The interpreter glanced at Tariq Aziz once more and was relieved to see his small smile of approval. Saddam Hussein took a small pace forward and held out his hand and the special delegate shook it once more, and this time an official photographer stepped forward to record the moment and the interpreter shuffled back so that he did not intrude into the picture. As he did so he felt a hand grip his elbow, and the soft murmur of Hakim Mansour, personal assistant to the Deputy Prime Minister, in his ear. ‘Ali Hamsin, be a good fellow and tell the American colonel that I would like to call on him in his hotel room in one hour.’
‘Yes sir,’ he replied.
‘Perhaps it would be best if you accompanied me,’ Mansour continued.
‘Very good, sir.’
Ali Hamsin walked quietly over to the blonde American whose short haircut and military bearing were obvious despite a well cut civilian suit.
‘Colonel Bruckner, sir. Hakim Mansour, personal aide to His Excellency the Foreign Minister and Deputy Prime Minister would regard it as a favour if he could call on you in your hotel room in one hour.’ Bruckner looked down at the interpreter, and then across at Hakim Mansour.
‘But I am not staying at a hotel. I’m staying at the embassy.’
‘Yes I understand that sir,’ said Ali Hamsin. ‘My job is to translate accurately at all times, not to offer interpretation or advice.’
‘Ok, well tell Mr Mansour that I will be taking a walk outside the embassy for a couple of minutes in one hour from now, and if he would like to talk to me then I will join him in his car. How does that sound?’
Forty minutes later outside the building, Ali Hamsin was waiting beside Hakim Mansour’s Mercedes limousine talking to the chauffeur. They discussed the weather and the likely traffic conditions and enquired after each other’s families. They did not discuss where they were going, and why, or who their passengers would be and what business they might have together.
They stopped talking when they saw Mansour emerge from a small side door and walk across the driveway. To their surprise they saw he was not accompanied by his personal bodyguard. The chauffeur nearly made a comment but instead he cleared his throat, opened the car door and stood to attention. ‘Thank you, Jameel,’ said Mansour, ‘you can go home. Ali will drive me.’ The chauffeur gave Ali a quizzical glance but of course he expressed no surprise.
‘Yes sir, thank you sir.’
At first Ali Hamsin was nervous about driving Mansour’s official car in the maelstrom of the Baghdad traffic, but he quickly realised that the other drivers recognised the vehicle with its government registration plate and moved smartly aside to allow him past and they always gave way to him at the intersections. As they approached the United States Embassy Hakim Mansour told him to slow down. ‘We’re two minutes early. Drive around the compound and then he should be there.’
As they drove past the entrance, Ali saw the Marine Guard stare at the car and then start talking rapidly, presumably into a microphone attached to his helmet. He drove the car slowly around the block and as they approached the rear of the building a man suddenly stepped out of the shadow of the eight foot high wall. Ali Hamsin brought the car to a stop and Colonel Bruckner walked up to the rear door, looked up and down the street and then climbed in.
‘Good evening, Colonel Bruckner. I am happy to see you,’ Hakim Mansour said in his broken English. ‘I have some matters of importance and greatly sensitive to discuss with you, and because I wish to make sure there should be no mis-statements, I have brought our interpreter.’
‘Yes I’m acquainted with Ali Hamsin. My Arabic’s not up to much, so it was a good idea.’
‘Of course; he’s very good at his job. And he also has wife and small son, and relatives, who all have the high regard for him.’ Hakim Mansour smiled up at the rear view mirror and this time spoke in Arabic. ‘We know that we can count on you, Ali Hamsin.’ He saw the fear in the young interpreter’s eyes. ‘Good. Now you begin to translate for us.’ He smiled and turned towards the American.
‘Although with God’s help we are confident that we will win the war against the Iranian hordes, we wish to make certain contingency plans should some catastrophe occur.’
Ali Hamsin translated, wondering what twists and turns this conversation would take.
‘Are you threatening to use your stockpiles of chemical weapons?’ asked the American Colonel. ‘We know you are manufacturing mustard gas and nerve agents, and we have to warn you that their use would jeopardise our support for you.'
Ali Hamsin was taken aback by this startling revelation, but he managed to deliver the Arabic version smoothly enough.
‘Oh I’m sure we will never have to use those; I expect the mere threat of their use will have a salutary effect, a powerful bargaining tool.’ He paused briefly, but before Ali Hamsin could begin to translate Mansour spoke again.
‘What we have in mind are other contingencies, matters that might arise if the war does not progress so well. It will be necessary to protect long term positions.’
‘Go on,’ said the Colonel.
Hakim Mansour described the proposals and Ali Hamsin translated. As the conversation between the American Colonel and the Party Central Committee member progressed he found it more and more difficult to keep the emotion out of his voice. He gripped the steering wheel to stop his hands trembling and felt the sweat beading on his forehead while the more he learned the more fearful he became.
The two men finally shook hands and Mansour ordered Ali Hamsin to drive back to the US Embassy. ‘Have a good Christmas, Colonel,’ Mansour called as the American climbed out of the car. After they had watched him display his ID card and disappear through the security gates Mansour climbed into the front seat next to Ali and offered him a cigarette. The two of them sat in silence for a minute smoking, and then Mansour spoke. ‘If news of my meeting with the Colonel ever leaks out, you will wish you had never been born.’
Ali swallowed nervously. ‘I understand sir,’ he managed to say.
‘Good! But of course these obligations pass both ways and you can expect further rewards in some form or another while you work in the Ministry. Now you can drive me home, and then you’ll have to walk, or find a taxi back to your house.’
‘Thank you sir!’ Ali replied, trying to force some enthusiasm into his reply. He climbed out and watched Mansour shuffle across to the driver’s seat and then set off into the traffic. Ali stared after him for a while before walking slowly home.
‘I worked in the ministry for the next twenty years,’ said Ali, ‘and I must admit I was well off compared with most people. I was paid on time and allowed extra privileges, but I can also state with confidence that I was good at my job. The ultimate reward was that my son Rashid was able to study English at the University of Southampton. Of course there was a downside; we spent our working lives under scrutiny and fearful of making some blunder either real or imagined that would have us thrown into prison. You cannot imagine what stress that puts you under, spending your working life under those conditions.’
‘Oh I don’t have to imagine it,’ Gerry replied. She leant back against the side of the raft and stared up at the sky, thinking back to her first meeting with Ali Hamsin and Hakim Mansour and her descent into a personal disaster that had begun years ago on New Year’s Day in 2003.
CHAPTER TWO