The Gilgamesh Conspiracy (3 page)

‘Yes I’m acquainted with Ali Hamsin. My Arabic’s not up to much, so it was a good idea.’

‘Of course; he’s very good at his job. And he also has wife and small son, and relatives, who all have the high regard for him.’ Hakim Mansour smiled up at the rear view mirror and this time spoke in Arabic. ‘We know that we can count on you, Ali Hamsin.’ He saw the fear in the young interpreter’s eyes. ‘Good. Now you begin to translate for us.’ He smiled and turned towards the American.

‘Although with God’s help we are confident that we will win the war against the Iranian hordes, we wish to make certain contingency plans should some catastrophe occur.’

Ali Hamsin translated, wondering what twists and turns this conversation would take.

‘Are you threatening to use your stockpiles of chemical weapons?’ asked the American Colonel. ‘We know you are manufacturing mustard gas and nerve agents, and we have to warn you that their use would jeopardise our support for you.'

Ali Hamsin was taken aback by this startling revelation, but he managed to deliver the Arabic version smoothly enough.

‘Oh I’m sure we will never have to use those; I expect the mere threat of their use will have a salutary effect, a powerful bargaining tool.’ He paused briefly, but before Ali Hamsin could begin to translate Mansour spoke again.

‘What we have in mind are other contingencies, matters that might arise if the war does not progress so well. It will be necessary to protect long term positions.’

‘Go on,’ said the Colonel.

Hakim Mansour described the proposals and Ali Hamsin translated. As the conversation between the American Colonel and the Party Central Committee member progressed he found it more and more difficult to keep the emotion out of his voice. He gripped the steering wheel to stop his hands trembling and felt the sweat beading on his forehead while the more he learned the more fearful he became.

The two men finally shook hands and Mansour ordered Ali Hamsin to drive back to the US Embassy. ‘Have a good Christmas, Colonel,’ Mansour called as the American climbed out of the car. After they had watched him display his ID card and disappear through the security gates Mansour climbed into the front seat next to Ali and offered him a cigarette.  The two of them sat in silence for a minute smoking, and then Mansour spoke. ‘If news of my meeting with the Colonel ever leaks out, you will wish you had never been born.’

Ali swallowed nervously. ‘I understand sir,’ he managed to say.

‘Good! But of course these obligations pass both ways and you can expect further rewards in some form or another while you work in the Ministry.  Now you can drive me home, and then you’ll have to walk, or find a taxi back to your house.’

‘Thank you sir!’ Ali replied, trying to force some enthusiasm into his reply. He climbed out and watched Mansour shuffle across to the driver’s seat and then set off into the traffic. Ali stared after him for a while before walking slowly home.

*              *              *              *              *

‘I worked in the ministry for the next twenty years,’ said Ali, ‘and I must admit I was well off compared with most people. I was paid on time and allowed extra privileges, but I can also state with confidence that I was good at my job. The ultimate reward was that my son Rashid was able to study English at the University of Southampton. Of course there was a downside; we spent our working lives under scrutiny and fearful of making some blunder either real or imagined that would have us thrown into prison. You cannot imagine what stress that puts you under, spending your working life under those conditions.’

‘Oh I don’t have to imagine it,’ Gerry replied. She leant back against the side of the raft and stared up at the sky, thinking back to her first meeting with Ali Hamsin and Hakim Mansour and her descent into a personal disaster that had begun years ago on New Year’s Day in 2003.

CHAPTER TWO

1
st
January 2003

Gerry Tate was thoroughly bored. The evening in the bar in the United Kingdom’s embassy in Kuwait had started off with a heated debate about the developing Iraq situation which appeared to be escalating towards a crisis point, but as the hour had approached midnight, the alcohol consumed by her fellow drinkers had slowly dragged the conversation down to a convivial but frivolous level in keeping with a New Year celebration. She gazed at the clock mounted on the wall above the rows of bottles behind the bar and when it reached 3.00am she and her few remaining fellow drinkers, mostly young and exclusively male, raised their glasses and called out ‘Happy New Year!’

Along with a much larger group she had made the same greeting three hours previously, but that had been at midnight local time. A few staff with no family or little regard for their exhausted spouses had decided that it could not properly be New Year until the time reached midnight in London, three hours later than Kuwait. Not, they assured one another, because they yearned for their home country but merely because that was the location of the prime meridian through Greenwich, and any right thinking person would know that this must be the correct time to celebrate the New Year even if they lived in New Zealand or Los Angeles or any place in between.

Gerry’s opinion was that this was a load of bollocks, but she was in the executive operations department of the British intelligence service and accustomed to guarding her thoughts. She had stayed on in the embassy bar because it was her task to determine the loyalty of a middle-aged diplomat named Laurence Baxter who now stood four feet to her left and who was draining his seventh beer of the evening. A neutral observer might think that Gerry was as inebriated as Baxter, having been plied with free drinks by the men who had been eager to make at least the acquaintance of the tall, attractive young woman who had appeared amongst them a few days ago. In fact a quiet word with the barman had ensured that whenever someone bought her another gin and lemonade he had only poured lemonade into her glass. He had been very surprised when she had made the request, but when she suggested that he should pocket the difference in price he had been happy enough to agree.

Gerry watched Baxter stagger off towards the gentlemen’s toilets and concluded that if he was going to pass any information to his Russian girlfriend tonight then it was unlikely to be coherent. She actually felt sorry for the woman who had to endure his attentions, and imagined that she would be relieved when she found out that he had been recalled to London. Gerry’s remaining task was to establish whether Baxter genuinely believed his girlfriend to be a Canadian citizen or if he knew that she was Russian.

‘Excuse me gentlemen,’ she said and walked off towards the doorway.

‘Oh you’re not leaving us are you Emily?’ said a drunken commercial secretary, a handsome twenty-five year old Oxford graduate who had decided that now was the moment to make a serious pass and he grabbed her by the arm.

A moment later, without understanding how, he had lost his footing and now he was sprawled on the floor with the remains of his beer spilt over him and acclaimed with raucous laughter by his fellow drinkers. Gerry walked casually on and disappeared inside the ladies’ cloakroom. Peeping out through the cracked open doorway she watched Baxter stagger out the gents’ and towards the security post at the main entrance. She followed a few paces behind as they approached the one remaining guard manning the entrance. Rather than waving them through the security gate he carefully checked their IDs and insisted that they walk through the archway scanner that until recently had only been used to search people entering the embassy. With the continuing build-up of American and Allied troops along the Iraqi border as the crisis escalated towards a probable invasion, the guards were taking no chances, although Gerry could not imagine what she might take out of the embassy that would cause any security problem. She watched Baxter collide with the side of the archway as he staggered through and saw the security man shake his head in disgust. She walked through herself, said a quick ‘good night’ and then followed him outside.

In the car park she watched Baxter walk unsteadily to his car and fumble in his pocket, and then she heard a metallic clink as his keys fell to the ground and heard him grunt as he bent down to find them. ‘Hi Laurence, are you ok?’ she called out.

He looked around and gave her a bleary grin. ‘Oh, hi Emily. Just dropped m’keys; they’re round here somewhere.’ He stared vaguely about, then leant against the car and groaned.

‘You’re in no state to drive,’ Gerry declared. ‘Look I’ll take you home.’ She bent down and found his keys under the adjacent car.

‘Thass great; give’m me; m’ok really.’

‘I’ll give them back to you when we get to your place. Now get in my car.’ After a couple of minute’s effort she had the drunken man slumped in the passenger seat of her borrowed car. ‘So where do you live?’ Gerry asked.

‘Take the First Ring Road’, he mumbled.

‘Ok,’ Gerry replied and set off towards his apartment. She was fully aware of its location having already spent several hours searching through it when Baxter was at work. Years ago her service would be worried about an individual such as Baxter revealing military secrets to the communist bloc, but now Gerry was merely ensuring that her country’s exports of military equipment to the Gulf States were not being jeopardised.

‘Maybe you’d better call Sandy, tell her you’ll be home soon,’ she suggested.

‘Still be at Canadian…Canadian embassy party I’spect.’

Through her contact in the Canadian embassy, Gerry knew that Lyudmila Yakutina also known as Sandy Dempster had left two hours ago.

‘She’s a lovely girl, Sandy. Have you known her long?’ she asked.

‘Bout six months.’ That was accurate. From the selection of women’s clothing in Baxter’s apartment Gerry also knew that Yakutina often spent the night there.

‘I wonder how many generations of her family have been in Canada. She looks sort of Ukrainian I reckon. Long blonde hair. She looks like one of those tennis players. You know the Russian ones. Maybe her family’s from Russia…originally.’

‘Er…I d’know. She’s from Toronto,’ Baxter mumbled. He looked around and recognised where they were. ‘S’next right.’

Gerry pulled up beside the small apartment block. Baxter climbed out and fumbled for his keys.

‘I’ve got them, remember?’ said Gerry rattling them in front of his face. He grinned at her and then took them.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said, ‘I’ll be alright now.’

‘I need to use your bathroom, if you don’t mind,’ said Gerry.

‘Oh! Well come on in then.’

She followed him up the stairs to the large, three bedroomed first floor apartment provided at the UK taxpayers’ expense.

‘You’re late!’ snapped a woman’s voice in a Canadian accent, and as she followed him through the door Gerry recognised the blonde haired attractive woman, aged about thirty who had jumped up from her seat. ‘Oh!’ she added when she saw Gerry just behind Baxter.

‘Hello, Happy New Year! Delighted to meet you,’ Gerry called out and noted the woman’s mouth about to form some words but then her expression changed from a curious frown, to a forced smile and she said ‘Happy New Year!’ in return.

‘I’m Emily Stevens, a colleague of Laurence’s,’ Gerry continued. ‘He’s a bit pissed so I brought him home. You must be Sandy.’

‘Yuh I’m Sandy,’ she replied. ‘Thanks for bringing him back.’ She had recovered her poise but still Gerry saw the suspicion on her face. Laurence staggered towards her and Gerry noted her recoiling from his clumsy embrace.

‘I need to use your bathroom please,’ said Gerry.

‘Through there,’ Yakutina said waving towards an archway.

‘Thanks,’ said Gerry.

She went through, took a much needed pee, washed her hands and then from her handbag she took out her Glock automatic, gave it a quick once over and then did the same with her Taser. Then she walked quietly back in with her hand inside her bag clutching the Glock. She relaxed when she saw Laurence slumped in an armchair and Yakutina bringing in a tray with three cups, a jug and a sugar bowl on it.

‘I’m making us all some coffee,’ she said with a big smile for Gerry. ‘Laurence could certainly use one anyway.’

‘Me too,’ Gerry agreed enthusiastically. ‘So Sandy, what brings you out to Kuwait?’

‘I work for Bombardier, the Canadian aerospace company. We’re hoping to supply new training aircraft to the Air Force here. How about you?’

‘I’m in foreign aid,’ Gerry replied.

‘Huh? You’re not telling me the Brits are giving the Kuwaitis financial aid are you?’

‘No, I’m trying to persuade them to give it to African countries,’ Gerry replied, ‘then we won’t have to.’

‘Ah, I get it,’ she nodded.

‘So you’re in the same line as Laurence. He’s the commercial guy helping British Aerospace out here.’

‘Yes that’s right,’ Yakutina replied. ‘I expect the coffee’s ready.’ She returned to the kitchen.

Gerry turned to Laurence. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

He stared past her with a look of amazement. ‘Fucking hell!’ he said.

This non sequitur aroused sudden suspicion. Gerry whirled round and was shocked to see Yakutina walk back in with a Russian P96 pistol aimed at her. The Russian was obviously expecting Gerry to cower at the sight of it, but instead she threw herself behind the sofa. She heard the sharp crack as Yakutina fired the pistol. Shit, was the woman really trying to kill her? She was just an industrial espionage agent wasn’t she? Gerry took her Glock out her handbag and rolled sideways and fired two quick shots at the Russian’s feet. One at least hit her because there was a spray of blood and she screamed, then she dropped her gun and collapsed to the floor clutching at her foot.

Gerry stood up and pulled the cloth off a small table. ‘Apply pressure with that.’ She ordered. The woman sat up, grabbed the cloth and pressed it to her ankle moaning in pain. She looked up with hatred at Gerry and muttered something in Russian.

‘You should be grateful,’ Gerry stated. ‘Seems you’ve had a flesh wound rather than a broken ankle joint.’

‘What the hell is happening here?’ demanded Baxter who had jumped to his feet and was sobering up with the assistance of a rush of adrenaline.

‘Your girlfriend is Lyudmila Yakutina of the Russian Federal Security Service. You’ve been passing her secrets for the last six months.’

‘What? She works for Bombardier, the Canadian company,’ Baxter insisted, astounded.’

‘So why did she try to shoot me just now, you bone-headed moron,’ said Gerry. ‘Yakutina is an industrial spy. At first we thought that perhaps the two of you were up to something more serious, but my investigation just showed that you were some poor fool who wanted to get his leg over and this woman was prepared to put up with you to further her own career.’

Baxter stared at Yakutina, then back at Gerry and swallowed. ‘So what happens now?’

‘I’m going to call the Embassy, get you out under diplomatic immunity. Then I expect you’ll be flown home and unceremoniously booted out from the FCO without references. I doubt you’ll be prosecuted.’

‘What about her?’ He turned a hate filled gaze on the Russian woman.

‘I’ll call the Kuwaiti police.’ She spoke to Yakutina in Russian. ‘You don’t have diplomatic immunity, do you Lyudmila?’

‘You bloody bitch,’ Baxter shouted at Yakutina. ‘You’ve ruined my career!’ His voice shook with drunken anger.

‘Shut up you idiot!’ said Gerry. ‘I saw a first aid kit in the bathroom. Go and get it.’ Gerry knelt down beside the Russian women. ‘Take the cloth away; let me see how bad it is.’

The Russian suddenly looked past her and screamed just as a shot hit her in the chest and knocked her backwards. Gerry whirled round awkwardly and saw Baxter’s unsteady hand now trying to aim Yakutina’s P96 towards her. She tried to shoot him in the shoulder but in her hurry she missed her aim. He fell back with his arms flung wide, the front of his chest turning red and she guessed she had hit his heart. She slowly lowered her Glock and stared at the carnage around her.

‘Oh shit have I fucked up,’ she muttered to herself. She felt unsuccessfully for a neck pulse in the Russian women, and caught a strong smell of spirits; perhaps the woman had been drunk, which might explain her aggression. Gerry sat down on a chair and stared at the two corpses and mulled over the possibilities. She wiped her fingerprints from the Glock and placed it in the dead Russian’s hand. Then she gazed round the apartment thinking where she might have left any other signs of her presence. Three cups on the tray; she put one back in the kitchen. She returned to the bathroom and carefully wiped anything she might have touched with a small hand towel which she then stuffed in her bag. She found another towel in the cupboard and placed it on the rail, gazed around once more then shook her head and left.

Eight hours later back at the Embassy she filed an inaccurate report that described how Laurence Baxter and Lyudmila Yakutina had  shot each other in a drunken encounter after Gerry had revealed to Baxter that his girlfriend was a Russian agent and that he would be sent back home in disgrace. She had left out the fact that she was present at the incident, but said that she had attended the scene at the request of the Kuwaiti police as Baxter was an accredited diplomat. She emphasised how her knowledge of Arabic had helped to keep the situation under wraps and that the Russian official who was also invited to the scene seemed happy with the explanation of events and she was hopeful that it would be kept quiet.