Someone shouting in the corridor outside his office shook him out of his reverie. He wound the recorder back to the beginning and then set the tape running again. He opened the laptop computer and switched it on. He was pleased, even proud, to have been given access to the sophisticated device but of course he was not permitted to take the computer home with him. He had to perform all his work in the Ministry under the watchful gaze of the security cameras. The keyboard symbols were written in English and Arabic but the layout was not quite what he was used to and his typing was slow so he had to keep stopping and starting the recording. He read through his translation whilst listening to the BBC journalist questioning the UK Foreign Secretary about the continuing build-up of troops along the Iraqi border. There was a knock on the door.
‘Yes, come in!’ he called out, at the same time switching off the video recorder and closing the lid of the computer.
A powerfully built man came into the room.
‘Mr Yusuf Ali Hamsin?’ he enquired politely.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ Ali replied, wondering why the man looked vaguely familiar.
‘My name is Kamal Ahwadi. I have come from the office of Mr Qusay Hussein,’
At the mention of the President’s son Ali grabbed the arms of his chair tightly to stop himself trembling. ‘Yes?’ he managed to say.
‘Mr Hussein’s office has need of another translator. You’ve been chosen.’ Ahwadi smiled. ‘It is an honour.’
Ali thought frantically. Ahwadi’s manner seemed affable, but how did the secret police operate? Was there always a friendly summons followed by a trip to an interrogation room? He looked around his office. ‘Perhaps I should bring this computer with me… it might be useful.’
Kamal stared at the computer, his face expressionless. Then he smiled. ‘Yes by all means bring it, and if there’s anything else you think you might need, I’ll have someone take it out to the car. You may be away for a few days,’ Kamal continued. ‘We’ll go past your house so you can pick up some spare clothes, personal items and of course explain matters to your family.’ This did not sound like the threat of harsh interrogation; Ali managed to avoid heaving a sigh of relief and simply nodded his agreement.
At home he hurriedly stuffed a suitcase with clothes. He did not tell Tabitha and Rashid that he was going to work for Qusay Hussein; instead he told them that he was being transferred to an office in Ramadi for a few days, but he would be home for Friday. Nevertheless he could see the disquiet in their eyes, and they both hugged him and told him to take care. Ali told them not to worry, but as he closed the outer gate behind him he saw Kamal standing beside his car. His memory was triggered and he realised that Kamal Ahwadi was the man he had seen outside Hakim Mansour’s house. It was only with an enormous effort of will that he managed to walk normally towards him.
They drove an hour and twenty minutes out of Baghdad, turned off down a small un-signposted road and came to a high barbed wire fence with an elevated look-out post surmounted by a closed circuit television camera. Under the roof of the post he could see a guard armed with a large calibre automatic weapon inspecting their approaching vehicle through binoculars. Two more guards emerged from a small hut and walked up to the car and peered in the windows. One of them recognised Kamal, gave a respectful salute and hastened to open the security gate. They continued towards an enormous house surrounded by a lush garden with tall semi-tropical trees that could only have been created by years of expensive irrigation. Outside the front door another pair of armed guards was ready to open the car doors and admit Kamal and Ali into the building.
Ali’s impression of the house was of opulent marble and tropical hardwood floors with expensive carpets hanging on the walls, but his inspection was interrupted by Kamal. ‘Come with me please, I’ll show you where you’ll be working.’
‘Is this where Mr Hussein lives?’ Ali asked. Rumours had existed for years about an array of desert palaces built at vast expense for the Husseins’ personal use.
‘It’s somewhere he keeps mainly for guests and weekend entertaining,’ Kamal replied. ‘For now he’s using it as a private office. It’s just a small place.’ He waved his hand about as if to apologise for the limitations of the building.
Along a corridor he opened a teak door and lead Ali into a sitting room converted into a makeshift office. There were three large radio receivers and a microphone attached to an old fashioned but high quality reel to reel tape recorder. On one table stood a television with a VHS recorder on a shelf underneath. On another table was a stack of English language newspapers. ‘This is where you will be working. Now come next door.’ Kamal showed him a luxurious bedroom. ‘This is where you’ll be sleeping. Meals will be brought to you here or in the office.’
Ali looked around and saw a door in the side wall; he opened it and looked around at a bathroom furnished with expensive European plumbing. ‘How long will I be here?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. Until the current situation has been resolved, I expect.’
‘And can you tell me what my duties will be?’ he asked.
‘Mr Hussein will tell you himself, no doubt. Come with me.’
They returned to the entrance hall where a man was standing staring out of a window with his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Kamal said. ‘I have Yusuf Ali Hamsin with me.’
The man turned round, a smile on his round moustachioed face. This face wore wrinkles and blemishes and a sagging chin that were not apparent on the official photographs but Ali immediately recognised the President’s son Qusay Hussein. He nervously cleared his throat.
‘Good day to you, Yusuf Hamsin,’ said Qusay Hussein, holding out his hand. ‘I am pleased to have you on my staff. Saman Abdul Majid has spoken highly of you.’
Ali shook the proffered hand and gave a little bow. ‘The approval of the President’s official translator is a blessing sir. I hope to serve you as well as he has served the President.’
‘I’m sure you will. Now what I want you to do here is listen to the news services of the Americans and the British and translate them for me. Also I’ll have newspapers brought in and you can translate the news items in those, but the radio is more important. You can record your translations. I won’t require written transcripts.’ Ali wondered why he should be doing the work that was usually carried out by the foreign ministry in Baghdad; but he decided not to question this man with his reputation for angry outbursts.
‘Very good sir. Shall I begin at once?’
‘Yes. Why not? Kamal will show you how to work the equipment. Have you any questions?’
Ali had many; how long will I be here? Who will be monitoring when I’m asleep? Where am I allowed to go inside the house? But he decided that Qusay Hussein was not a man accustomed to being questioned by a subordinate. ‘No Sir.’ Qusay Hussein nodded. Ali realised something more was expected of him. ‘It is an honour Sir, a privilege,’ he added. Qusay Hussein smiled.
‘I am sure you won’t let me down, Yusuf,’ he said, and walked towards the door.
‘Pardon me sir,’ said Ali greatly daring.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s just that I am known everywhere as Ali, rather than as Yusuf, sir. I thought I should say something… to avoid any confusion.’ He swallowed nervously. Qusay Hussein stared at him for a moment, but then smiled.
‘Very well then. I too shall call you Ali.’
After Kamal had described the equipment to him, Ali finally felt able to ask some questions. ‘How come I’m needed here? There’s a team of people in the ministry already doing this work.’
‘The boss has several places like this set up. If the invasion happens then he doesn’t want the Americans to know where he is, and this is one of several secret locations he might use. They know the location of the ministry in Baghdad; they don’t know about this building.’