When the applause began to quiet down, Ambassador Moreaux turned the podium over to Al-Hassani, the graying, bearded, seventy-one-year-old intellectual grandfather of the Iraqi freedom forces. The photo op quickly shifted gears.
"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador, it is an honor to be with you all today, and especially to be here in one of Saddam Hussein's palaces — a far cry from where I have been over the past long, dark decade. Each one of us knows firsthand the bitter bloody legacy of Saddam Hussein and his reign of terror, And each of us knows that however much we personally have suffered, we are among the lucky ones. We are the ones who survived. Just this week, coalition forces uncovered the bodies of fifteen thousand Iraqi men, women, and children in a mass grave south of Baghdad. This is just the latest evidence of the war crimes against humanity perpetrated by the Saddam regime. The blood of our brothers and sisters and children cries out from the sands and the streets and prisons. It cries out for justice. It cries out for a fresh page, a new chapter in the long, proud, enduring history of the Iraqi people." The hall again erupted with cheers. For the next ten minutes, the retiring, soft-spoken Al-Hassani outlined the new interim government's mandate and structure. Then he took questions.
"This question is for Mr. Chalabi," began an Al-Jazeera reporter. "Sir, will you now denounce the United States before the entire international com munity for committing war crimes in Iraq?"
A hush came over the crowd. It was the question on everyone's mind, and now it had been asked of Achmed Chalabi, arguably the most pro-Western and pro-American Iraqi leader in the room, an exile long backed by American money and political support, now seeking to build a power base in a country he hadn't lived in for decades. With a senior representative of the U.S. gov ernment in the room. With the president of the United States and every member of Congress no doubt watching on television. With the U.N. Sec-retary General watching the press conference in Paris with members of the French Parliament. With vast segments of the Arab and Islamic worlds watch ing in prime time.
Chalabi cleared his throat, looked the reporter in the eye, and spoke softly. "If there is one thing I have learned in my lifetime of struggle, it is this: freedom isn't free. Many have died in this war of liberation, and they are heroes. Heroes, I tell you — martyrs of the freedom revolution. We will for-ever remember their sacrifice. We will forever remember that they died so that we might live, that we might breathe and speak our minds and control our destinies. We will celebrate their lives. We will honor their deaths. We will build great monuments in Baghdad and Tikrit and tell their stories to our children and our grandchildren. But we will not blame foreigners for our suffering. It was Saddam Hussein who did this to us, and it is Saddam Hussein who we and our children and our children's children must denounce every day of our lives."
The room unexpectedly erupted in sustained cheering, with Mustafa Al-Hassani leading the way. Chalabi lowered his eyes, and stepped back as Al-Hassani stepped up to the podium and the bank of microphones, called for quiet, and then caught everyone off guard, including his own colleagues.
"What is past is past," Al-Hassani said. "It is time to move forward, and tonight, as my first act in this interim government, I make a proposal."
Flashbulbs began popping again.
"After we meet the needs of the suffering people of Baghdad — after we get them the medical and humanitarian assistance they need and deserve — I propose we move the capital of Iraq."
A collective gasp could be heard, even from the gathered dignitaries.
"Baghdad represents the old Iraq, does it not?" the small, slightly stooped man continued. "Does not Baghdad represent Saddam Hussein's Iraq, not our own? Now it is ruined and suffering because of evil ways and bloodthirsty leaders. Why should we rebuild Saddam's capital as it once was? What says we must? Why accept the narrative that Saddam Hussein wrote for us? This is a new day. This is a new chapter. And a new Iraq deserves a new capital, a capital worthy of the rich and proud and glorious history that has long been ours… "
You could hear a pin drop at that moment.
"Tonight, I call upon the great Iraqi nation to build a great new capital city, with the trillions of dollars of new oil money that will soon begin to flow. Like the great economic and political capitals of our sister states all around the Gulf — capitals like Riyadh and Kuwait City and Abu Dhabi— let us believe that out of the barren desert sands can rise towers of steel and glass, practically overnight. Let us build homes and schools and factories and stock exchanges. Let us build museums and theaters and stadiums and gardens. Let us together build a great economic center that rapidly becomes the envy of the world. More precisely, let us rebuild a great political and economic power of global importance where none has existed for thousands of years… "
It was as though a billion viewers leaned in to hear the news for themselves.
"My friends, it is time to rebuild the city of Babylon, the city of our dreams."
TWENTY
Midnight descended on the Iraqi desert.
The air was cold and black. Storm clouds obscured a full moon. No lights could be seen for miles in any direction. Bitter winds howled through the wadis and canyons and Daoud Juma wondered how much longer it would take.
They were still headed for the town of Al Qa'im and the Syrian border village of Abu Kamal, but both remained quite a ways off. A junior fedayeen officer drove the Renault while Daoud reclined in the backseat and tried unsuccessfully to get some sleep. Ahead of them was the Range Rover packed with commandos and their weapons. Bringing up the rear was the minivan with still more men and supplies.
He checked his watch. It was just before midnight back in Baghdad, not yet four in the afternoon in New York and Washington. He tried to picture what he and his men would be doing twenty-four hours later. Would they have been able to reach Canada yet? Would they have already slipped across the border into the United States? Would the cars be ready? What about the weapons?
If everything went according to plan, each man would regroup in an old cabin tucked away in the high peaks region of the Adirondack Mountains, not far from Lake Placid. Everyone had been briefed already, and all of them had been trained on the new GPS equipment. The cabin shouldn't be hard to find. He just hoped they were all as ready for the snow and ice and cold as they insisted they were.
None of these Al-Nakbah shock troops had ever been outside of their home countries of Iran, Saudi Arabia, or Palestine, other than the last eighteen months they'd spent in Iraq, training night and day at Salman Pak, just outside of Baghdad. All of them were from small towns or desert villages. None of them had any experience in the United States, much less the extreme weather of the Adirondacks or the American northeast. But in every other way they were ready, and he'd have to trust them.
Each had been chosen by commanders he'd personally recruited and trained. Each was in top physical condition. Each was trained either as a sniper or a suicide bomber. And each was ready to give his very life to wage jihad in the belly of the Great Satan. These were men without the slightest trace of fear, and soon enough, they'd have the chance to prove their mettle. Once safely across the Canadian border into the United States, and once convinced they weren't being tracked, they'd rendezvous at the cabin, set up their shortwave radios, and gather any last-minute intelligence they could about homeland security preparations under way in their target cities. Finally, when all systems were go — when Daoud Juma said the time had come— they would fan out in four teams of three men each