“I understand your father is a busy man and not especially trusting of government agents. But if I may appeal to him directly . . .”
“You may not.”
“Then please tell your father for me that I am on a special assignment for the president, who will be grateful to anyone who assists me.”
Qusay didn’t blink. “And if my father isn’t interested in the president’s gratitude? What then?”
“Please,” Mustafa said. “I make no threats, only a respectful request for help. If your father says no, I’ll leave and trouble him no further.”
“Just like that, eh?”
“Hey.” Mustafa waved a hand at the land outside the gate. “It’s a free country.”
It was the kind of really big house that seemed designed to make you remark, repeatedly, on how really big it was. The ungodly nature of the excess, the awful tackiness of the furnishings and décor that also begged for comment—those were perhaps less deliberate.
Baath-affiliated artists had been drafted into the decorating effort. The mansion’s grand reception hall featured a painting of Saddam and his wife Sajida dressed as heads of state of some antique kingdom (Babylon, judging by the ziggurats in the background). That portrait wasn’t so bad actually, but another, which cast Saddam as a knight of jihad defending Jerusalem against Richard the Lionheart, struck Mustafa as a bit much. And a third painting, showing Saddam as the Spartan King Leonidas holding the line against Xerxes’ Persians at Thermopylae—that had to be either a gag or a loyalty test: Look at this without snickering and you may have a future as a citizen of the Republic.
“This way,” Qusay said. He led Mustafa through an archway into a hall lined with statues. More historical figures, each carved or cast with the same mustached face: Saddam as Hammurabi the Lawgiver; Saddam as Gilgamesh; Saddam as Shalmaneser, as Sargon, as Sennacherib; Saddam as Ramesses the Great . . .
The hall ended in a circular domed chamber with one last statue at its center. This ultimate king stood seven meters tall, and sunlight streaming through windows in the dome made the monarch’s head glister like gold. But when Mustafa, unable to resist, gingerly rapped a knuckle on one of the royal feet, what he discovered was neither gold nor a mix of iron and clay, but the hollow ring of tin.
“Wait here,” Qusay said, leaving Mustafa in Nebuchadnezzar’s shadow. “My father will join you shortly.”
As Qusay’s footsteps faded into the distance, Mustafa heard a low droning sound. Following it to another archway, he gazed into a side room where a boy sat playing with a fleet of toy trucks. The boy was European or possibly American and looked about five years old. There was something forlorn about the way he pushed the same dump truck back and forth, making listless vroom-vroom noises.
A woman who sat minding the boy looked up at Mustafa looking in. Mustafa nodded to her, then turned to see the real-life king of the Republic coming up behind him.
The prosecutor at one of his trials had described Saddam Hussein as “a village thug in city clothes.” He was a big brute of a man, tall and thick, like the monument he longed to become. He swam laps daily to keep himself in shape and dyed his hair and mustache to hide his age. Informants said he had back trouble and often limped when out of the public eye. But there was no sign of that now—as he approached Mustafa he kept his stride confident and even, channeling whatever agony this cost him into an air of affable menace, like a cunning old lion strolling out to see what had wandered into his den.
“Welcome to my home!” Saddam said. As he reached out to shake, his sleeve pulled back to reveal an old gang tattoo on the back of his wrist. His grip was strong and he squeezed Mustafa’s hand to the point where it almost became painful, sizing him up as he did so. Mustafa, still too giddy to feel fear, did his own counter-assessment and decided that the way to play this was to be respectful but straightforward.
“Mustafa al Baghdadi,” Mustafa said. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“It’s my pleasure to be of service. I trust I need no introduction, but in answer to your next question, you should feel free to refer to me as either Saddam, or Uncle. Many of my union brothers prefer the latter.”
“ ‘Uncle’ would be awkward for me, I’m afraid. I’m not a member of Baath.”
“But you are an Iraqi,” Saddam said. “I consider all Iraqis honorary Baathists.”
“Yes, well,” said Mustafa, “as I suspect you’ve already been told, I’m also a former Halal agent who spent nine years trying to bust you. So you really shouldn’t do me that particular honor.”
“Ah, Halal.” Saddam smiled. “An amusing organization . . . Did we ever meet, during those nine years? You look familiar to me.”
“I attended a couple of your trials,” Mustafa told him. “And I was part of the team that executed the search warrant against the Hakum factory. I tried to speak to you on that occasion but your lawyers wouldn’t allow it.”
“A pity. I could have told you you were wasting your time. But I suppose you found that out on your own.”
“We surely did.” The Hakum Seltzer-Water bottling plant, located outside the city of Musayyib, had been identified by several trusted informants as a secret distillery producing thousands of liters of hard liquor, but a two-day search had failed to turn up so much as a drop of alcohol. The incident had been a major embarrassment for Halal, and a lawsuit by the plant’s management had resulted in the firing of one of Mustafa’s superiors.
“And now you work for Homeland Security,” Saddam said. “A much more satisfying career, I’m sure . . . And my son tells me you’re working for the president?”
Mustafa nodded. “A special assignment.”
“And you need my help?” Saddam raised his eyebrows, as if amazed that a humble palace-owner such as himself could have anything to offer.
“I believe you can assist my investigation, yes.”
“Then I shall be glad to. Come, let’s go to my office.”
“If I may ask . . . ,” Mustafa said.
“Yes?”
“That boy in there. Who is he?”
“His name is Stuart. He’s the son of an Englishman I’m doing some business with. He’s staying with me until the deal is completed, to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
Mustafa blinked. “The boy is your hostage?”
“My honored guest,” Saddam Hussein said. “Don’t worry, he’s being looked after. He’s getting his milk.” He paused, and a shadow of uncertainty crossed his face. “You there!” he called, to the woman minding the boy. “Is he getting his milk?”
“Yes, Saddam!” the woman replied.
“There, you see?” Saddam said to Mustafa. “He’s getting his milk. Nothing to worry about!”
Saddam’s office resembled a war room, with wall maps of Baghdad and other Iraqi cities, each map decorated with a constellation of pushpins. “Would you like to take some cell phone pictures?” Saddam asked, noting Mustafa’s interest in these. “I’m sure your old Halal colleagues would be fascinated.”
“They would,” Mustafa said. “But I’m not here for that.”
“Good. Very good.” Saddam opened a drawer in his desk and brought out two glass tumblers and a bottle. “You like whiskey? I know it’s early . . .”
“Ah, no thank you.”
“I insist. Before we talk business, you must have a drink with me.”
“I really can’t,” Mustafa said.
“Of course you can. Halal agents drink all the time, ex-Halal agents all the more so . . .”
“I’m a Muslim.”
Saddam chuckled. “So am I!” he said. “I’m not a saint, though, and I don’t trust men who act as though they are.” He poured a finger of whiskey into each tumbler and pushed one across the desk. “Come. Share a small sin with me, so I can relax. God will forgive you.”
The whiskey was bitter on Mustafa’s tongue and it made his eyes water, which Saddam found funny. “That’s good stuff. You should appreciate it!”