Spoils of War, page 1
SPOILS OF WAR
Peter Driscoll
Silvertail Books ♦ London
For Bruce Hunter. And with thanks to several friends whose knowledge of the Middle East, offered generously but anonymously, has contributed to the writing of this book.
Prologue
Waiting by the window, Noura was the first to see the car arrive. The glare of its headlights suddenly filled the gap between the gateposts a hundred metres away, throwing shadows towards the house from the date palms along the drive.
The car stopped in the gateway. Noura was in no doubt who the visitor was, for only his kind were free to move about during the curfew. The hut once occupied by security guards was caught in the beams of light and she saw the figures of two soldiers shambling out of it. Flip and Flop, her imbecile protectors, half asleep as usual. They bent beside the driver’s window and then straightened up and saluted, pantomiming alertness after their dazed vigil. The car nosed forward down the drive.
Noura turned to her companion. ‘It’s him!’ she whispered excitedly. ‘He’s come for me, Dale.’
She found her hands shaking as she fumbled in the darkened room for the small bag she had packed. Fear had eroded her confidence. The weeks of uncertainty, the horror stories from beyond the gates, had made her unwilling even until this minute to leave the precarious safety within the compound walls; but suddenly she was impatient to go.
Her excitement turned to guilt as she faced her friend again.
‘I hate just leaving you here, Dale.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ the older woman said. ‘You’ve already helped all you could.’
‘But you helped me,’ Noura protested. ‘I could ask him if he can do something for you.’
‘Don’t complicate things. He doesn’t know I exist.’
‘He might be able to take you out as well.’
‘He might decide to arrest me instead. Forget it.’
The faint hum of air-conditioning filled the silence, masking any sounds that might have entered the room from the desert night. Noura did not argue further. The other woman had a quiet determination that she didn’t know quite how to cope with. She had also once been Noura’s college teacher, although to look at the two of them now – almost identically clothed in colourless fustaan frocks, cheap sandals and black abayas – they might have been sisters playing at dressing up.
The lights of the car swept towards them. Its driver knew the layout of the compound, turning away from the main house and down the secondary drive towards the newer buildings. All were deserted except this one and the servants’ quarters at the back, inhabited now by only three or four frightened Indians and Filipinos.
‘I’d better go,’ said Noura.
They went to the front door together and kissed and hugged each other. Their close confinement here had produced an intensity of feeling between them that brought the pricking of tears to Noura’s eyes. She said: ‘What are you going to do, Dale?’
‘I told you, I have other friends. You just take care of yourself.’ Dale paused. ‘You are sure you can trust this man, aren’t you?’
‘I think so. I must, really.’
‘Good luck, then. Tawasal bis-salaama.’
‘You too. Goodbye, Dale.’
Noura gave her a final hug and opened the door.
Stepping out of the air-conditioned house was like walking into a furnace; though it was close to midnight, the blast of dry summer heat carried on the shamal wind was so fierce it made her gasp. She watched the car gliding quietly into the courtyard, its driver dousing the lights as it stopped a few metres in front of her. It was a big, pale-grey Mercedes, probably stolen like everything else they were using.
The driver’s door opened and the Iraqi officer got out.
He was in civilian dress, as he had been on the other occasions when he’d come to the house: a dark suit, a white shirt and a narrow tie. He didn’t greet her, but stood and studied her critically under the starlight as she approached.
‘Is it safe to leave?’ she ventured. She’d been frightened of him at first, and his manner still made her feel awkward. Him. He had never told her his name.
He ignored the question but eyed the bag she was clutching. ‘You’ve brought nothing that will identify you?’
‘No.’
‘Listen carefully. The plane is waiting. There are certain things you must remember in case you are asked. You will travel as my wife. For tonight my name is Ghani and you are sayida Al-Falaki. Given name, Fatma.’
‘Al-Falaki?’
‘Remember it,’ he emphasized. He seemed edgy and preoccupied. ‘Conduct yourself as a married woman. Say nothing unless you are spoken to. Put on your hijab. And wear this.’
He held up something between his thumb and forefinger. She took it and saw that it was a wedding ring. With some misgiving she slipped it on her finger, then drew up the veil to cover the lower half of her face. Aware that the front door was still open, that Dale was probably watching from the shadows, she glanced involuntarily back at the house.
He detected the movement. ‘Who’s in there?’ he demanded.
‘Only a servant.’ Noura surprised herself with the swiftness of the lie. ‘She knows nothing.’
He looked at her disapprovingly. ‘You people and your servants,’ he said with mild disgust.
He turned towards the car and she followed. She made for the front passenger door but he stopped her and opened the one behind.
‘In here,’ he said. ‘It is expected. You are a wife now.’
The soldiers grinned and saluted again as the car passed through the gate. His own soldiers, hand-picked to be her watchdogs, too peasant-ignorant to wonder why they’d been told to guard the daughter and the house of one rich man while their comrades raped and looted all the others; unaware of how long the arm of a rich man could be.
The Mercedes moved past the gates and between the high walls of other great houses, dark and abandoned. It felt strange to be out on the streets after the weeks of confinement, stranger still to find them deserted under the clamp of the curfew. The Iraqi drove cautiously, alert no doubt for roadblocks manned by his trigger-happy countrymen. Think of him as Ghani, she told herself. Although she hadn’t the courage to say it, Noura thought he might treat her with more respect. He knew who her father was, and surely he was being well rewarded for what he was doing. He naturally hadn’t told her anything but the barest details of his plans; but he had hinted gruffly that he had enemies of his own to contend with.
Perhaps to help calm his nerves he picked a tape from the shelf beneath the dashboard and put it on the deck. Melancholy f’jeri music filled the car, the work songs of pearl fishermen echoing the romantic version of their past that Noura’s people clung to. Some of them hypocritically, she considered. Like her father, who could buy almost anything and anyone, regretting the way that wealth had corrupted the old values. Shaking his head over his daughter’s independent ways after sending her to spend half her life in the West. Still, this was no time to find fault with him. Her father was a worker of miracles. In spite of her defiance in the matter of her marriage, he had found a way to rescue her from this nightmare.
Noura wished Dale could have come with her. During the dilemma over her betrothal she had grown to depend on the older woman’s calmness and good advice, a reliance that had grown after the invasion when her former tutor had come to her in a predicament of her own. It had never crossed Noura’s mind to refuse her refuge, though she knew her father would never have permitted her to shelter a foreigner wanted by the invaders.
She stared at the back of Ghani’s neck as he guided the car out of the residential area, on to the Fifth Ring and then the airport motorway. There were only a few military vehicles about, their drivers showing no interest in the civilian car, and there was still no sign of any roadblocks. It was as though the city had been evacuated, not occupied, and yet a sense of nameless evil hung over it.
The suburbs fell behind them and soon the lights of the airport came into view across a flat expanse of desert. The Mercedes began to slow down and a few moments later Noura saw the barricade ahead, barrels drawn across the exit road and flashlight beams dancing in the hands of soldiers. She sat rigid with tension as the Iraqi brought the car to a halt, lowering his window, letting in a gush of hot air.
A young officer sauntered over. Ghani held out an identity document, and at the sight of it the soldier stiffened to attention.
‘Estikhbarat?’ he said. ‘My apologies for troubling you. And the lady . . .?’
Ghani answered for her. ‘My wife. We are travelling privately to Baghdad.’ He had another document ready, presumably the shahadat, the paper of Iraqi citizenship he had said he would procure for her. The officer gave it only a cursory glance.
‘Thank you. God give you a safe journey, ya-ustaz.’
The car moved forward. Ghani passed by the main terminal buildings and took a side road running parallel to a long wire fence. Behind this were signs of tremendous activity. Big transport planes were parked under floodlights at the edge of the airfield; trailers laden with cargo were being hauled into sheds and warehouses, or offloaded into waiting trucks. All this in the middle of the night, presumably to avoid the daytime scrutiny of American reconnaissance planes.
At the end of the fence was a gate guarded by more troops. Another brief inspection of their documents got them through, apparently into some section of the airport reserved for military use. Soldiers swarmed everywhere, and Noura had a sense of having penetrat
Ghani swung onto an unmarked route behind a long line of buildings, away from the lights and the bustle. Noura had lost all sense of direction but guessed they were heading towards an outer edge of the airfield. Off to one side she could see a section of runway, a black stripe flanked by rows of lights disappearing across the desert.
The car made another turn as it reached the last of the buildings. The Iraqi drove a short way down a strip of concrete paving and stopped. He switched off the engine and the lights, letting darkness envelop them. He opened the glove box, and by the dim lamp inside it she saw him take out a heavy pistol. He cocked it, engaged the safety catch and slipped it into his pocket.
‘We walk from here,’ he said.
They got out of the car and, in spite of the heat, Noura felt a shiver of apprehension. This place seemed utterly deserted, vaguely sinister. The building they were parked beside was a huge, windowless structure, at least a hundred metres square and made of dark-painted corrugated iron. She took it to be an aircraft hangar. To the other side was a fenced-off area containing fuel storage tanks; beyond that was nothing but desert.
Ghani led her to the wall of the building and they moved along beside it. In the shadow that it had cast the darkness seemed absolute. When they reached the corner he paused and held up his hand, cautioning silence.
The front of the hangar faced out on to a concrete apron. The building had high steel doors arranged in movable sections, some of which had been folded back to make an opening a few metres wide. A light from inside was thrown across the apron to where a plane was parked.
Her heart lifted at the sight of the plane. It was a private jet, its smooth, pale shape similar to that of her father’s Lear, but bigger. Two engines were mounted to the rear of its fuselage. A door just behind the cockpit was open and a ramp led up to it. The cabin lights were on but there was no sign of anyone in or near it.
A noise came from within the hangar. It was a low, rumbling sound as if something heavy was being rolled across the floor. It stopped after a few seconds and then she heard a brief, incoherent murmur of men’s voices.
Ghani did not seem to share Noura’s relief. If anything he was more uneasy than ever. He was looking furtively around and she realized that he smelt of nervous sweat.
‘Go to the plane,’ he whispered suddenly.
Noura began to ask why but he cut her short with an angry mutter. ‘Go there. Wait for me.’
She was reluctant to leave the protection of the darkness but she stepped forward. In her rubber-soled sandals she walked silently out onto the apron.
The aircraft was about thirty metres away. As she approached it she saw that the ramp leading to the door had no steps, only metal rollers for loading cargo. She scrambled awkwardly up it and ducked in through the door.
It was hotter than ever in the airless cabin, but what she saw made her forget her discomfort. Apart from the pilot’s seat and the one beside it, there was room for six or eight passenger seats. All but two of these seemed to have been removed. Wooden pallets were spread out on the open deck space, three layers of them on which rows of curious yellow slabs had been placed, the size and shape of small bricks. There was something familiar about the look of them – their texture, the way they reflected the dim cabin lights with a soft metallic glow – that she couldn’t quite call to mind.
She glanced uncertainly back towards the hangar. If Ghani was still at the corner he was invisible in the darkness. A shadow crossed the lighted opening in the building and Noura instinctively flinched back from the doorway, moving further into the cabin.
Her way was blocked by the stack of yellow bricks. She bent down and pressed her palm to one on the top row. It had a cold, smooth, slightly soapy feel. It was small enough to allow her fingers to grip it, but when she tried to pick it up it seemed stuck to the pallet. She realized it was too heavy for her hand to lift.
In a moment of insight she understood what it was. A few years ago a jewellery firm on a promotional visit from New York had put a bar of pure gold on display in a glass case in the lobby of the Phoenicia Hotel. It had been the same size and shape as these bricks, and according to the explanatory notice it had been worth a hundred and fifty thousand American dollars. In this plane there were several dozen of them at least, possibly hundreds. There were more of them to come, for extra pallets were stacked against a bulkhead to the rear.
She felt faintly dizzy and questions crowded her mind. If this was the aircraft that was to fly them to safety, why had it been loaded with this cargo? And did Ghani know about it?
Faintly, the odd rumbling sound she had heard through the hangar wall reached her again. Glancing out through a porthole, she saw a man silhouetted against the opening, manoeuvring a contraption out of it, a two-handled trolley with metal wheels which he trundled noisily across the concrete. There was just enough light for her to see the gleam of gold bars on the trolley. He was bringing another load of them to the plane.
Noura dropped to the floor, out of sight through the porthole. Bewilderment had given way to fear. Where was Ghani? If he’d explained what was going on she would not have felt so helpless. She knew so little of Ghani – not even who he really was – that it was impossible to guess at his intentions.
She heard the trolley draw closer. Though she did not understand what was happening, she felt sure now that she had not been meant to be a part of these proceedings, that they had nothing to do with Ghani’s obligations to her father, and yet that her fate was bound up in them. Her friend, Dale, had been right to question the trust she had put in the man.
The trolley stopped beside the plane. She heard the man grunt with effort as he lifted the first of the new batch of gold bars on to the ramp. Then she heard his exclamation of surprise.
Light flooded into the cabin through the portholes and the doorway. Bright, glaring shafts of it, overlapping each other. The headlights of cars racing onto the apron, their beams sweeping around like searchlights. The discordant roar of engines shattered the silence. Tyres shrieked, doors slammed; there came the sounds of men shouting and running, from close by and from some distance away.
And then, shooting.
Two or three hard bangs somewhere near the plane. Half a dozen more echoing explosively inside the hangar. More confused shouting, more milling around.
Noura hadn’t dared lift her head. She lay face-down on the deck of the plane, hearing her breath coming in quick, stifled gasps through her veil. Excited voices reached her from beyond the doorway, and then there were men stumbling up the ramp, over the metal rollers. Two or three of them bulking against the cabin lights, smelling of sweat and tobacco, one of them pulling her roughly to her feet and propelling her forward. Dazedly she recognized the blue overalls that were the uniform of the Mukhabarat, the Iraqi special police.
They manhandled her to the cabin door and flung her down the ramp.
She was pitched head-first down the rollers and landed in a heap at the bottom, breaking her fall with her hands but grazing them searingly on the Tarmac. She was seized and lifted again, half-dragged between two men. She felt a strange tackiness on her face and her burning hands, and realized she had fallen in a patch of blood. It had formed beside the body of another blue-uniformed man who lay on the ground, his trolley of gold bars overturned beside him.
The Mukhabarat pushed her to the door of the hangar. Of the three or four cars that were parked around it the closest was a black Cadillac, polished to a bright sheen, its chromework gleaming in the reflection of its own headlights. A pennant hung from a post on its wing and a man in a pale uniform and a dark beret sat in the back. Inside the building, lamps set among the high steel girders shone down on a squat, heavy van. It was an armoured security vehicle of the sort used for transporting money, but painted in desert-coloured military camouflage. Through the open rear doors more gold bars were visible, stacked on pallets like loaves in a baker’s van.
Beside the vehicle, two more men were sprawled. Blood stained their blue overalls and had run in rivulets from beneath their bodies to mix and begin congealing in a single large pool. Beyond any sense of horror now, Noura thought: It’s their own people they’ve been killing.
