These demands called for the rectification of certain Kuwaiti injustices. But as you well know, those negotiations broke down, and our superior Republican Guard retaliated by capturing the Rumaila oil fields and invading Kuwait City. At that point, our objective had been achieved. Achieved, that is, if it had not been for the intervention by both American and Saudi Arabian forces. When momentum shifted to the side of the U.N. forces, I encouraged then-President Hussein to use our storehouse of chemical weapons. As you gentlemen well know. President Hussein, for reasons known only to him, declined to use those weapons.
“I saw then what destiny held in store for me. I protested his decision and the rift between us grew. Finally I was assigned to Ammash, declared my independence from Baghdad, and with the aid of others both inside and outside Iraq who were sympathetic to my views, separated from the government in Baghdad and formed the Northern Iraqi Military Force.
“In nine short years the Northern Iraqi Military Force has grown from a small handful of loyal supporters to a force of over seventy thousand men. We are now large enough and powerful enough to withstand even the elite Republican Guard of our new president, Anwar Abbasin.”
Bogner noted the passion in the general’s voice.
At that point Baddour paused long enough for the orderlies to respond to his request for a light dessert to be distributed to his guests. Each received what Baddour considered to be his favorite, ample servings of baklawah and kinaafa, before the general turned his attention back to Bogner.
“And now, Colonel Fahid, let us hear what our friend from Jade has to offer us.”
Bogner cleared his throat.
“I am sure the general realizes I am somewhat at a disadvantage in that the lengthy inventory I was carrying at the time was lost in the crash of the helicopter bringing us to Ammash.”
“Never mind the detailed inventory, Mr. Bogner.
As I am sure Colonel Fahid has already indicated, we are interested primarily in aircraft.”
“What kind of aircraft?” Bogner asked “Helicopters, both cargo and attack, cargo planes, or fighters…?”
“Perhaps I should make myself clear,” Baddour countered.
“Our need is for aircraft that will enable us to engage the Republican Guard if and when the Guard initiates such an engagement.”
“Before I can answer that I would have to know more about what is available to President Abbasin.”
Baddour turned to Fahid.
“That is a question for my chief of staff to answer.”
Fahid thought for a moment.
“The most recent audit of the Republican Guard’s air capability by our agents indicates they have in excess of some thirty thousand men and a hardware stockpile of six hundred to seven hundred combat aircraft.
They also indicate that, of that number of aircraft, some one hundred or so are combat-ready helicopters.
“In addition they maintain two bomber squadrons, which are comprised primarily of Russian-built Tu-22’s and Tu-16’s. Their air defense, on the other hand, consists mostly of a variety of MiG 25’s, MiG 21’s, and MiG 19’s, and he continues to purchase Mirage Fl’s…”
Bogner’s attention was still focused on Fahid when he heard the first shot. He wheeled, trying to see where the shots were coming from, just as Ozal managed to fire the second round. Both shots hit their target; Salih Baddour rocked back in his chair clutching at a gaping hole in his throat as he took the second bullet in his chest. The force of the two bullets spiraled him backward out of his chair and he fell to the floor.
From that point on, for Bogner it was all survival instinct. He hit the floor, rolled over, looked up, and saw Ozal aiming the 9mm at him. Suddenly Bogner’s world went into freeze frame — solitary microseconds began spilling out images and sounds. First there was the dispassionate, stolid, expression on Ozal’s face, followed by the rasping sound of Baddour’s craving for air, and the even more discordant sounds of chaos and confusion.
There was the sensation of shock and the hole in reality before Fahid finally managed to get off two shots of his own. Both of Fahid’s shots ripped into Ozal. As Ozal stumbled and dropped to his knees, what was left of his face was twisted into a mask of disbelief. Ozal, unlike Baddour, had taken both of Fahid’s shots to the head, and the left part of his face had been blown away.
Bogner rolled over a second time and tried to scramble to his feet, but it was too late. Fahid had already kicked him. His boot caught Bogner in the chest and sent him tumbling backward. By the time he regained his equilibrium and started to recover, Fahid was bending over him, pinning him to the floor and burying the muzzle of his automatic against Bogner’s throat. Fahid’s face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat.
“And now, my American friend, you should congratulate yourself.” Fahid was breathing hard.
“You have just taken center stage on this day in Iraqi history. Oh — I can assure you there will be an end to your misery — eventually you too will die — but not just yet. You see, I still need you. But to insure that you are further incapacitated, I must make it look like you struggled…”
Fahid squeezed off two more shots. The first ripped into the meaty part of Bogner’s upper left arm and the other creased his cheek. Fahid straightened, cocked his head sideways to admire his handiwork, and smiled to himself.
Robert Miller was keenly aware of the fact that in recent weeks he had developed several regrettable habits. Most of them had evolved from a lingering cold. He would come home from his office at ISA, sleep for two or three hours, then sufficiently rested, would have trouble sleeping through the night. The habit had become even more lamentable when he gave in to his sleepless nights by sitting up to watch late-night television.
He had dozed off while watching an old movie, and the ringing of his telephone startled him. He made a feeble swipe at the phone on the first try before he managed to pick it up on the second.
“Miller here,” he grumbled.
The caller was Stu Priest, one of the agency’s night crew.
“Robert, hate to call you at this hour of the morning, but you better turn on CNN. I think someone’s in deep shit.”
Miller dropped the receiver, surfed to CNN, and listened in astonishment as the commercial faded and the cameras panned in on the newscaster:
“This hour’s top story… This late-breaking story from Ammash in northern Iraq… Call Mahmand, a spokesman for Northern Iraqi Military Force Radio, is reporting that Iraqi rebel leader General Salih Baddour was assassinated last night shortly after eight P.M. Iraqi time…”
Miller was stunned. He watched while a map appeared on the screen and pinpointed the site of the seven known NIMF military installations in the northern part of Iraq and then highlighted Ammash. The map dissolved and the newscaster continued.
“General Baddour declared his independence from the Hussein administration following
Iraq’s defeat in the Gulf War ten years ago…
Preliminary reports from. Ammash indicate Baddour was assassinated by an American mercenary said to be hired by Abbasin loyalists in Baghdad…
In other news this hour…”
Robert Miller glanced at his watch, made note of the time, and reached for the phone again.
Packer needed to know. He lost count of the number of rings before Sara Packer finally picked up the phone.