel permit, pointed his
flashlight at the Ukrainian's face, looked again at his passport, and said, “You are to report to His Excellency, Minister Hussein Kamil at the presidential palace. You are late.”

Dotensk checked the impatient words that leapt to his mind. “I know. I was held up by the air raid.”

The officer shrugged and said, “You will need an escort from here,” He called out to a sergeant who got into a BJC Beijing Jeep and led Dotensk up the highway, into the city, and to the gates of the palace grounds.

Saddam's palace at Tikrit was one of his most lavish. Set well back from the road and surrounded by trees, a small lake, and lush gardens, the seventeen structures on the grounds were constructed of marble over reinforced concrete and designed to send an unmistakable signal: “Local boy makes good.” Everywhere Dotensk looked there were armed men patrolling.

The escort vehicle stopped at one of the buildings near the towering palace structure, and the sergeant got out and talked to the uniformed guard at the door, who then called to someone inside. Two strikingly handsome young men in shirtsleeves came rushing out to help Dotensk and take his bag out of the trunk.

This is more like it
, he thought. They brought him into a large, well-appointed waiting room. Somewhere within the building he could hear voices and music. Then, down the long carpeted hallway, came Kamil. At first Dotensk did not recognize his co-conspirator. Kamil was not in uniform but was instead garbed in a white
thobe
covered by a brown
mishlah
trimmed with gold. He had sandals on his feet and was wearing the traditional Arab
gutra
with a black
igal
wrapped around it. “Good evening, my friend,” said the Iraqi, holding out his hand. “Thankfully, the Americans waited to bomb until after the Sabbath. Had they come earlier, so many
of our brave soldiers would have been at prayer that we would not have been able to shoot down many of them.”

Dotensk wondered for whose benefit this propaganda was recited, but decided to say nothing. The Ukrainian had learned that with Kamil there was always a hidden, complex agenda. The man was, on the one hand, planning to defect while, at the same time, spending hundreds of millions of dollars to acquire stolen nuclear weapons to arm his nation. He was playing host to Osama bin Laden and the other terrorists and concurrently planning to become a hero by “saving” his father-in-law from a UN-directed assassination. Dotensk wondered how the Iraqi kept all four initiatives separate in his mind. But about one thing, the arms dealer had no doubt. He had already witnessed the merciless killing of three people by Kamil and so he had no illusions about Kamil's ethics.

“Kamil, can we talk?”

“Ah yes, but first, you must shed the desert sand from your clothing and have some food. They will show you to your room, and after you have had a chance to cleanse the dust out of your eyes, you will join me for some refreshment.” At this, Kamil clapped his hands twice and the two young men who had met Dotensk at the entrance appeared from an anteroom and guided him down the hallway to a luxurious suite.

Dotensk removed his soiled suit, showered, and changed into a pair of cashmere slacks and tailored cotton shirt. A half hour later, a knock on his door introduced another young boy—
he can't be twelve years old
—thought Dotensk. “His Excellency, Minister Hussein Kamil, has instructed that I am to be at your service this evening,” said the child in perfect Russian.

“Yes, well thank you,” said Dotensk. “But all I desire is a chance to talk to the Minister, if he's available.”

“Of course,” said the child. “I shall take you to him. Please follow me.”

The Ukrainian followed the boy down the hallway to a large room made to look like an enormous Bedouin tent: muslin was draped from the ceiling; sidewalls of silk reached the floor; there, seated on cushions, and surrounded by voluptuous women, was Hussein Kamil. Music from several stringed instruments was playing softly, and the pungent odor of burning hashish mixed cloyingly with the scent of incense.

“Welcome, my dear friend,” said Kamil. “Come sit here beside me and we shall eat. Then we shall talk.”

Dotensk was astounded. An hour ago, enemy aircraft, undoubtedly American, had bombed an air base not five kilometers away. He knew from information provided by General Komulakov that the UN assassination team was planning to parachute into Iraq tonight, and the arms dealer strongly suspected that the air strike he'd witnessed was a diversion for the insertion. And here was his co-conspirator in the entire plan, splayed out like a desert sheik.

As Dotensk took a seat on one of the cushions, he hissed, “We must talk!”

For nearly a minute, Kamil seemed not to hear. He sat with his eyes closed as the music continued. Then his head snapped up abruptly, and he clapped his hands three times and motioned for all those attending him to depart. They disappeared immediately, though the music continued to play. Dotensk hoped that it was a recording and that it was loud enough to mask the conversation they needed to have.

“Can we talk here?”

“Certainly, these are my private quarters. We are protected by Amn Al-Khass officers totally loyal to me.”

“Good. You know that the air strike was very likely conducted to mask the insertion of the assassins?”

“Yes, I thought the same thing myself.”

“Is everything in place for Monday?”

“I have made all the preparations we agreed upon,” said the Iraqi security chief. “I had my people paint the interior of the large abandoned brick Ba'ath Party building beside the old aqueduct northeast of the city It took almost two hundred gallons of paint just to make it look like a hospital. And, as you suggested, I had 247 prisoners trucked there from the Special Security Service prison at Al Ranighwania. Unfortunately most of the prisoners were uncooperative so they—died.”

“But if you shot them—”

“Ah, you always underestimate me, my dear little arms dealer. I ordered some to be beaten to death, a number to be stoned, others to be burned alive, and some dropped from the roof of the building. When the international press corps goes to see the ruins of the ‘hospital' destroyed by this UAV thing, all they will find are dead patients, killed by the explosion and the collapse of the building.”