The Gilgamesh Conspiracy Read online

  She was about to sink wearily to the bottom of the raft when something caught her eye. The rising sun was reflecting off a plastic water bottle floating about twenty metres away. She realised that she was desperately thirsty and she was about to dive in after it but then stopped and gave the matter some thought whilst keeping her gaze fixed on the bottle. Fortuitously the breeze was blowing towards the water bottle so if she swam towards it, at least the wind would not carry the raft away from her. She was a pretty good swimmer and she should be able to get there and back quite quickly. What about sharks? There were no tell-tale fins and she would have to take that chance.

  ‘Here goes, then,’ she announced to the barren sea scape and prepared to slide over the side. She stopped. Her clothes had at least drained off some of the sea water and it would be silly to soak them again and besides she could swim better without them. She quickly undressed whilst keeping her eye on the bottle, but then she took a modest look around at Ali to check he wasn’t watching her before removing her underwear. She draped her clothes over the broad cylindrical side of the raft and then slid over it into the sea.

  She reached the bottle but to her intense disappointment there was only about a litre remaining in it. Then with some excitement she saw another one floating nearby. She gazed back at the raft and experienced a moment of panic when she could not see it. She realised it was over the other side of a wave crest and moments later it rose back into her view. She felt herself being lifted up by the same wave a little later and she struck out strongly for the second bottle, grabbed it and found that this one was two thirds full. She swam back for the first one. Swimming whilst holding on to a couple of two litre bottles was harder than she imagined, and it took her much longer to regain the raft.

  ‘Ali, watch out, here come some water bottles!’ she called. She flung them on board and prepared to climb up but then she realised she needed to pee, and while she was floating beside the raft she saw two packages just below the surface that were tethered to the end of the raft. She pulled up the nearest one. It proved to be a waterproof bag fastened with a black plastic zip. She tried to fling it into the raft but it fell back into the water. She cursed and reached for it again, but then realised she was being foolish. It would be much easier to pull the things up whilst on the raft. She heaved herself on board and tugged at the line and pulled the bag up over the side. She tore open the zip hoping to find more water and some emergency food rations but instead found some curious unidentifiable items and a waterproofed booklet. Finally she pulled out a folded up sheet of plasticised cloth. She began to unfold it and then saw that the water bottles had rolled to the edge of the raft. She retrieved them and hurriedly uncapped one and put it against her lips, then gave a short shriek as she jabbed the plastic neck painfully into the cut on her lip. She waited for her jangled nerve endings to calm down and then more cautiously allowed herself one good drink and then crawled over to Ali.

  ‘Wake up! Here’s some water.’

  He moaned and muttered something but made no other response. She patted his cheek and then pulled his ear.

  ‘Open your mouth you idiot. I’ve got you some water!’

  She pushed his lips apart with the bottle and shouted ‘Come on drink it!’

  His mind seemed to snap out of its stupor because he opened his mouth and sucked greedily at his half a litre of water. When it was finished he opened his eyes and gazed at Gerry and then grew round eyed in shock.

  ‘You…you’re naked!’ he held up a hand and shielded her from his sight.

  ‘And you’re alive. Listen Ali you’ve got to tell me everything you know about the Gilgamesh thing, so make sure you stay alive, ok?’

  ‘Please get dressed first,’ he said closing his eyes. She crawled over to the other side of the raft clothes and with some effort tugged her clammy clothes back on. She glanced back at Hamsin. ‘Ok I’m dressed you can open your eyes again. He glanced warily towards her and then gave a little nod. ‘I think it all started at the end of December back in 1983, when my country was embroiled in its war with Iran. I was a junior translator but fortunately or unfortunately I had attracted the attention of Hakim Mansour…’

  * * * * *

  Saddam Hussein, clad in the drab green para-military uniform of the Baath party, strode into the room followed by his entourage. He held out his hand to Donald Rumsfeld who wore the civilian uniform of grey business suit, white shirt and tie. He clasped the dictator’s hand and smiled with the self-assurance of a special envoy of the President of the United States. Other grey suited Americans were introduced and shook hands with green uniformed Iraqis whilst the Iraqi television cameras recorded a scene of cheerful bonhomie. As befitted his role as a mere interpreter, Ali Hamsin remained unobtrusive in the background while waiting for his services to be called upon.

  Prior to this stage-managed event, he had attended the private meeting at which Rumsfeld had delivered an encouraging message from the leader of the most powerful nation in the world to a country in the middle of a desperate war. He had assured Saddam Hussein that in the near future the Iraqi leader could expect a restoration of diplomatic relations between the two countries and the delivery of helicopters and weapons systems to the Iraqi army, either directly from the USA or from its regional allies.

  The American who was responsible for the detailed presentation had smiled as he outlined the measures that would aid the Iraqi people in their struggle against the Iranian regime that had caused so many problems to both countries. Saddam Hussein smiled too, but his expression was meaningless. He would smile or frown irrespective of whether he was ordering a man to be taken to Al Graib prison or congratulating him on the birth of a son.

  The interpreter glanced at the Deputy Prime Minister Tariq Aziz who gave a brief nod. He looked toward Saddam Hussein’s chest as he spoke to him. ‘Shall I make the speech of thanks, Sir?’ Hamsin asked.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied the Iraqi President. ‘Express our gratitude to Mr Rumsfeld and his delegation for their visit and make all the proper remarks.’ Saddam Hussein’s smile broadened under the heavy moustache. Ali Hamsin nodded and turned slightly towards the American.

  ‘His Excellency the President of The Republic of Iraq would like to thank the President of the United States for his support in the struggle against their common enemy, and would like to invite him for an official visit in happier and more peaceful times. And now we would like to express personal thanks to you, his personal envoy for this most useful exchange of views and ideas, and all best wishes for a safe journey home.’

  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 taki
ng 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

  1st January 2003

  Gerry Tate was thoroughly bored. The evening in the bar in the United Kingdom’s embassy in Kuwait had started off with a heated debate about the developing Iraq situation which appeared to be escalating towards a crisis point, but as the hour had approached midnight, the alcohol consumed by her fellow drinkers had slowly dragged the conversation down to a convivial but frivolous level in keeping with a New Year celebration. She gazed at the clock mounted on the wall above the rows of bottles behind the bar and when it reached 3.00am she and her few remaining fellow drinkers, mostly young and exclusively male, raised their glasses and called out ‘Happy New Year!’

  Along with a much larger group she had made the same greeting three hours previously, but that had been at midnight local time. A few staff with no family or little regard for their exhausted spouses had decided that it could not properly be New Year until the time reached midnight in London, three hours later than Kuwait. Not, they assured one another, because they yearned for their home country but merely because that was the location of the prime meridian through Greenwich, and any right thinking person would know that this must be the correct time to celebrate the New Year even if they lived in New Zealand or Los Angeles or any place in between.

  Gerry’s opinion was that this was a load of bollocks, but she was in the executive operations department of the British intelligence service and accustomed to guarding her thoughts. She had stayed on in the embassy bar because it was her task to determine the loyalty of a middle-aged diplomat named Laurence Baxter who now stood four feet to her left and who was draining his seventh beer of the evening. A neutral observer might think that Gerry was as inebriated as Baxter, having been plied with free drinks by the men who had been eager to make at least the acquaintance of the tall, attractive young woman who had appeared amongst them a few days ago. In fact a quiet word with the barman had ensured that whenever someone bought her another gin and lemonade he had only poured lemonade into her glass. He had been very surprised when she had made the request, but when she su
ggested that he should pocket the difference in price he had been happy enough to agree.

  Gerry watched Baxter stagger off towards the gentlemen’s toilets and concluded that if he was going to pass any information to his Russian girlfriend tonight then it was unlikely to be coherent. She actually felt sorry for the woman who had to endure his attentions, and imagined that she would be relieved when she found out that he had been recalled to London. Gerry’s remaining task was to establish whether Baxter genuinely believed his girlfriend to be a Canadian citizen or if he knew that she was Russian.

  ‘Excuse me gentlemen,’ she said and walked off towards the doorway.

  ‘Oh you’re not leaving us are you Emily?’ said a drunken commercial secretary, a handsome twenty-five year old Oxford graduate who had decided that now was the moment to make a serious pass and he grabbed her by the arm.

  A moment later, without understanding how, he had lost his footing and now he was sprawled on the floor with the remains of his beer spilt over him and acclaimed with raucous laughter by his fellow drinkers. Gerry walked casually on and disappeared inside the ladies’ cloakroom. Peeping out through the cracked open doorway she watched Baxter stagger out the gents’ and towards the security post at the main entrance. She followed a few paces behind as they approached the one remaining guard manning the entrance. Rather than waving them through the security gate he carefully checked their IDs and insisted that they walk through the archway scanner that until recently had only been used to search people entering the embassy. With the continuing build-up of American and Allied troops along the Iraqi border as the crisis escalated towards a probable invasion, the guards were taking no chances, although Gerry could not imagine what she might take out of the embassy that would cause any security problem. She watched Baxter collide with the side of the archway as he staggered through and saw the security man shake his head in disgust. She walked through herself, said a quick ‘good night’ and then followed him outside.