Khaldun was numbed by the scene. Through it all he had been forced to stand idly by while the young Kurd executed the remaining members of his patrol. It was, in Khaldun’s mind, an unthinking act of senseless slaughter.
Aman nodded, bolstered the Tokarev, and walked slowly toward Khaldun.
“I will make no apology for my brother’s judgment and his devotion to duty. Captain. Nor should you consider what you have just witnessed as — how shall I say it, barbaric? For us, killing a few Iraqis is a simple matter; for centuries we have been the ones who suffered abuse and extermination. Unfortunately for you and your men. Captain, centuries of being a people without a homeland combined with centuries of Iraqi oppression have made us the bitterest of enemies.”
Khaldun stared at his captor.
“If it is your intention to shoot me, Kurd pig, do it now.”
Aman laughed.
“You issue a most tempting invitation, Captain. I am certain any one of my men would welcome the opportunity and would derive a great deal of pleasure from the task. However”-he paused and studied the wreckage for a moment—“the decision is not mine to make. The matter has been taken out of my hands. Even a lowly Kurd like myself must follow orders. Our village is governed by wise elders who reason that an officer of-your rank may be far more valuable to us in other ways. In other words, you will undergo interrogation, and then”—Aman laughed-“you will be shot.”
“Pig!” Khaldun spat.
Husri Aman’s retaliation was swift. He caught the NIMF captain across the face with the back of his hand.
“Perhaps it is necessary to remind you, Captain, that you are in a most precarious position,” Aman said. A thin trickle of blood appeared at the corner of Khaldun’s mouth, and Aman stared at the NIMF captain for several moments.
“I could shoot you here and no one would be the wiser.”
Khaldun braced himself.
Instead Aman turned to Mahmud.
“Now we must finish the task, my brother. Do what you can to conceal their vehicle and bury the bodies. We do not want our enemies to think we are uncivilized.”
“But we can use the truck,” Mahmud protested, “the antiaircraft gun. We have nothing like it.”
“We will return for the truck later,” Aman assured him.
The small Kurd guerrilla band hurried to follow Aman’s orders while Aman tied Khaldun’s hands in front of him and circled around behind him. Then the NIMF captain watched Mahmud retrieve his automatic from his holster and examine it. The Kurd youth was proud of his new possession.
“You have a long journey ahead of you, pig,” Mahmud said with a laugh.
“Perhaps it will even be enough time to make your peace with Allah before I kill you.”
Aman spun Khaldun around and pushed him.
Behind them Khaldun could hear the sound of his men being buried.
Lattimere Spitz had placed hurried calls to both Clancy Packer and Peter Langley within minutes after his morning briefing with the President. He had scheduled their one o’clock meeting in a small unnamed room adjacent to the China Room on the ground floor of the White House.
Spitz had discovered the small room only three weeks after his fellow Texan, President David Colchin, had appointed him an ex-officio Presidential aide. Spitz, a confirmed workaholic and a man who seldom evidenced humor, claimed the room as his own and surprised everyone by tagging it The Closet. Then he went a step further; with
White House security’s assistance, he made certain few people beside the President knew where he was. When Lattimere Spitz wanted time to think or have a meeting without being interrupted, only a handful of people knew where he could be found.
Spitz preferred the arrangement because the room held few of the accoutrements one would have expected to find in a more formal White House office. There was the mandatory conference table, six chairs, a side table, two phones, a television monitor wired for cable and White House security, a clock, and a wet bar. Spitz himself had built the bar over an old mop basin. Spitz was also known to claim he was the only one in Washington beside the President who knew how to make a truly dry Texas martini.
Flanked by both Langley and Packer, Spitz began promptly at the top of the hour.
“I think both of you need to be aware, this dammed Ammash affair is beginning to take on a life of its own. The President himself brought it up twice in our meeting this morning. He’s concerned.”
“Before we go any farther, Lattimere, who all was in that meeting?” Packer asked.
“Just the three of us, the President, Bob Hurley, and I. To the best of my knowledge, no one else around here knows how hot an issue this has become.”
“No one except the press and half the damn country,” Langley grunted.
“Hell, I heard someone referring to the gas attacks on PBS this morning.”
“They sure as hell don’t know any more than we do,” Spitz said with a scowl.
“Just because the damn press—” Packer held up his hand. “Before you get off on that kick, Lattimere, let’s get down to the subject at hand. Langley tells me he thinks his people have uncovered something that may explain why we haven’t heard from Bogner.”
“That’s exactly why we’re here, Clancy. When I called Peter this morning, he informed me that he had some interesting satellite photos he wanted me to see. When I heard what it was all about, I thought you should be brought up to date and then the three of us could collectively decide what the hell should be done about it.”
“Does the President know?” Packer pushed.
“At this point, no. I thought it best to wait until we had something concrete.”
Langley loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar.
“I have to give the people at Rockwell credit for this one, Lattimere. They’re the ones who discovered this. They went through channels, double-checked everything with the SAsC folks over at the Pentagon, and then got back to me.”
Packer leaned forward.
“This is about Bogner?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Pack.” Langley hesitated.
“That’s why I wanted you here. I wanted to make damn certain I knew exactly what kind of instructions you gave T. C. when you met him in Paris last week.”
Packer thought back. He wanted to make certain he wasn’t forgetting anything before he started.
“Let’s go back to the beginning. When we began receiving reports of further testing of some kind of what we now know to be cyanide-based gases by NIMF, we got in touch with our contact in Istanbul.”
“Name?” Spitz interrupted. As usual, he was taking notes.
“Our agent in Istanbul is Concho Banks. Banks informed us he had made contact with a man by the name of Taj Ozal. According to Banks, Ozal is a Turk and a self-styled information merchant with some high-profile contacts. This Ozal claimed he could get us into Salih Baddour’s NIMF compound at Ammash. Even though Ozal seemed confident he could arrange it. Banks wanted to make certain we didn’t step on our dingus if Ozal delivered. Meaning he wanted to have a damn good reason for a meeting with Baddour. Without one, he was convinced Ozal wouldn’t go through with it.”