The Gilgamesh Conspiracy (4 page)

Half an hour later she received an order to return to London to file a further report in person. She booked a seat on the following evening’s British Airways flight and decided to drive back to her hotel. As she entered the lobby she saw a man get up from an armchair and walk quickly towards her. She decided he was unlikely to be a threat because nobody menacing her would step forward in plain view and she doubted that she would encounter a Russian heavy bent on revenge in a Kuwait city hotel with video surveillance of the public areas.

As he drew close she realised he was an Arab. He was wearing grey trousers, a white shirt and a black leather jacket. He was middle aged, at least fifty years old and comfortably overweight without being excessively fat; clearly not physically trained. He had short wavy hair and a big untrimmed moustache. ‘Good evening Miss Geraldine Tate,’ the man spoke quietly in Arabic. ‘I wonder if I might speak with you. My name is Hakim Mansour.’ Gerry was amazed that the man knew her name and she stopped and stared at him; she was formulating a response in Arabic when the man made a further request.

‘I wonder if you could arrange to take me for me a most urgent meeting with Sir Hugh Fielding.’

Gerry’s stare turned to an expression of bewilderment. Fielding was the director of executive operations in the UK intelligence service and her ultimate boss, and now this unknown Iraqi was requesting an appointment as if he was an old acquaintance.

Forty eight hours later Gerry Tate and Hakim Mansour were sitting in a BAe 125 executive jet operated by the Royal Air Force for the UK government as it approached the runway at Frankfurt airport. A third person had joined them whom Mansour had introduced as Ali Hamsin. ‘He is my translator and an old friend,’ Mansour explained. ‘My English is not so good so I bring him along just to be sure we all understand each other.’

The aircraft turned off the runway to the south and taxied into the United States Air Force base where it parked alongside a grander Gulfstream executive jet.  One of the pilots came out of the 125 flight deck and beckoned Gerry forward. ‘See that building next to the hangar, Emily? You’re to go over there.’

‘Ok thanks for the ride Jack. I don’t know how long this’ll take; probably a couple of hours.’

‘We’ll be waiting.’

Despite being virtually on American territory, Gerry felt a curious sense of exposure as she walked ahead of Mansour and Hamsin across the deserted apron under the bright floodlights and she shivered in the freezing wind. Just before they reached the door, it was opened by a bearded man wearing a thick hooded parka. The dim interior light illuminated a corridor. ‘Second door on the right, sir, ma’am,’ was all he said.

Gerry looked back at Mansour who appeared to be perfectly at ease. She walked between the bare walls and opened the door which led to a room furnished with four armchairs, a conference table on which lay a computer and two telephones. One of the seats was occupied by Sir Hugh Fielding, Deputy Director of MI6.  In another seat lounged a tall man with greying blonde hair who was plainly an American. Both of them climbed to their feet as the door opened. ‘Hakim Mansour, good morning, how are you?’ asked the American.

‘Pleased to see you again gentlemen,’ Mansour said in his heavily accented English, smiling under his thick moustache. ‘You remember Ali Hamsin, General?’

‘Yes indeed.’ They shook hands all round.

‘That will be all for the moment, thank you Geraldine,’ Fielding said, giving her a glance.

She left the room wondering what to make of Sir Hugh Fielding using her first name, albeit without being aware that nobody in her life called her anything but Gerry, except of course her parents. She wandered back outside.

‘Can I give you a cigarette?’ asked the American who had opened the door for them. He had thrown back his hood revealing a mop of dark hair that merged with his beard. The only features Gerry could make out were a straight nose and eyes which appeared black under the harsh flood lighting. Gerry did not smoke but was happy to accept a cigarette for social purposes. The hand that offered her the open packet and then took a lighter from a pocket had thick fingers that somehow suggested that a powerful frame lay beneath the jacket.

‘Thanks.’ Gerry drew on the cigarette but avoided inhaling it into her lungs. ‘Who’s the guy in with my boss? I presume he’s your boss?’

‘That’s the General.’

‘Ah…the General,’ Gerry replied, nodding sagely. ‘Well I’m pretty good with faces so later on I should be able to pick him out of the possible two hundred and thirty active army generals, or sixty marine generals; he doesn’t look Air Force. I think I’d probably start with the Marines, but maybe I’d have to go to the retired list.’

The American grinned through his heavy beard. ‘I guess I could save you the trouble. General Robert Bruckner, US Marines retired. And I’m Dean Furness.’ He held out his hand and Gerry shook it. ‘Emily Stevens.’

‘Your boss called you Geraldine.’

‘So he did; he’s always mixing up names.’

‘Ok. Pleased to meet you, Emily. Who are these guys you brought with you?’

‘The older one is Hakim Mansour; he’s somewhere in the Iraqi hierarchy, but I don’t know how high up he is. The other guy Ali Hamsin was introduced as a translator, but he could really be their chief of military intelligence for all I know. I received strict instructions not to question them during the journey.’

In fact Gerry had learnt that Hakim Mansour was a senior member of the Iraqi ruling elite, and Ali Hamsin was a graduate of Exeter University. He was fluent in English and French as well as his native language; he was married to Tabitha and had a daughter called Farrah and a son named Rashid who was at university in England but she saw no reason to divulge any such information to this guy Dean Furness, no matter how many cigarettes they smoked together. They exchanged small talk for a couple of minutes, and then began to discuss the prospects of an invasion, both concluding that their countries’ leaders were determined to turn Saddam Hussein out of power notwithstanding any compromises that he might make at this late stage. Having achieved a meeting of minds they lapsed into silence.

‘Another cigarette?’ Furness suggested.

‘No thanks. I could do with a coffee, though. I’ve hardly slept in the last thirty six hours, and I’m getting a bit cold.’

‘I wish we could’ve stayed on board the airplane.’ He nodded towards the Gulfstream jet which emitted a high pitch drone from its auxiliary power unit that kept it supplied with electricity and air conditioned comfort whilst it sat on the apron. ‘They’ve probably got a full galley in there.’

‘I’ll bet there’s something in this building, though,’ said Gerry.

They went inside and found a room with a set of chairs arranged for a briefing around a desk equipped with an overhead projector. ‘Nothing here; let’s try the next door.’

The next door was locked but without any comment Gerry pulled out a key ring and selected a notched metal probe. She inserted it into the lock and a few seconds later the door clicked open. ‘Let’s hope there’s some milk in that fridge,’ she said marching across the room.

Forty minutes later both of them were fighting off fatigue by sipping their second cups of coffee and reading some confidential US Air Force memos and Playboy magazines that Dean had removed from a cupboard. On finding them Gerry had seen his hand hover over them for a moment and then he ignored them. She supposed that this was out of some vague notion of politeness so without saying anything she picked one up herself and handed another one to him. He had cast a couple of sidelong glances at her as she flicked through the pages and she wondered idly if he thought she might be gay.

‘Dean Furness, front and centre!’ came a muffled shout. They stuffed the memos and magazines back in the desk and hurried to the makeshift conference room.

‘Ah, Geraldine; Mr Mansour and Mr Hamsin are returning to Kuwait, and then you’ll see them safely over the border back to Iraq. You won’t ask them any questions. Is that understood?’

‘Of course Sir Hugh,’ she dutifully replied.

Mansour yawned as he settled back in the luxurious armchair in the BAe 125’s cabin as they flew back towards the Gulf. Gerry wondered what the meeting had been about and notwithstanding her promise to Fielding, she was determined to extract as much information as she could from Ali Hamsin. In her fluent Arabic she began to discuss literary works ranging from the Holy Quran to the plays of Shakespeare. Having won his confidence she began to discuss the political situation. President George Bush had clearly signalled his intention to depose Saddam Hussein, but so far the American president had only found flimsy pretexts to justify his action. However the zealous British Prime Minister Tony Blair had eagerly agreed and despite the lack of real conviction from any other world leader, planning for the invasion was at an advanced stage. ‘I can’t see any way out of the situation,’ she said to Ali. ‘Saddam’s never going to agree to any of their demands.’

‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ Hamsin replied and gave a small smile.

‘I’ve seen the plans for troop build-up along the border,’ Gerry continued. ‘By the middle of March there’s going to be an invasion force in place and the momentum will be well-nigh unstoppable. Bush and Blair are determined to get rid of Saddam Hussein, and with Rumsfeld, Cheney, George senior and all the other White House blowhards egging him on, I can’t see Bush turning back.’

‘No, but…’ Hamsin paused. ‘No I’m sure you’re right. Now I need to get some sleep, if you’ll excuse me Gerry.’

‘Oh, ok.’

She sighed in frustration. She had been about to turn the conversation toward the meeting in Frankfurt airport when he had effectively curtailed her probing questions. She looked down at the briefcase that lay on Hakim Mansour’s lap protected by his pudgy hands. She was sorely tempted to try and take it and inspect the contents, but it would be a risk. Instead she went to the flight deck.

‘Can I get you guys anything?’ she asked the pilots.

‘Thanks Emily, could you make us a couple of coffees, please?’

Gerry had learned how to use the galley facilities on the flight out to Frankfurt and in a few minutes she had made three coffees. She turned back to the cabin and saw the document case had fallen off Mansour’s lap. She crept stealthily towards him but just before she could pick it up off the floor his eyes opened and he stared sleepily at her.

‘I’ve just made some coffee; would you like one?’ she asked him with her best smile.

‘Oh yes thank you but first I need to visit the gents,’ he said and stood up. She waited until the door was closed and then snatched up his document case. She unzipped it and pulled out a sheaf of papers stapled together. “Preliminary agreement: main points”, she read.

‘Gerry, what are you doing?’ she whirled round and saw Ali Hamsin staring at her.

‘I’m just going to have a quick look…’ she began, but suddenly the lock on the toilet door snapped open. Gerry hastily shoved the papers back in and zipped up the case and dropped it on to Mansour’s seat. Mansour came hurrying out, his zipper still open and picked up the case. Gerry stared at Hamsin, daring him to say anything but he just watched Mansour retreat back into the toilet clutching the case under one arm and then he closed his eyes and sighed.

CHAPTER THREE

15
th
February 2003

Rashid Hamsin lay in bed in the two bedroom apartment that he shared with his fellow language student Omar Haddad, a small, neat Egyptian from Luxor. Omar was the only one of his fellow students who knew that his flat mate came from Iraq. Rashid’s application for a place at the university had been completed through his uncle, his mother’s brother who lived in Amman and he had declared himself to be a citizen of Jordan. While there was no overt prejudice against Iraq amongst his mostly apolitical fellow students, if he was ever asked about his family he said that his mother was from Amman and that his uncle ran a car dealership in the city, which was all perfectly true. He did not mention the fact that his father was a translator who worked for the Foreign Affairs department of the Iraqi government. Rashid never talked about his father to his fellow students, and he knew that they  assumed he must be deceased or that Rashid had been born out of wedlock, which caused him some distress.

Eighteen months ago when the twin towers had collapsed, he and Omar had withdrawn to their apartment, fearful of any backlash against their race or religion. But it was soon established that the perpetrators of the atrocity were Saudi Arabian citizens, and after a couple of days they had resumed their student life. Apart from some muttered comments, they had been relieved to find that there was no animosity directed at them personally and they had tried to avoid being drawn into discussions about the appalling act of terrorism and the scenes of tacit or open approval broadcast from some Middle East countries.

Now that Iraq was under threat of invasion from the American and British troops massing on its borders, he and Omar found that the pendulum of public opinion had swung back in favour of his country, or at least against the Prime Minister Tony Blair who had eagerly assisted the Americans with their plans for the imminent invasion. Today a protest march and rally was due to take place in London and it was expected to be one of the biggest that the capital had witnessed. Over the last few days he and Omar had been enjoying much support as they had encouraged their fellow students to take the coach ride to London with them. Rashid had even begun to regret that he had concealed his Iraqi citizenship, but it was too late to remedy that now. He heard Omar walk out of his room and turn on the television and he jumped out of bed too and joined him.