Spoils of War, page 10
It was half-past three before he got back to the Muthanna. Turning the corner beside the building, he noticed a police Land Rover standing by the front entrance but thought no more about it until he had left the Granada in the basement and was trudging up the stairs. As he entered the foyer, heading for the next flight up, he saw two men in khaki uniforms and black berets leaning against the porter’s desk. They straightened up when they saw him and one of them called: ‘Mr Rushton!’
He stopped, puzzled and a little apprehensive. The man who knew his name came towards him and Jack recognized one of the cops who had been in the outer office at the Nayef Palace the night before.
‘Mr Rushton, you were not in your apartment so we waited for you here. We are sent by Major Al-Shaheb. He asks you to come with us, please.’
‘Where to?’ Jack asked blankly.
‘Just to come. Not for long. Something he wishes to talk to you about.’
Jack wanted to ask more questions but sensed that the men either couldn’t or wouldn’t answer. Although logic suggested there was nothing sinister about the summons, he was uneasily reminded that this was one of the group who had taken part in the beating of the Palestinian suspect last night.
‘All right,’ he said, and followed the men from the building.
8
The policeman who had done the talking drove the Land Rover. His companion sat beside him and Jack crouched on the rear seat as they entered the junction beside the Muthanna and turned towards the Al-Jahra Gate. At least, he noted with relief, they weren’t taking him back to the Nayef Palace. They joined the main westbound road and soon were speeding past Al-Shuwaikh Port and the suburbs that straggled beyond it along the shore of the Gulf.
Neither of the cops seemed disposed to talk, so Jack sat in silence and gazed at the passing view. More American military convoys, going in both directions. The shells of more abandoned Iraqi trucks, many of them stripped by scavenging Bedouin of their wheels, doors and even engines. The high-rise apartment blocks of migrant Asian workers, outwardly untouched but looking neglected after the mass departures that had followed the invasion.
The suburbs thinned out and gave way to desert on one side, salty marshlands fringing the sea on the other. The air was much cleaner here than it had been in the city, although blotches of smoke lay on the northern horizon where the Raudhatain oil wells had been set alight. The bay became narrower, giving a hazy view of the Jal az-Zawr escarpment on its far side that was almost the only high ground in the country. The road they were on now was the main route to the Iraqi border and it was over there, at the Mutla Ridge, where Operation Desert Storm had reached its gruesome climax, where the Allied planes had trapped the main body of Saddam Hussein’s fleeing forces and visited a terrible ordeal of destruction upon them.
Well short of there, the Land Rover turned on to a secondary road heading inland. Jack became uneasy again until he saw up ahead the concrete pillars of a gateway with a sandbagged guard post beside it, and the Kuwaiti flag hanging limp from a pole, and recognized the entrance to the Al-Jahra military base. Barbed-wire fencing stretched away into the desert on either side of the gate. Behind it were clusters of low, yellow-brown buildings and, in the distance, the control tower of an airfield.
The driver halted at a striped boom blocking the road just inside the entrance. The vehicle was apparently expected, for the sentries raised the barrier almost at once and they drove through, past neat rows of barrack huts, parade grounds made of compacted sand and vehicle parks crammed with American trucks painted in desert camouflage.
The place simmered with activity under the late-afternoon sun. Mechanics, stripped to the waist, crawled over tanks and self-propelled guns. Officers bustled in and out of an important-looking building that seemed to be the base headquarters, but the Land Rover passed this by and went down a side road that led to a group of huts separated from the main camp. They were identical to the others but were cordoned off by a high wall made of breezeblocks and topped with a double row of barbed wire. The painted wooden board outside it was inscribed in Arabic, but Jack needed no translation to identify it as a military prison.
The Land Rover stopped beside a gate of wire mesh guarded by military police in white helmets. The cops got out, telling Jack to follow, and after they’d exchanged a few words with the MPs the gate was unlocked and they were led inside.
There were three iron-roofed barrack huts grouped around a small parade ground, no doubt used for punishment drill. Two of the buildings had steel doors and rows of small windows screened with mesh; the third was apparently divided into offices, with wooden stable doors that opened on to a veranda. In contrast to the rest of the camp the place seemed strangely deserted. The tens of thousands of Iraqi POWs captured last month were being held elsewhere, in camps hastily prepared for them, and presumably not many Kuwaiti soldiers had done anything to merit a spell in detention in the short time since the liberation.
Major Al-Shaheb came to the door of one of the offices as Jack was steered towards it. Today he was casually dressed in a khaki safari suit and sandals. He looked tired, with a greyness beneath his dark skin, but his eyes were bright and he gave Jack a grin and a hearty handshake.
‘I’m glad you could make it,’ he said.
‘At first I wasn't sure I was being given a choice.’
‘I think you’ll find your time isn’t wasted,’ the major said, either unaware of the sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. ‘There’s a man here I’ve arranged for you to meet. He may tell you more about your Colonel Jalloul.’
‘Who is he?’
Al-Shaheb barked an order at Jack’s two escorts, who turned and marched hastily away. He faced his visitor again and spoke with quiet satisfaction.
‘He is one of the Mukhabarat, the secret police. We picked up three of them in Hawalli, the Palestinian quarter, in the early hours this morning. The interrogation of our little friend last night was quite productive, you see.’ Pointedly. ‘He gave us the names and addresses of some more of his compatriots who had been sheltering these snakes.’
The memory returned to Jack of the naked man, handcuffed and bleeding, and he wondered queasily how much more it had taken to prise this information out of him.
Al-Shaheb continued: ‘These three were among those who did not succeed in escaping at the time of Desert Storm. They’ve been in hiding for nearly a month. We keep them out here, away from any possible contact with their sympathizers, until they are ready to tell us of the whereabouts of others. And while we prepare charges of war crimes against them.’ He paused. ‘The one who will interest you is a Lieutenant Daoud Fadel. He worked in the office of Jalloul at the time of his disappearance.’
‘And knows something about it?’
‘He told me a little. It’s not a matter of direct concern to me – you understand? – so I have not questioned him closely about it. I leave that to you,’ the major said magnanimously.
Jack felt as though he’d been offered an unwanted gift that he had no idea how to refuse. The notion of his interrogating an Iraqi secret policeman was weird, to say the least, and it brought him a sudden step closer to recognizing the bizarre nature of his undertaking. He didn’t know whether he was up to it. Al-Shaheb was hinting loftily, however, that he was not going to make Dr Hamadi’s business his own.
‘Is this Lieutenant . . . Fadel? . . . willing to talk to me?’
‘I will see to it that he does. He is perhaps the least co-operative of the three, but one can use subtle threats against such a man. I’ve told him it will be to his own benefit to meet you. Also, he speaks English. I’ve had him moved to a cell block on his own, where nothing will be overheard by his comrades or the guards. Shall we go?’
The policeman stepped down from the veranda. He set off briskly towards the farther of the two other buildings, and with Jack hurrying to stay beside him he continued talking.
‘Fadel was appointed to Jalloul’s staff soon after the occupation began. Military Intelligence is, of course, a part of the army structure, but the secret police insist on having a hand in everything. Officially a man like Fadel would have some sort of liaison function; in practice he was probably put there to keep an eye on Jalloul. He claims to have been just a clerk of some sort, but I have no doubt that he took part in the usual dirty business of the Mukhabarat: arrests, tortures, random killings. He acts tough, but in time we’ll get a confession out of him.’
‘And then?’ said Jack.
They had reached the steel door at the gable end of the barrack hut. Al-Shaheb lifted a small flap that was set in the door at head height and bawled through the opening. When he turned to Jack his features had the same hard, professional look they had taken on the night before, once the bland pleasantries of Dr Hamadi’s diwania were out of the way.
‘Then he will hang, Mr Rushton. All three of them will hang, and they know it. They’ll be given a fair trial but already there is no doubt of their guilt.’
‘Then what can Fadel gain out of talking to me?’
‘Hope, Mr Rushton. Even the most fatalistic of condemned men retains a little hope. He also has nothing to lose. What you want to know has no bearing on his own crimes, and if he co-operates perhaps he will earn a little goodwill.’
The heavy door swung open, pushed from within by one of a pair of MPs who stepped aside for them to enter and saluted the major. In the small vestibule were two folding chairs and a table at which the guards had been playing sheshbesh. From there a corridor ran down the centre of the building, flanked by five doors on either side. Heat had built up during the day beneath the iron roof, intensifying the smell of carbolic that filled the place. One of the guards led them to the last door on the left, slid back the bolt and opened it.
The cell was about three metres square and was furnished with an iron-framed army bed, a chair, a table and a prayer mat. Surprisingly, it had a flush lavatory in one corner with a washbasin beside it. There was even a towel rail with a khaki hand towel folded over it. The light from the unglazed window was reduced by the protective mesh to a near-twilight gloom, but the place looked clean and was not unduly cramped. Kuwaiti oil wealth had trickled down even to this level.
Lieutenant Daoud Fadel sat cross-legged on the camouflage-patterned sleeping-bag that covered the bed. He’d been given a pair of Kuwaiti army overalls that he wore with red plastic flip-flops, the overalls unbuttoned to the waist and showing beads of sweat among a few strands of black chest hair. He was a slender man of about twenty-five with a narrow face, curly black hair and a standard-issue Arab moustache. His eyes were his only remarkable feature; they were sapphire blue, as hard and bright as jewels against his sallow complexion.
His hands rested on his knees. He looked up at his visitors but otherwise did nothing to acknowledge their arrival. His gaze travelled from Al-Shaheb to Jack and back again, showing no curiosity. The policeman spoke a few gruff sentences in Arabic and Fadel settled his stare, with a hint of disdain, on Jack.
‘Talk to him,’ Al-Shaheb said carelessly. ‘Ask him whatever you want. The answers won’t interest me, just as long as he gives them.’
Jack felt more than ever inadequate to the task, but he pulled the chair over to the centre of the room and sat on it, facing the Iraqi. Al-Shaheb leaned against the door, saying no more, presumably ready to guarantee the promised co-operation.
‘I understand that you speak English,’ Jack began self-consciously. He waited for a reply, and when none came he went on. ‘Lieutenant Fadel, my name is Jack Rushton. I’m a British civilian. I have no official position here, and no interest in whatever crimes you may be accused of in Kuwait. The major is doing me a favour by letting me talk to you about a matter that’s quite unrelated to his own business with you.’
Again, no response. The prisoner’s silence was contemptuous, but from his steady, concentrated look Jack knew the man was absorbing what was said. He plunged on with his explanation.
‘I’m making enquiries about a Colonel Ibrahim Jalloul of the Iraqi Military Intelligence, who disappeared from Kuwait last September. I believe you worked with him during the occupation, in his office. I want to find out what became of him, where he might be now. Nothing more.’
This time Fadel did react. He uncrossed his legs and swung them over the side of the bed. The luminous blue eyes narrowed with hostility as he spoke for the first time, addressing Al-Shaheb in Arabic, in a thin but steady voice. The policeman responded and suddenly they were arguing incomprehensibly over Jack’s head. He felt even more out of things, a foreigner and a bewildered interloper.
Finally the argument stopped and Al-Shaheb addressed Jack.
‘He says he will not co-operate with the enemies of Iraq. He says he is a True Believer, and if God wills that he must die then he will do so honourably. I told him there are worse fates than hanging.’ The major flashed an angry, gold-edged smile at Jack. ‘I told him that if he doesn’t help you I will turn him over to the families of those he tortured. That they will cut him to pieces slowly and leave his parts in the desert to be eaten by the jackals.’
If this was the policeman’s idea of a subtle threat, Jack wondered how he would phrase a straightforward one. Fadel appeared unmoved by it anyway, withdrawing back into himself. Al-Shaheb spoke to him again and got a few words in reply. He made a show of disbelief.
‘He still defies us. He says you have not done him the courtesy of explaining the purpose of your enquiries. Courtesy! To him! I’ve told the pig it’s none of his business.’
‘I can’t go too far into the reasons . . .’
‘Exactly. If I don’t want to know them, why should he?’
‘. . . but I’d like him to understand that I’m not an enemy of his country. That I’m not looking for Jalloul to make him answer for anything, only trying to help someone else.’
‘You’re wasting your time, Mr Rushton.’ The prisoner’s unexpected stubbornness was costing Al-Shaheb face, getting him flustered. He pushed himself off the wall and cracked his knuckles. ‘Give me half an hour with him and I promise he will tell you everything.’
‘No!’
Jack said the word more in nervousness than defiance, but it came out with unintended vehemence. The major paused and frowned. As Jack gathered his thoughts, trying to find a way out of this impasse, Fadel suddenly said: ‘Let me speak alone to you.’
Jack turned in surprise. The request, in English, had been addressed to him. The prisoner’s face had revealed only anger and defiance since the other two had entered the cell, but new there was anxiety in his expression. It occurred to Jack that for most of the time he had been talking about Fadel and not to him, almost avoiding the reality of his presence.
‘I will speak to you,’ the Iraqi repeated. ‘Not with him here.’
‘Te’ban!’ muttered Al-Shaheb. ‘Now the snake wants to make his own rules.’ He moved threateningly forward but Jack held up a hand.
‘Perhaps it would be best if we did talk alone.’
‘He will lie to you, Mr Rushton,’ the policeman protested. ‘I will know when he’s lying. You won’t.’
‘Let me try, please. You say you’re not concerned with his answers, anyway.’
‘As you wish.’
His back stiff with disapproval, Al-Shaheb went to the door and bellowed for the guards. He was let out of the cell and Jack waited until their footsteps had retreated to the end of the corridor before he turned back to Fadel.
The prisoner looked relieved. His sapphire eyes were vivid in the murky light, and Jack wondered again at their colouring. There were Turks and Kurds with blue eyes; perhaps Fadel’s family had had an infusion of non-Arab blood. He wondered as well whether the cell might be bugged, but thought it unlikely.
‘What do you want to tell me?’ Jack asked.
‘You say you want Jalloul. You do not say why.’
‘I’ll tell you as much as I can without betraying any confidences. Before he disappeared, Jalloul made a certain arrangement with a man from Kuwait. A wealthy man with plenty of influence. Wasta – you understand? The arrangement involved a lot of money but it went wrong. There’s no question of any criminal action against Jalloul, I just want to find him and straighten things out.’ Jack hesitated, not quite sure how much English Fadel actually had. ‘I’m acting on behalf of this Kuwaiti, as a sort of financial consultant. Do you know what that is? Do you follow me, Lieutenant?’
Fadel considered his reply. He said: ‘Mr . . . Rushton? I studied English at school and at the University of Basra. I am by profession a translator. I understand you well.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jack murmured. The rebuke had been as gentle as it was surprising.
‘All right,’ the prisoner said equably. He glanced towards the door. ‘What I know is not for Al-Shaheb to hear. What does he promise for me if I talk to you?’
‘He said you might want to earn some goodwill. I suppose he means favourable treatment, privileges. He didn’t explain exactly.’
‘He is a lying dog,’ Fadel said with casual contempt. ‘He will give me nothing. I suppose he told you also that I am a torturer. He will make up evidence against me so that he can hang me. It is useless to talk to Al-Shaheb. Perhaps you will listen.’
‘Listen to what?’
‘I am forbidden visitors; I have been given no lawyer. I am an innocent man but I will have no chance to show it. That is why I wanted to see you alone. I ask you to help me, Mr Rushton.’
Jack could not conceal his surprise. ‘Me? I don’t think I can do anything. I have no influence with the police.’
‘But you have your rich friend. The one with good wasta. Wasta is everything here. Let him plead for me.’
Jack had the feeling that Fadel had taken control of the conversation and was steering it where it suited him. He was an intelligent man, and for someone who had been all but condemned to death he seemed remarkably self-possessed.
‘Why don’t we talk about Jalloul first?’
