Now, however, the relationship between Baddour and the man who had replaced Hussein, Anwar Abbasin, was strained. Following Hussein’s replacement, Baddour had experienced a series of bitter recriminations, official censure, and a subsequent reassignment to the area to the north. The days of glamor and prestige associated with being on the president’s military council and being referred to as one of Abbasin’s chief military advisors were over.
The chasm between the two men had had its beginning when Hussein, with Iraqi loses mounting in the closing hours of the Gulf War, had rescinded Baddour’s orders to use chemical weapons on the advancing imperialists. That decision, Baddour was convinced, had led to his country’s overwhelming defeat. When that happened, the disgruntled Baddour had rebelled, openly criticized his president, and ultimately fallen out of favor. Only Baddour’s popularity with his men, and Hussein’s fear of open rebellion within his own army, had kept the president from taking more drastic measures. Now there was Abbasin to contend with. If Allah chose to smile on him, Baddour would, he vowed, someday liberate his country.
On this occasion, Baddour, who usually dined in his quarters, was dining by himself in the officers’ mess. He was in a reflective mood, but at the same time anticipating the inevitable knock at the door. The aging abd who had been his personal orderly for the past twenty years entered the room and bowed slightly.
“You sent for Dr. Zilkha Rashid, General?”
“Did Mrs. Rashid accompany him?” Baddour asked.
“She did not. General.”
Although Baddour was disappointed, he said, “Tell him to come in… and then bring us some mahalabiyya… with einab, of course.”
The old man left the room. Then Rashid entered and closed the door behind him. Baddour motioned the former academic to have a seat at the table. As usual, Rashid displayed the countenance of a man with many worries.
“You sent for me?”
Rashid asked.
“Indeed. I thought perhaps you might care to join me for some sweets, a little milk pudding, and grapes,” Baddour said.
“I know of no more delightful way to end the day. A day, I might add, during which I received a report detailing the effectiveness of our latest test.”
Rashid frowned, pushed his glasses up on his forehead, and rubbed his eyes.
“Most unfortunate,” he said with a sigh.
“I have read the report, and the conclusions by Colonel Rashid are premature.
Captain Nayef and his crew are military men, not men of science. To be absolutely certain we have maximized the weapon’s effectiveness, variations on this most recent formula must be further tested.” At that point Rashid paused, and Baddour knew what was coming next.
“I feel certain the general realizes that I am the only one on his staff truly qualified to judge the efficacious ness of any of the systems currently being tested.”
“You are the expert,” Baddour acknowledged.
“Then why am I not permitted to accompany the tests so that I may personally evaluate their…” Rashid’s voice trailed off as the abd entered the room with the mahalabiyya and einab. The old man placed the contents of the two bowls on the table in front of them, stepped back, and waited for further instructions. Baddour dismissed him with a curt wave of his hand.
“I fear that what you ask is not possible,” Baddour said, resuming the conversation.
“You know my distrust of helicopters. At best, they are unreliable beasts. And you, my colleague in treachery, are far, far too valuable for me to risk losing you.”
Rashid pushed aside Baddour’s compliment, picked up his bowl, and began to spoon the contents into his mouth.
“I will need at least another three months to test variations of the base ingredients,” he said.
“There will always be another test you could run, my friend,” Baddour said.
“I have never known an academic who could not find yet another reason to conduct yet another test. But the truth is, we do not have that long.” He pointed across the room at the large map of the city of Baghdad and one of the many bridges that connected Rusafah and Karkh.
“I have a vision of the day when every traveler who enters Al-Muthana airport is greeted with a banner proclaiming the name of Iraq’s new president. General Salih Baddour.
More time will only diminish that vision.”
Rashid knew it was pointless to continue the discussion, and changed the subject.
“Then we may assume your plan progresses?” he asked.
Baddour knew that it troubled the academic that he was not included in the general staff meetings where he believed such matters were discussed.
Instead of addressing Rashid’s question directly, Baddour stood up and straightened his tunic.
Standing well over six feet in height, he was an imposing figure.
“Yes, the plan, as you call it, progresses.” He walked across the room and opened the door for his colleague.
“You will know the details, my friend — all in due time.”
Rashid knew that Baddour’s oblique reference to his plan was intended to mitigate his concerns, but without further detail, it failed to achieve its purpose. Instead, the man who had developed a way for Salih Baddour to overcome the disparity in numbers between his own followers and those of Iraq’s president left the brief meeting knowing little more than he had when he had entered the room.
After Rashid’s departure, Baddour systematically closed the drapes, checked the duty roster for the name of the night’s security officer, turned off lights, and entered his quarters adjacent to the room where he had dined. Medina was waiting.
Baddour had given the woman the name Medina after learning that she hailed from the beautiful city north of Mecca where the Prophet Mohammad was said to have died. Naked, she languished in the middle of a large western-style bed, hugging the pillow and smiling at him.
“Perhaps you are too tired for such matters,” she teased.
Baddour’s dark features brightened. He moved toward the bed as he unbuttoned his tunic.
“You know the lion of Ammash better than that,” he said with a glower.
Medina rolled over, her copper-colored body illuminated by the glow of dozens of carefully arranged candles.
“Then you must show me,” she said.
Even as infrequently as they met, Bogner knew the protocol. He was expected to arrive early; find a secluded table, preferably one that would allow Joy to make a grand entrance; order the drinks, Scoresby straight up for her. Black and White with water for him; and dutifully await her arrival.
Joy considered punctuality on her part to mean anything from the designated time of arrival to thirty minutes late.
Bogner smiled, amused by the fact his former wife would be disappointed by the small number of people dotting the dining room. Only a handful or so would view her entrance. Nevertheless, he had done his part. The waiter brought the drinks and hovered over the table until Bogner nodded approval. When he did, the man disappeared. Moments later, she was there, smiling, dazzling, and looking every bit the part of a television celebrity.
Knowing Joy, Bogner figured she had even rehearsed her opening lines.
“Now, aren’t you glad you called me?” she said.
“I wore this just for you.”
It was a simple black dress, but the effect was devastating. Every one of Joy’s considerable female charms was accentuated.
“You look good,” Bogner admitted.