The Godless One

THE GODLESS ONE

by

J. Clayton Rogers

Smashwords
Edition

Copyright 2013

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter
Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

THE GODLESS ONE

PROLOGUE

Baghdad – August 16,
2002:

The convoy crossed the
Tigris River and pierced al-Jadriyah from the west. To an outsider,
it would have looked like any other collection of upscale cars
strung out on a well-maintained boulevard. But residents instantly
took heed. Stalwart Ba’athists and friends of the Boss smiled
grimly at the notion of another no-good getting his due. Others
were more circumspect. Strollers on tree-lined Masbah Street froze
as if they had seen the Medusa. Refugee Palestinian groundskeepers
offered up silent prayers and sidled away from the road. Others,
less religious (al-Masbah
was
fashionable, after all) cursed lowly and carried
their tilting hearts indoors. On Muasker al-Rashid Street,
regardless of class or distinction, BMWs and servant-owned
rattletraps swerved out of the way without really knowing
why.

Could it be the style of driving? But
Baghdad was full of brash, assertive drivers.

Could it be the way the men in the
convoy dressed? But they weren’t in uniform. They looked, in fact,
as if they had just gone shopping at some of the district’s more
tony clothing boutiques. Glancing into their rearview mirrors,
nervous drivers would have seen the lone man in the lead car
dressed in a Turkish suit from the Lord Fashion store in Arasat
al-Hindiyah. But while local fashion esthetic was well-attuned to
current trends, they would have been puzzled (had they been able to
see them) by the sporty camel leather ECCO's.

Could it have been the worn look in the
men’s faces, unvarying in its grimness? But everyone looked dour
these days, what with America beating the war drums again and the
whole world obsessing about Iraq’s alleged weapons of mass
destruction. There was little evidence of the embargo here, but
just a little bit up the road, not far at all, children were
starving. The West had told Saddam: ‘You’re an overwrought
blowhard, and to punish your behavior we’re going to starve all of
your children. That’ll show you!’ It made a certain kind of sense,
in some circles. A half million had died, and while Oil for Food
had been in place for some time, to say it was too little, too late
was a belittling cliché. Even the fat and fanciful could not escape
a little tightness around the lips, a glint of death in the eye.
That the men in the convoy wore that same look was only to be
expected.

No, it was instinct, pure and simple,
that caused so many residents to take alarm. They could not prove
anything; they could not point at the strangers with approval or
vilification. Yet they somehow knew that within this convoy were
some of the most dangerous men in Iraq. But no…they did not want to
know. So that, in the end, even the Boss’s friends turned away. It
was not always true that safety lay in ignorance, but in this case
knowing would certainly mean dying.

At Aqba Bin Nafi Square the first car
made a right while the others pulled to the side and waited. The
black Audi looked for all the world like an inconsequential beetle
to the reconnaissance satellites American IMINT experts were using
in their frantic search for WMDs.

Well-appointed flats gave way to a
secluded neighborhood of western style houses. Here and there
policemen on patrol nodded in the Audi’s direction. Though they
looked official (and natty) in their dark blue pants, powder blue
blouses and brassards, they were tacitly admitting that, whatever
was at hand, it was none of their business.

Approaching a house with a broad
picture window, the Audi turned onto the adjoining street and
pulled to the curb. The house’s walls extended to an enclosed
garden. The driver could see the top of a tamarind tree. The iron
wrought gate swung open and a tall, well-dressed man emerged. The
spitting image of the late Gamal Abdel Nasser, dark complexion,
pencil moustache and all. He sauntered with athletic grace to the
idling car. When he saw the driver, he broke out a grin of perfect
white teeth.

"Abdul Rahman!"

The driver got out and the men
embraced.

"Assalam
alaikum."

"Valaikum-salam."

But the man from the house immediately
sensed Abdul Rahman’s reserve and pulled back, keeping his hands on
the other’s shoulders and looking closely. The burns on the right
side of Abdul Rahman’s face were still vivid, as though he had been
mauled by a tiger with a hundred claws. Abdul Rahman realized the
scrutiny was not intended as rudeness, but as the deep concern of a
friend.

"It’s healed as much as it ever will,
sir," Abdul Rahman said ruefully.

"Let’s drop any mention of rank," said
Abu Karim Ghaith Ibrahim as he shifted his eyes comically up and
down the street. "This is supposed to be hush-hush. Am I
right?"

"With all the trimmings," said Abdul
Rahman. "I have thirty men waiting for me up the road."

"From…?"

"Office 8."

Ghaith puffed out his
cheeks and whistled lowly. Office 8 was the assassination unit of
the
Mukhabarat
,
Iraq’s secret service. It was not unknown for them to become
involved in internal matters, though their main focus was
international. Still, to send thirty trained killers after a single
target in Baghdad was impressive.

"Let me guess," said Ghaith, letting go
of the other man and assuming a professorial stance. "You’re in my
neighborhood, with your men at the ready, which leads me to suspect
the target is nearby. One of my charming neighbors, no doubt. To
come in such numbers means the target is well-protected. Which
means we must be discussing the ever-popular Sabri Khalil
al-Banna."

"I wish you would take this more
seriously, Abu Karim," said Abdul Rahman. "And Palestine Street
really isn't your neighborhood." Then he winced. He had been
tricked. And so easily!

"Glibness is an inherited trait,"
Ghaith shrugged. "There’s not much I can do about it."

"I don’t recall ever hearing about your
father being ‘glib’, sir…uh…"

"
Baba
was the funniest man I ever
knew," said Ghaith, and raised his eyes thoughtfully. "I guess the
SSO wants me to go along to make sure you chaps don’t flatten the
whole city. And this really does involve my district, where my wife
and children live…" He glanced back at the house. "Abu Nidal is
less than mile from here."

The
Al-Amn al-Khas
, or SSO, was the most
powerful security organization in the country. Up to a year ago it
had been led by Saddam Hussein’s second son, the relatively sane
one. The agency had since been reassigned to the Governor of Basra,
Walid Hamid Tawfiq. It was not unusual for the
Mukhabarat
and SSO to share the same
breathing space. More than once Ghaith had been seconded to one or
another of the
Mukhabarat’s
bureaus because of his talent for languages—among
other things. But nor was it unusual for the two organizations to
play their cards close. Up to the moment he received this morning’s
call, Ghaith had had no inkling that this major operation,
practically on his doorstep, was in the making.

Abdul Rahman roughed out a wad of
phlegm at the back of his throat as he attempted to become
officious, while remaining deferential. "The target is Sabri Khalil
al-Banna…"

"But his
nom de guerre
—"

"Abu Nidal is an international
terrorist and the Boss says we do not harbor
terrorists."

Ghaith hesitated, smiled
and nodded. To Abdul Rahman’s surprise, that smile broadened, and
Ghaith’s eyes began to radiate…was that
joy
?

"You seem very happy about
this."

"And why not?" Ghaith said cheerily.
"Think of all the things we do for the ‘sacred security of the
nation’."

"Abu Karim—"

"And finally we get a job
that’s
decent
.
This piece of shit should have been dealt with long
ago."

How in God’s name had Ghaith risen so
high in the ranks? Abdul Rahman wondered. He was certainly not a
part of the Tikriti clan. True, the few times he had seen him since
that day on the highway from Kuwait his talk had been more guarded.
But it was not that long ago that a hidden microphone had picked up
a general’s mild remarks about Saddam Hussein’s ancestry. He had
been at home in bed with his wife when he spoke. No matter. Special
Security had picked him up, as well as his wife and children and a
host of relatives. They had been taken to the infamous Palace of
Dreams, where they were all tortured and executed. Had Ghaith been
involved in the arrests? He certainly would know about them. He of
all men should understand the risks posed by loose talk. Of course,
he could present a theoretical defense, saying he meant ‘decent’ as
opposed to swabbing toilets, or ‘decent’ as meaning a job worthy of
his talents. But no one would believe him, least of all the
torturers of Abu Ghraib.

Does he really trust
me
? Abdul Rahman thought.
He can’t be playing the fool. Could he be testing
me? Or does he really think what happened on that road makes me
worthy of trust? That he can place his life in my hands? You are
weak, my friend. But…so am I.

Ghaith suddenly looked wary. He glanced
at the house across the street. "We’d better get going."

"But you aren’t armed!"

"I should be? I got the call from the
director himself. I’m only going to observe. Your chaps can handle
a few guards and an old man. He’s sixty-five now, isn’t
he?"

"You heard that? Only a ‘few
guards’?"

"How many are there, then?" Ghaith
asked, alerted to something awry. "Isn't the house under
surveillance?"

To Ghaith's surprise, Abdul Rahman did
not answer.

"Ah…looks like your organization is
singularly ill-informed…" Yet the twinkle in Ghaith’s eyes did not
fade. He was still looking forward to the encounter with the
founder of the Revolutionary Council of Fatah, once ranked as the
most dangerous man in the world, responsible for at least 900
murders. He had been replaced on the ‘Most Wanted’ lists by that
Saudi character, Osama bin Laden.

"We’re going after a man
who starts
wars
."

Ghaith nodded somberly, fully aware
that Abdul Rahman was referring to the 1982 Israeli invasion of
Lebanon, triggered by the ANO’s assassination of the Israeli
ambassador to the U.K. But Shlomo Argov had gotten off easily. He
had only been shot in the head. Others had gotten off just as
easily. The victims at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport and
Vienna Airport had, in most cases, not even known what hit them. It
was Abu Nidal’s own people—and Arafat’s—who truly suffered,
although the passengers of Pan Am Flight 73 had endured their share
of horror. The ANO was purged regularly, with 600 killed in one
year alone. Many had been tortured. Ghaith knew the details…and
grinned. "That doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun."

"You’re insane!" Abdul Rahman exclaimed
angrily.

"God wills it," Ghaith chuckled. "I’ll
enjoy watching the show, so long as you don’t get your head blown
off…again."

Abdul Rahman knew Ghaith was no mere
translator, although his multilingualism had proved most useful
during the Kuwait invasion, when he had been one of the
intermediaries between Iraq’s occupying forces and the foreign
noncombatants stranded behind the lines—Saddam Hussein’s notorious
hostages.