In their attempt to learn more about Ammash, it would appear that the Americans have unwittingly played right into our hands.”
“But the one called Bogner is not an American, he is a Canadian,” Ozal reminded him.
Fahid continued to exhibit his amusement.
“Despite what seems to many our apparent isolation here in Ammash, Comrade, we have developed a highly effective way of obtaining information. Because of that, we have learned that neither the unfortunate Mr. Banks nor your Jade representative, Mr. Bogner, are who they claim to be. They are both, in fact, Americans and agents for the Internal Security Agency.”
Ozal tensed.
“Then we must—” Fahid held up his hand.
“On the contrary. Comrade, what we have learned about Mr. Bogner changes nothing. In fact, when word of General Baddour’s death becomes general knowledge, we will simply inform the world that his assassin, a man by the name of Bogner, was a mercenary hired by the government in Baghdad, and supplied by the United States in return for certain unspecified concessions to the U.N. by the government in Baghdad. The Americans will, of course, deny this. But we will produce documents that prove Bogner was an ISA operative, which will only lend credence to our story and drag the Americans deeper into the affair despite their protests.”
“You can produce such documents?”
“There is an old saying in my country. Comrade.
What one does not possess, one can always steal.”
“I am curious, Colonel. Just exactly what do you gain from all of this?”
“I get what I want and need, Mr. Ozal, a conduit of arms and weapons from the Party when it is once again in power in your beloved Russia. And your country in return reaps the benefit of Dr. Rashid’s work. To put it in simple terms, Mr. Ozal, I, as the new leader of the Northern Iraqi Military Force, will get guns and planes, plus the assurance that your country will not intercede on behalf of the government in Baghdad. And the Party, what will it have? It will have at its disposal one of the most deadly weapons on earth, the cyanide formulas perfected by the NIMF.”
It was the first time Ozal had been apprised of the full details of the plan. He had been trained for and focused on this single mission for two full years, but not until now was he able to put the pieces together. He suspected now that other than Solkov and Fahid, with the possible exception of Grenchev, no one, not even the Party’s power brokers in Moscow, knew exactly how Baddour’s death would be arranged. Now he understood Fahid’s importance and why the plan was so convoluted.
Even now, Fahid would be his only witness. He waited several moments before he asked, “When do we begin?”
Ishad Fahid pushed his bulk away from his desk and stood up. He moved around his desk until he stood close to Ozal and lowered his voice.
“You will be glad to know that we have already begun, Comrade,” he said.
“In the meantime, you must prepare for your meeting with General Baddour tomorrow.”
“One more question,” Ozal said.
“You know that this man Bogner is not who he represents himself to be. What about General Baddour, does he know?”
“Do not concern yourself, Comrade. You and I and our comrades in Istanbul are the only ones who know.”
Chapter Nine
When Ishad Fahid opened the door, the woman stood up. Despite his bulk, the man who served as Baddour’s chief of staff and senior advisor moved almost catlike to the side of Bogner’s bed. The woman followed him and turned on the small lamp on the nightstand beside the bed.
“You gave him the sedative?” Fahid asked.
“Three hours ago,” the woman said.
“There is no danger of him awakening. He will be in a deep sleep until the early hours of the morning.”
Fahid rummaged through the pockets of his heavy coat until he found a pair of thin goatskin gloves and put them on.
“You have observed he is right-handed?”
Again the woman nodded.
“Take the bandages off,” Fahid ordered.
There was no hesitation. The woman slipped Bogner’s hand from beneath the sheets and began to peel away the wrapping. When she finished she held Bogner’s hand up for Fahid’s inspection. It was still swollen and covered with a network of burns and cuts.
Fahid wasted no time. He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat a second time and produced a 9mm Mk 2 automatic. He was careful to wipe it clean of fingerprints before pressing it into the palm of Bogner’s hand, coiling Bogner’s swollen finger through the trigger guard and pressing it against the trigger. When he finished he placed Bogner’s hand back on the bed.
“Bandage it,” he ordered.
The woman did as she was instructed.
Over the years Clancy Packer had learned that phone calls in the middle of the night were just part of the job. In the early years, when he had first taken over as chief of the Washington bureau of the ISA, he’d feared the worst every time he picked up the phone even though it was seldom the case. In more recent years he had developed a ruse; he feigned being sound asleep and Sara answered the telephone.
Now, as the phone continued to ring, he listened for the familiar sound of Sara picking up the phone and the conversation that followed. This time, though, Sara was the one who sounded confused.
She asked questions that Packer, still half asleep, could not understand. Finally, he heard her say, “One moment, I’ll get him.”
The rest of the routine Packer knew well. The call was for him and Sara was turning on the light.
“It’s an overseas call. I can barely understand the operator,” she admitted.
Packer sat up, took the phone, and immediately understood his wife’s dilemma. The operator was informing him he had a person-to-person call, and suddenly he recognized the voice of Peter Langley.
“What time is it there, Pack?” he asked.
“Midnight, but—” Packer broke off and began his own barrage of questions.
“What have you found out? Were you able to determine what happened to T. C. and Concho?”
“I’ll tell you everything I know. First, T. C. is alive, or at least he was when a northern Iraqi military helicopter flew him out of here two days ago.” Packer, eager to get all of the details, started to interrupt, but Langley cut him off again.
“The rest of the news isn’t so good. It appears that Banks died in the crash. I located a Kurd woman who claims that two people, apparently Banks and the pilot, were both killed when the helicopter crashed.”
Packer could feel the lump starting to form in his throat. Theirs was a business full of risks and he realized that fact as much as anyone; still, as it would have with any of his people, the news about Banks hit him hard.
“Are you certain about Concho?”
Langley’s voice crackled on the other end of the line.
“As certain as I can be under the circumstances.
The Kurd woman assured me there were only two survivors, Bogner and Ozal.”
Packer put his hand over the mouthpiece while he regained his composure. Part of it was his age and he knew it; life had a way of taking on more value than it had in his early days. Finally he said, “Where are you now?”
“At a small airport just inside the Turkish border, near some little town the name of which I can’t even pronounce. I doubt if it’s even on the map. I’ve got a young Turkish border guard, a lieutenant, I think, standing next to me and I’m getting a ration of shit for crossing over the border without Turkish authorization. At the moment he’s threatening to hold me until his superior officer gets here in the morning.”