The Godless One Read online

  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 wh
y 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.

  But for Abdul Rahman, it was on the road from Kuwait City that Ghaith had proved himself, when the young lieutenant freed him from the burning wreck of a BTR armored transporter. The men who had been riding in the back of the open-roof vehicle were scattered like soggy rags when they were hit. Lieutenant Ibrahim got blood and gore on his boots as he ran to assist, while continuing to shout orders at panicked soldiers.

  "Get back to your gun!" he bellowed at two terrified conscripts running for the illusory safety of the adjoining field. Frightened soldiers, especially miserable draftees, are famously immune to authority. Yet even as the fire grew closer, Abdul Rahman took note of the way this pair stopped, stared wide-eyed but not blindly at Ghaith, and then returned to their abandoned weapon. It was something of a minor miracle.

  When the missile struck the BTR the center console had split. The gear tunnel flamed open and the gear stick and metal flanging around it had weirdly wrapped around Abdul Rahman's leg, for all the world like a vise created specifically for the purpose of trapping hapless corporals.

  "No! No!" Abdul Rahman screamed when the lieutenant abruptly disappeared. Weeping, his agony growing, he did not register the Apache firing rockets not fifty meters ahead, whipping thousands of jagged shards into a chaotic froth. The column was already practically destroyed. Enemy aircraft on the horizon were lined up in a holding pattern as if at a busy airport, waiting in turn to unload their ordnance upon the soldiers and civilians on the road. It was raw murder.

  "Oh!"

  The lieutenant was back, this time bearing a crowbar he had retrieved from the roadside. He jammed it past Abdul Rahman’s leg into a gap in the twisted metal and began worrying it open. Suddenly, a Lion of Babylon behind them blew. The lieutenant was thrown forward by the pressure wave, then turned to look. The tank's commander had seen the HEAT round being fired and ordered his crew out. They were halfway through the hatches when it hit. Their screams were cut short when the unprotected propellant magazine exploded and they were caught in a 2000 degree flame jet that turned them like gory swivel sticks until they were perfectly roasted.

  When the lieutenant turned back to him, Abdul Rahman noted a surprised look on his face. He was not accustomed to terror.

  "There is none worthy of worship but Allah! There is none worthy of worship but Allah! There is none worthy of worship but Allah!"

  This was the prayer Abdul Rahman tried to stitch into comprehensible words. But for the most part he could only scream "Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!" as the flames scoured his face.

  There was a metallic crack as Ghaith finally managed to pry open the gear box and grabbed the burning NCO by the arm. Out he came, screaming to God as the lieutenant beat at the flames, though whether it was a blessing or a curse it was impossible to say.

  Ghaith fell on top of him as the dirt was churned by a Gatling burst of 30mm from a plane overhead. Both of them laughed madly, knowing full well that any depleted uranium shell that struck the lieutenant would zip through them both and bury itself in the ground.

  Then Ghaith was up, dragging the screaming corporal a few yards, then hefting him into his strong arms and racing away from the column. Falling into a shell hole, he dropped Abdul Rahman hard, ignoring his howls of agony as he fought to catch his own breath. Before the injured soldier could piece the frenzied images around him into a recognizable pattern, the lieutenant was up again, racing towards a Chinese-made armored personnel carrier and the two men he had ordered back to their weapon, shouting something that Abdul Rahman could not understand. Above them, an A-10 had appeared magically out of the smoke. Abdul Rahman could hear the 12.7mm bullets from the APC’s machine gun peppering the bottom of the Warthog—and peppering was the right word, for all the effect the bullets were having. Suddenly the sky opened up and the men below the plane were shredded by armor-piercing shells like beef haunches pulled for a barbecue. The lieutenant gave a brief shout of anger, the only sympathy for the soldiers he had condemned to death that he would be allowed before the Warthog drifted his way and he flung himself to the ground.

  It was at that moment (though neither man knew this until Ghaith visited Abdul Rahman in the hospital a week later) that both men had a brief image of an American movie they had seen as children, George Pal’s vision of a Martian invasion. The aliens were every bit as invulnerable under their protective forcefields as the Warthogs were in their titanium armor….

  "War of the Worlds?"

  Abdul Rahman jumped at thes
e words from Ghaith, which shocked him back to the present, outside Ghaith’s house in al-Masbah.

  "You shouldn’t allow your hands to shake," Ghaith continued. "It doesn’t look good in front of the men. Calm yourself. Only Americans suffer from post traumatic stress syndrome."

  Abdul Rahman gave a small lurch, suddenly aware of the uncharacteristically broad windows of the houses on this block, of the potential to draw the attention of prying eyes.

  "I’m glad you didn’t bring your men along with you to my house," Ghaith said.

  "Yes," Abdul Rahman answered, pulling himself up.

  "Listen…not a hundred Highway 80’s, not a hundred Causeways can keep us down."

  Abdul Rahman wondered if the colonel was pulling his leg. The Highway of Death and the Battle of Rumaila at the Lake Hammar Causeway had virtually eliminated the men and armor of the Hammurabi Division in a sordid swelter of human and mechanistic gore. If this was supposed to be a pep talk, the examples were grossly inappropriate.

  Ghaith patted him on the shoulder. "I don’t want my neighbors to become anxious about my very…existence."

  "Yes. Let’s go."

  "I’m surprised you don’t have a driver," Ghaith commented as they got into the Audi.

  "I wanted to talk to you…alone."

  The colonel gave him another long look as he pulled away from the curb. "I can see you have something pressing on your mind. Besides sending a mass murderer to Jahannam, I mean."

  Despair leaked from Abdul Rahman like a toxic cloud as he drove towards Aqba Bin Nafi Square.

  "What have you heard?" Ghaith asked solicitously, as though Abdul Rahman was a student driver taking his first spin around the neighborhood.

  "I can’t let this happen." Abdul Rahman was breathing hard. His hands seemed to stumble on the wheel. "I owe you my life."