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.’