The Fist of God (14 page)

The Riyadh station normally works out of the embassy, and since Saudi Arabia is regarded, as a most friendly country to British interests, it has never been regarded as a “hard” posting, requiring a large staff and complex facilities. But the ten-day-old crisis in the Gulf had changed things.

The newly created Coalition of Western and Arab nations adamantly opposed to Iraq’s continued occupation of Kuwait already had two appointed co-commanders-in-chief, General Norman Schwarzkopf of the United States and Prince Khaled bin Sultan bin Abdulaziz, a forty-four-year-old professional soldier, trained in the States and at Sandhurst in England, a nephew of the King, and son of Defense Minister Prince Sultan.

Prince Khaled, in response to the British request, had been as gracious as usual, and with remarkable speed a large detached villa had been acquired on the outskirts of the city for the British embassy to rent.

Technicians from London were installing receivers and transmitters with their inevitable encryption machines for secure usage, and the place was about to become the headquarters of the British Secret The Fist of God

Service for the duration of the emergency. Somewhere across town, the Americans were doing much the same for the CIA, which clearly intended to have a very major presence. The animus that would later develop between the senior brass of the U.S. armed forces and the civilians of the Agency had not yet begun.

In the interim, Mike Martin had stayed at the private house of the Station Head, Julian Gray. Both men agreed there would be no advantage in Martin being seen by anyone in the embassy. The charming Mrs. Gray, a career wife, had been his hostess and never dreamt of asking who he was or what he was doing in Saudi Arabia.

Martin spoke no Arabic to the Saudi staff, just accepted the offered coffee with a smile and a thank you in English.

On the evening of the second day, Gray was giving Martin his final briefing. They seemed to have covered everything they could, at least from Riyadh.

“You’ll be flying to Dhahran tomorrow morning. Civilian flight of Saudia. They’ve stopped running direct into Khafji. You’ll be met.

The Firm has set up a dispatcher in Khafji; he’ll meet you and run you north. Actually, I think he’s ex-regiment. Sparky Low—do you know him?”

“I know him,” said Martin.

“He’s got all the things you said you needed. And he’s found a young Kuwaiti pilot you might like to talk to. He’ll be getting from us all the latest pictures from the American satellites showing the border area and the main concentrations of Iraqi troops to avoid, plus anything else we get. Now, lastly, these pictures have just come in from London.”

He spread a row of large, glossy pictures out on the dining table.

“Saddam doesn’t seem to have appointed an Iraqi Governor-General yet; he’s still trying to put together an administration of Kuwaiti The Fist of God

quislings and getting nowhere. Even the Kuwaiti opposition won’t play ball. But it seems there’s already quite a Secret Police presence there. This one here seems to be the local AMAM chief, name of Colonel Sabaawi, quite a bastard. His boss in Baghdad, who may visit, is the head of the Amn-al-Amm, Omar Khatib. Here.”

Martin stared at the face in the photograph: surly, sullen, a mix of cruelty and peasant cunning in the eyes and mouth.

“His reputation is pretty bloody. Same as his sidekick in Kuwait, Sabaawi. Khatib is about forty-five, comes from Tikrit, a clansman of Saddam himself and a longtime henchman. We don’t know much about Sabaawi, but he’ll be more in evidence.”

Gray pulled over another photograph.

“Apart from the AMAM, Baghdad has sent in a team from the Mukhabarat’s Counterintelligence wing, probably to cope with the foreigners and any attempt at espionage or sabotage directed from outside their new conquest. The CI boss is this one here—got a reputation as cunning and nobody’s fool. He may be the one to be careful of.”

It was August 8. Another C-5 Galaxy was rumbling overhead to land at the nearby military airport, part of the vast American logistical machine that was already in gear and pouring its endless materiel into a nervous, uncomprehending, and extremely traditional Moslem kingdom.

Mike Martin looked down and stared at the face of Hassan Rahmani.

It was Steve Laing on the phone again.

“I don’t want to talk,” said Terry Martin.

“I think we should, Dr. Martin. Look, you’re worried about your The Fist of God

brother, are you not?”

“Very much.”

“There’s no need to be, you know. He’s a very tough character, well able to look after himself. He wanted to go, no question of it. We gave him absolute right to turn us down.”

“I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Try and look at it this way, Doctor. If worse comes to worst, we may have to send a lot of other brothers, husbands, sons, uncles, loved ones out to the Gulf. If there’s anything any of us can do to limit their casualties, shouldn’t we try?”

“All right. What do you want?”

“Oh, another lunch, I think. Easier to talk man to man. Do you know the Montcalm Hotel? Say, one o’clock?”

“Despite the brains, he’s quite an emotional little blighter,” Laing had remarked to Simon Paxman earlier that morning.

“Good Lord,” said Paxman, like an entomologist who has just been told of an amusing new species discovered under a rock.

The spymaster and the academic had a quiet booth to themselves—Mr.

Costa had seen to it. When the smoked salmon cornets had been served, Laing broached his subject.

“The fact of the matter is, we may actually be facing a war in the Gulf.

Not yet, of course; it will take time to build up the necessary forces.

But the Americans have the bit between their teeth. They are absolutely determined, with the complete support of our good lady in Downing Street, to get Saddam Hussein and his thugs out of Kuwait.”

“Supposing he gets out of his own accord,” suggested Martin.

“Well, fine, no war needed,” replied Laing, though privately he thought this option might not be so fine after all. There were rumors in the wind that were deeply disturbing and had in fact given rise to his The Fist of God

lunch with the Arabist.

“But if not, we shall just have to go in, under the auspices of the United Nations, and kick him out.”

“ ‘We’?”

“Well, the Americans mainly. We’ll send forces to join them; land, sea, air. We’ve got ships in the Gulf right now, fighters and fighter-bomber squadrons heading south. That sort of thing. Mrs. T is determined we’ll not be seen to be slacking. At the moment it’s just Desert Shield, stopping the bastard from getting any thoughts of moving south and invading Saudi Arabia. But it may come to more than that. You’ve heard of WMD, of course?”

“Weapons of mass destruction. Of course.”

“That’s the problem. NBC. Nuclear, bacteriological, and chemical.

Privately, our people at Century have been trying to warn the political masters for a couple of years about this sort of thing. Last year the Chief presented a paper, ‘Intelligence in the Nineties.’ Warned that the great threat now, since the end of the cold war, is and will be proliferation. Jumped-up dictators of highly unstable aspect getting hold of seriously high-tech weaponry and then possibly using it. ‘Top marks,’ they all said, ‘jolly good’—then did bugger-all about it. Now, of course, they’re all worried shitless.”

“He’s got a lot of it, you know: Saddam Hussein,” remarked Martin.

“That’s the point, my dear fellow. We estimate Saddam has spent fifty billion dollars over the past decade on weapons procurement. That’s why he’s bankrupt—owes fifteen billion to the Kuwaitis, another fifteen to the Saudis, and that’s just for loans made to him during the Iran-Iraq war. He invaded because they refused to write it all off and bung him another thirty billion to get his economy out of trouble.

“Now, the meat of the problem is that one-third of that fifty The Fist of God

billion—an incredible seventeen billion greenbacks—has been spent acquiring WMD or the means to make them.”

“And the West has woken up at last?”

“With a vengeance. There’s a hell of an operation going on. Langley’s been told to race around the world to trace every government that’s ever sold anything to Iraq and check out the export permits. We’re doing the same.”

“Shouldn’t take that long if they all cooperate, and they probably will,” said Martin, as his wing of skate arrived.

“It’s not that easy,” said Laing. “Although it’s early yet, it’s already clear Saddam’s son-in-law Kamil has set up a damnably clever procurement machine. Hundreds of small dummy companies all over Europe and North, Central, and South America. Buying bits and bobs that didn’t seem to mean much. Forging export applications, fudging the details of the product, lying about its end-use, diverting purchases through countries that were on the export certificate as the final destination. But put all the innocent-seeming bits and bobs together, and you can get something really nasty.”

“We know he’s got gas,” said Martin. “He’s used it on the Kurds and the Iranians at Fao. Phosgene, mustard gas. But I’ve heard there are nerve agents as well. No odor, no visible sign. Lethal and very short-lived.”

“My dear chap, I knew it. You’re a mine of information.”

Laing knew all about the gas, but he knew more about flattery.

“Then there’s anthrax,” said Martin. “He’s been experimenting with that, and maybe pneumonic plague. But you know, you can’t just run up these things with a pair of kitchen gloves. You need some very specialized chemical equipment. It should show up on the export licenses.”

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Laing nodded and sighed with frustration.

“Should, yes. But the investigators are already running into two problems. A wall of obfuscation from some companies, mainly in Germany, and the question of dual-use. Someone ships out a cargo of pesticide—what could be more innocent in a country trying to boost its agricultural production, or so it says. Another company in another country ships a different chemical—same apparent reason, pesticide.

Then some smart chemist puts them together and bingo—poison gas.

Both the suppliers whine, ‘We didn’t know.’ ”

“The key will lie in the chemical blending equipment,” said Martin.

“This is high-tech chemistry. You can’t mix these things up in a bathtub. Find the people who supplied the turnkey factories and the men who assembled them. They may huff and puff, but they’ll know exactly what they were doing when they did it. And what it was for.”

“Turnkey factories?” asked Laing.

“Whole plants, built from scratch by foreign contracted companies.

The new owner just turns the key and walks in. But none of this explains our lunch. You must have access to chemists and physicists.

I’ve only heard of these things because of a personal interest. Why me?”

Laing stirred his coffee thoughtfully. He had to play this one carefully.

“Yes, we have chemists and physicists. Scientists of all kinds. And no doubt they’ll come up with some answers. Then we’ll translate the answers into plain English. The Americans will do the same. We’re working in total cooperation with Washington on this, and we’ll compare our analyses. We’ll get some answers, but we won’t get them all. We believe you have something different to offer. Hence this lunch. Do you know that most of our top brass still take the view that the Arabs couldn’t assemble a kid’s bicycle, let alone invent one?”

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He had touched on a nerve, and he knew it. The psycho-portrait he had ordered on Dr. Terry Martin was about to prove its worth. Martin flushed deep pink, then controlled himself.

“I really do get pissed off,” he said, “when my own fellow countrymen insist the Arab peoples are just a bunch of camel-herders who choose to wear tea towels on their heads. Yes, I have actually heard it expressed that way. The fact is, they were building extremely complex palaces, mosques, ports, highways, and irrigation systems when our ancestors were still running around in bearskins. They had rulers and lawgivers of amazing wisdom when we were in the Dark Ages.”

Martin leaned forward and jabbed at the man from Century with his coffee spoon.

“I tell you, the Iraqis have among them some brilliant scientists, and as builders they are beyond compare. Their construction engineers are better than anything for a thousand-mile radius around Baghdad, and I include Israel. Many may have been Soviet or Western trained, but they have absorbed our knowledge like sponges and then made an enormous input themselves.”

He paused, and Laing pounced.

“Dr. Martin, I couldn’t agree with you more. I’ve only been with Century’s Mid-East Division for a year, but I’ve come to the same view as you—that the Iraqis are a very talented people. But they happen to be ruled by a man who has already committed genocide. Is all this money and all this talent really going to be put to the purpose of killing tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of people? Is Saddam going to bring glory to the people of Iraq, or is he going to bring them slaughter?”

Martin sighed.

“You’re right. He’s an aberration. He wasn’t once, long ago, but he’s The Fist of God

become one. He’s perverted the nationalism of the old Ba’ath Party into National Socialism, drawing his inspiration from Adolf Hitler.

What do you want of me?”

Laing thought for a while. He was close, too close to lose his man now.

“George Bush and Mrs. T have agreed that our two countries put together a body to investigate and analyze the whole area of Saddam’s WMD. The investigators will bring in the facts as they discover them.

The scientists will tell us what they mean. What has he got? How developed? How much of it? What do we need to protect ourselves against, if it comes to war—gas masks? Space suits? Antidote syringes? We don’t know yet just what he’s got or just what we’ll need—”

“But I know nothing of these things,” Martin interrupted him.

“No, but you know something we don’t. The Arab mind, Saddam’s mind. Will he use what he’s got? Will he tough it out in Kuwait, or will he quit? What inducements will make him quit? Will he go to the end of the line? Our people just don’t understand this Arab concept of martyrdom.”