The words were swept away in the steady wind. He heard only the wind and the waves. The lights twinkled back at him.
Chapter Three
Baghdad
No blindfold.
That’s the way he wanted it, and they had granted him that much. The Guardsmen would have to look him in the eye. Observe him watching them over the sights of their carbines. Colonel Jabbar would not cringe or beg or weep. He would not grant them the privilege of seeing a professional officer disgrace himself.
At least he had the pleasure of knowing the President was enraged. According to his interrogator and former colleague, Major General Zirun, the President had had such a tantrum when he was informed about the death of his nephew, he ordered the executions not only of Colonel Jabbar but of the base commander, the wing commander, and each of the lowly GCI controllers who had failed to save Saddam’s nephew from the American murderers. Saddam wanted everyone associated with the death of Al-Fariz consigned to Allah.
Jabbar wished he could have witnessed the tantrum. Saddam’s fits, it was reported, could reach such intensity that he would be transformed to a seething, spittle-dripping maniac. His fury was so towering that he sometimes dispensed with formal death sentences and immediately executed offenders with his own automatic pistol.
Of course, it had all been very predictable. Even before he entered the interrogation room, Jabbar knew he was a dead man. The irony was, he might have saved himself. Somewhere over the desert he could have ejected from the MiG instead of delivering it safely back to Al-Taqqadum. He might have been able to escape, shed his identity, blend into the peasant population of Iraq. He could have fled to Turkey.
But that was not Colonel Jabbar’s style. He was not a peasant, not an unwashed goat herder like these ignorant Guardsmen who were gazing at him over their Simonov carbines. Despite his country’s misguided leadership, Jabbar had always considered himself a loyal warrior. For his country’s cause, right or wrong, he had killed many men and had risked being killed. Death did not frighten him.
The six riflemen of the firing squad faced him from ten meters away. A Republican Guard captain, wearing his dress blue tunic with a holstered pistol on his belt, barked an order. Jabbar saw the riflemen work the slide actions of the carbines, heard the metallic clack! as the 7.62 rounds rammed into the chambers.
Another order from the captain. All six open muzzles were trained on Jabbar.
Where? he wondered. His chest? His heart? His face? Would he see muzzle flashes? Would he experience a nanosecond of terror — or exhilaration — before the lead projectiles shattered his body?
I must not blink, Jabbar told himself. He would leave with his dignity intact. He would die like a soldier.
Another barked order. Jabbar tensed his body… Do not blink!… The bullets would arrive before the sound… look for the muzzle flashes…
More barked orders. Jabbar tensed even more, his breath held tightly in his chest.
Something was happening. Another Republican Guard officer — a major, perhaps a colonel — was shouting at the captain. The captain was arguing with him.
Jabbar kept his eyes fixed on the firing squad. The carbines were lowering. The soldiers glanced at each other, at the captain, at Jabbar. They looked confused.
The officer — Jabbar could see now that he was a colonel of the Republican Guard — was walking toward him. The captain was shouting something to the firing squad.
Jabbar heard a succession of metallic clacks! The Guardsmen were unloading their weapons. Colonel Jabbar resumed breathing.
Chris Tyrwhitt tossed down his Scotch and gazed around the bar. The big walnut-paneled lounge was empty. No Lufthansa or Swiss Air or Sabena flight attendants. No European secretaries finished with work and out for a drink. Not even the semi-professional pick ups that used to hang out here at the Rasheed Hotel bar.
It should have been cocktail hour, but the place was deserted except for a couple of safari-suited Iraqi bureaucrats and a cluster of East European types who were drunk and arguing in a language Tyrwhitt couldn’t understand.
“This is a fucking bore,” he declared.
“A sign of the times, mate,” said Baxter, the BBC correspondent. Baxter was Tyrwhitt’s only drinking companion these days. “They lost a war, they can’t sell their oil, and nobody with half a brain wants to come to Baghdad. The only reason you and I are here is cover the next war.”
“What war? This country is so poor it couldn’t attack Ethiopia.”
“Don’t believe it,” said Baxter. “Uncle Whiskers is always good for a few surprises.” “Uncle Whiskers” was Baxter’s name for the President of Iraq.
Tyrwhitt, being an Australian, made a habit of disregarding Brits like Baxter, especially when they rambled on like this. Baxter liked to pose as an expert on Saddam’s hidden weapons. Tyrwhitt and Baxter were among the few reporters left in Baghdad, and the subject of Saddam’s invisible weapons was about the only item of bar conversation they had left. Did Saddam have them or not? If he did, what would he do with them? If he didn’t, why didn’t he just comply with the UN resolutions and get the sanctions lifted?
In any case, Tyrwhitt was bored with the whole subject. He yawned and stared blearily at his image in the mirror over the bar. “You know something, Baxter? You’re full of shit. The only surprise Saddam has is which poor bugger on his staff he will execute next.”
Baxter waited until the bartender walked down the bar to where the East European contingent was still arguing. “What I’m hearing is that he’s cranking up the big weapons. He’s gone berserk about that MiG he lost last week.”
“One worn-out Russian MiG? Why would he care? You’re getting desperate, Baxter. When you don’t have a story, you invent one.”
“Not the MiG. The pilot. He was Saddam’s nephew.”
“Which means one less family member he has to provide with a palace,” said Tyrwhitt. “Two more Scotches, Efraim,” he yelled down the bar. “Your problem, Baxter, is you’re not drunk enough. You have to be drunk to understand that nothing in Baghdad makes any difference. Nothing matters and nobody gives a stuff.”
“How can you call yourself a reporter, Tyrwhitt? You don’t care about anything except drinking.”
“That’s an absolute lie,” said Tyrwhitt. “I also care about fornicating. Trouble is, here in Baghdad both activities are exorbitantly expensive and inferior in quality.”
They had another round. And then several more rounds. Tyrwhitt observed that he was right about the Scotch. It wasn’t good, nor was it cheap, even in nearly worthless Iraqi dinars. But the Rasheed Hotel was one of the few establishments in Baghdad where you could still obtain whiskey. In the old pre-war days, it was a place where you could pick up European women. No more. A grimness seemed to have settled over the Rasheed, just as it had over all of Baghdad. No airline flight attendants were showing up, no secretaries, no women of any ilk.
Tyrwhitt felt depressed. Perhaps, he thought, he should go back up to his room and try calling Claire. She was on assignment in Dubai, probably checked into the Hilton. At times like this, he missed her caustic wit, her laugh, even the flashing-eyed fury when he drank too much or flirted too much or came home a day too late. In his mind he could see her long, trim legs, the little freckles on her breasts, the way her auburn hair splayed on the pillow when they made love.
Forget it, mate, he told himself. She’d hang up, just like last time when he rang her in — where? — Tel Aviv? He couldn’t blame her, really. But still, maybe he would try —