The Godless One Read online

  "What is it you can’t allow to happen?" Ghaith asked calmly.

  Abdul Rahman didn’t answer.

  "Let me guess," said Ghaith. "I’ve angered someone."

  "It seems so," Abdul Rahman admitted, knuckles white.

  "Do you know who it is?"

  "No."

  "Then let me offer another guess. I think I have angered the illustrious, lunatic elder son of our illustrious Boss."

  Abdul Rahman cried out and pulled off to the side of the road, almost whimpering.

  "Want to know why Uday is pissed off with me?" Ghaith asked.

  "No!"

  "Then I’ll tell you. It’s just as well that you enter this with open eyes. Uday took a fancy to the daughter of an engineer who was working on the Sa'd Project. Those Germans know their poison gas."

  "Stop!"

  "Information is everything, Abdul Rahman. Listen to me. Some day, information will save your life and the lives of your wife and children."

  Abdul Rahman lowered his head to the steering wheel. "La elaha ella allah—"

  "Stop puling. 'Beware the levelheaded when they are angry'."

  Raising his head, Abdul Rahman saw Ghaith's eyes darkening and cut short his prayer.

  "We’re both in a mess and the only way out is to think straight…or not think at all, which I don’t think is possible."

  "This German girl…" Abdul Rahman ventured timorously.

  "Someone came into my office last month and told me straight up that Uday wanted this girl for his…entertainment. That could only mean he wanted her for his Palace of Dreams."

  "But that’s impossible! If he kidnapped her and the Germans traced her—"

  "Exactly. As if the country wasn’t in enough of a fix. Obviously, no one wanted the job, which is why it trickled down to my desk."

  "What did you do?"

  "I obliged."

  Abdul Rahman hissed a protest. "Do you know what they do in that place?"

  "I’ve had hints, which is why I feel sorry for that German shepherd I gave him, even though she was one mean bitch."

  It should have been funny. Ghaith, at least, laughed, though at the price of seeming gauche for laughing at his own joke. But Abdul Rahman’s face dropped with horror. Uday Hussein was not one to take practical jokes in stride. At a party being held for the wife of the President of Egypt, Hosni Mubarak, Uday had murdered his father’s personal valet with an electric carving knife in front of the horrified guests. That was his idea of funny. He proudly referred to himself as Abu Sarhan…’the wolf’.

  "Colonel…Abu Karim…" Abdul Rahman despaired, feeling his treachery branching into his conscience. "Your family…"

  "My wife has so many connections in the Babylonian Palace that I bow to her every night. No one will bother her or my boys."

  "And you?"

  Ghaith drew a cigarette from a pack of Winstons. There was a kind of rivalry in the military concerning American tobacco—as opposed to the cheap local DJ’s. Abdul Rahman forced a small smile and took out a pack of Marlboros. Ghaith nodded, not in defeat, but in acknowledgement of a worthy adversary.

  "What is the plan for me?" asked Ghaith, blowing smoke.

  "The operation that you’re supposed to observe?"

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "You’re going to lead it."

  "Ah."

  "After Abu Nidal and his men kill you…"

  "INTERNATIONAL TERRORIST HIDING IN BAGHDAD SLAIN AFTER MURDERING IRAQI ARMY COLONEL," said Ghaith, quoting an imaginary headline.

  "Something like that," Abdul Rahman admitted tightly. He began driving again. As he turned right at Aqba Bin Nafi Square the waiting convoy fell in behind him. Ghaith caught a glimpse of a face through one of the driver windows.

  "Omar Pachachi. Good man. But wait, wasn’t he involved in that attempt to assassinate Bush the Elder? Can he shoot straight?"

  "Please don‘t joke," said Abdul Rahman. "It’s difficult…"

  "It would be an inconvenient world if victims knew in advance that they were going to be victimized." Ghaith pondered his own words for a moment. "I might be wrong, though. It might be the rule." Approaching Mohamed al-Qasim Expressway he noted a man watching the convoy with open dismay before scurrying out of sight. "No one needs to know, because it wouldn’t matter if they did." He turned back to Abdul Rahman. "I could always refuse to go in. What then? Are you supposed to shoot me and plant my body in the on the premises after you’re done with that ANO cretin?"

  Abdul Rahman tapped his horn to convince a driver ahead of the urgent need to get out of the way. And that was all it took: a tap. The car swerved and nearly ran over several pedestrians.

  "Colonel…you saved my life."

  "I like how you keep reminding me. It reassures me that you haven’t forgotten." He sighed. "But it’s beginning to look as if all I rescued from the war of the worlds was the empty shell of a man."

  "I’m deeply grateful," Abdul Rahman said stiffly. "But you’ve offended Uday Hussein."

  "True," Ghaith nodded. "You shouldn’t fuck with a man who has survived eight bullet wounds." The assassination attempt on Uday had been made in 1996. One of the bullets could not be removed because it was too close to the spine.

  "There’s no way to save yourself…or your family…if we don’t go through with this."

  "Nor your family, I would imagine," said Ghaith with horrifying complacency. "At least one of the chaps in your convoy will be a plant from who knows what bureau. Thirty men, right? I’d say one spy in thirty is average for a mission of this size. But with this group, you never know. I dare say one of them has been ordered to shoot the first one of us who balks. Maybe both of us. And even if he doesn’t shoot us, he’ll report back—" He stopped when he noted tears on Abdul Rahman’s cheek. "You’re a soldier! Command yourself to stop, if you don‘t want me to."

  Abdul Rahman got a grip on himself and nodded.

  "If anyone will shed tears, it will be the SSO, once it finds out its toes have been stepped on."

  "But if it’s Uday behind this, as you say, no one at internal security will protest."

  "Do any of us know where our orders originate? No, not really." Ghaith stared out the window as they passed one of the dilapidated housing projects Saddam Hussein had let fall into disrepair once he decided there were more urgent matters to attend to than poor Shia. "I wonder what the Boss will say once he finds out about this. Don’t forget, Uday spent three months in prison after killing that man at the grand fête. I like to think I have more status than a valet."

  Abu Rahman, distracted by what he was hearing, found it difficult to negotiate the left at Maysaloon Square, onto Palestine Street. "You know him?"

  "Actually, not very well. Uh…better stop here. We don’t want Sabri Khalil’s men to see an army coming for them, do we? Just up this way. House Number 22."

  "How do you—" Abu Rahman bit his lip. Ghaith was toying with him. He pulled into a side road and the other cars fell in behind. He spoke into his radio and the drivers scattered to whatever parking space they could find. "I won’t let it happen, Colonel," Abdul Rahmal said earnestly. "I’ll post snipers. I’ll have men covering—"

  Ghaith said, "Look…"

  The white gate at House Number 22 had opened and a plump man carrying a basket in each hand sauntered out. He sat the baskets down. Immediately a group of children raced up to greet him. He began distributing apples, figs, grapes, mangoes.

  "Quite a gardener, and he gives most of his produce away to his neighbors." Abdul Rahmal watched the man throw back his head, joining in with the laughter of the children. "Hard to believe this is the guy who buried men alive with pipes down to their mouths so they could breathe and be given water. Once the Revolutionary Council passed the death sentence, he’d stick a gun in the open end and pull the trigger. And since he ran the Council, it was perfectly—" His throat constricted at ’legal’.

  "He’s put on weight since I last saw him," Ghaith observed. "Lost some off the top, too
."

  "When did you last see him?" asked a startled Abdul Rahman.

  "At the border when he came back to Iraq," Ghaith answered blandly. "I gave him his Yemeni passport. Fake, of course."

  A man wearing a thawb approached the gate and greeted Abu Nidal, who called out to someone beyond the wall. A moment later a servant emerged with another basket and held it up before the newcomer.

  "Fresh falafel," said Ghaith, a little dreamily.

  "And he makes a first-rate rice pudding, too," said Abdul Rahmal. "Since he left his wife and family behind in Jordan, he’s become an excellent chef. That man over there is Muyassar al-Katheli, his landlord."

  "Does he know…?"

  "You mean you don’t know?" Abdul Rahmal teased harshly. "No, he doesn’t have a clue. None of them around here do. They think he’s ‘Abu Ali’. Back on September 11, 2001, the Boss sent the police here. He was trying to find out if Abu Nidal had anything to do with the hijackings in America. As soon as he figured out it was bin Laden, the house arrest ended. Abu Nidal went around giving cakes to his neighbors and telling them he had requested police protection from a merchant who wanted to kill him for some reason or another."

  The baskets were emptied. The servant brought out more.

  "They say he’s sick," Abdul Rahmal continued. "Skin cancer. Even leukemia. I don’t see why we can’t just wait and let him drop dead."

  "That leukemia story came out years ago," Ghaith chuckled. "If it had been true, he would have been dead ten times over by now. So…"

  "Why does the Boss want him dead, now?" Abdul Rahmal shrugged. "Any number of reasons. They say he’s been working for the Saudis, the Jordanians, even the Americans."

  "Mossad?"

  "Like I said, the Americans."

  "I think the Boss is making a mistake if he’s doing this to get the Americans off his back," Ghaith said conversationally. "Those bastards are coming, no matter what. And they don’t want Abu Nidal dead. They want to find out how many ANO men are running around half-cocked in the States. Oliver North put an alarm system in his house to protect his family from this guy. He testified before Congress about it."

  "I don’t speculate about international diplomacy," said Abdul Rahman glumly.

  "No, the Mukhabarat just kills internationally."

  "You should know," Abul Rahman shot back. "You’ve worked for us enough times."

  Ghaith shrugged. "There he goes…"

  All of the baskets were now empty. The landlord and children departed and Abu Nidal turned back through the gate. Ghaith stepped out of the car.

  "You’re in a rush?" Abdul Rahmah asked, surprised.

  "We might as well get this over with."

  To Abdul Rahmah’s astonishment, the colonel had resumed his grin.

  "But my men aren’t in position!"

  "Hurry them along, then." He paused a moment, looking through the passenger window at Abdul Rahmah. The Mukhabarat agent wondered if he was going to ask for the loan of a gun. This would open his betrayal to the light of day. But Ghaith seemed to need no more evidence. With a twist of his lips, he stood and walked down the narrow street. As Ghaith passed through the line of parked cars, Abdul Rahman signaled to the Office 8 car nearest him. Omar Pachachi got out and ran over to the Audi, sliding into Ghaith’s vacated seat.

  "You want me to get the men ready?" he asked tentatively, leaving the door open. "You said you might…"

  "That was until I learned who was behind this," Abdul Rahman answered bitterly. "He’s been a fool. He offended—"

  Both men jumped when Ghaith suddenly reappeared next to the car.

  "Here," he said, tossing a wallet carelessly onto Omar‘s lap. The wallet bounced off Omar’s knee onto the floor of the car. "Ah! Samehni…" Omar tensed when Ghaith brushed against him as he reached down and retrieved the wallet. "Please take this to my wife, in case I meet the well-deserved fate of a foolish man."

  "Colonel," Abdul Rahman began.

  "I might trip over my own feet and break my neck, so please see that she gets this little memento. And give her my love."

  This surprised Abdul Rahman, as it would have surprised most other men with his background. In the land of Bait-al-taa (House of Obedience) men said little about love for their wives, especially after almost twenty years of marriage. If they mentioned love at all, which was not likely, they would send it to their fathers and sons, with perhaps a rhetorical peck to beloved members of their tribe, most particularly their tribal leader. This decadent farewell set Abdul Rahman aback. He could only conclude that it was an artifact of misplaced sentiment left over from some American movie Ghaith had seen as a child.

  "Don’t forget, Uday wants a corpse, not a hero. If I live, you're in the shit."

  "Colonel, I swear I will help—"

  "I see," smiled Ghaith, looking at the Office 8 men sitting immovable in their cars.

  "The price of failure is steep," said Abdul Rahman almost angrily.

  "And success is just as dangerous," said Ghaith.

  Both men fell silent and looked at Omar, as though sharing a ‘what-a-world’ moment. Then Ghaith made a farewell gesture that was vaguely insulting, almost as if he had held up his palm in front of Abdul Rahman’s face. Abdul Rahman felt like shooting him in the back as he walked away with so much confidence the trees lining the street seemed to genuflect. It was hard to mourn for the very man over whose fate he was weeping just minutes ago. And then it struck Abdul Rahman that the colonel was putting on a show to mask his terror. Certainly, it was an odd show, very unlike the usual boastful avowals of men striking out for the front, chastising dread and thanking Allah for the privilege of dying in His cause. But it was a show, nonetheless. Abdul Rahman sighed and withdrew his mental reservations. He had no choice in the matter, in any event.

  "Mmmm, fancy," said Omar, flitting through Ghaith‘s Moroccan leather wallet. "It's our job," he added in response to a dark glance from Abdul Rahman, though with a smirk that added: and isn't that a kick? He gave a sudden shout and pulled out an American Express card. "What the hell is he doing with this?"

  Abdul Rahmal’s grin vanished quickly when Omar sensed something amiss and grasped his side. His Tariq 9mm was gone.

  "He stole my gun! But that‘s impossible! I can‘t—it‘s impossible!"

  Abdul Rahmal gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward to look through the windshield. It was too late. The colonel had already gone through the gate. His head floated upwards behind the broad leaves of a fig tree as he ascended the steps to House Number 22.

  Ghaith assumed he had been under observation from the upper story ever since he passed through the line of parked cars. He would have been hidden temporarily by the wall surrounding the house, but once he opened the white gate he would be in clear view of all the front windows. There was no real point in trying to sneak up on the place. Nor was there time, not with two and a half dozen Office 8 assassins less than a block away, impatiently cooling their heels.

  So he did what any self-respecting citizen with nothing to hide would do: he knocked.

  The door began to inch open. This was good. He could use it as a weapon.

  He kicked it in. The guard tried to jump back but he was one step short of safety when Ghaith’s stiffened fingers buckled his windpipe. Ghaith grabbed him as he staggered and gathered him in as he pulled Omar’s gun from his waistband. It was up and pointed at the middle of three men as he twisted the injured guard like a top and locked him in his forearm. The man began to sag. Ghaith braced him up.

  "Hold it!" he shouted as the others raised their guns. One had a pistol, a Tariq just like the one in Ghaith’s hand. The other two had Kalashnikovs. They could have riddled him on the spot, but they were obviously concerned for the welfare of their compatriot.

  These were not the men Ghaith had been hoping to confront. Before coming to Iraq, Abu Nidal had spent some time in Libya and Egypt. It would have been normal for him to hire a few poor street thugs from the streets of Bengha
zi or Cairo as personal bodyguards. Young dimwits who would have been susceptible to a bribe. But these men were in IPS uniforms. Ordinary cops, but with better character.

  Perhaps.

  "There are thirty agents from Office 8 outside right now. I could probably kill all of you—that’s what I’ve been trained to do. But I’d rather talk. New! Inventive! But that’s the way I am."

  One of the men raised his rifle a little higher.

  "And even if I lose…I might, I’ll grant that…they’ll be coming for you."

  "Why should we worry about them?" the man with the pistol said. "Let go of Karim. Then we can talk."

  Karim. Ghaith’s son’s name. What an ironic world.

  Karim, in fact, was beginning to choke. Ghaith did not think he had dealt him a killing blow, but there was always room for error. He eased his forearm and the young man seemed to breathe more easily.

  "They’ve come for that Palestinian bug-eater," said Ghaith. "But why would they send an assassination team—and a large one, at that—if all they had to do is ask you boys to step aside and let them do their job? One or two would be enough to do finish off Abu Nidal, with or without your help. Thirty? That’s a big production."

  The three men ranked against him began to look doubtful.

  "Right," Ghaith continued. "You’re targets, too. And I bet I can guess why. You’re a bunch of fuck-ups, aren’t you? You pissed off your commander, and he punished you by giving you this shit assignment, guarding an old man. Did your gun accidentally discharge into someone’s foot? Did you fart in front of the Boss when his cavalcade went by? I wouldn’t be surprised if every one of you is Shia. They’d want to get rid of you for that, alone."

  Their furtive, exchanged glances told Ghaith he was on the right track. They had griped to each other about their missteps and unfair punishment. They knew they were flawed. And now they realized their flaws might be fatal.

  "The Boss wants to get rid of Abu Nidal because he’s a dangerous embarrassment. He wants to make a big show of it: gunfire, screaming, blood on the walls. The ANO won’t like it, but the West will ejaculate with glee. And if there are four dead cops on the scene, that will just prove how serious the Boss is about eliminating terrorism from this lovely country."