Authors: Roy David
Kowolski hadn’t given her a deadline, but he was just as likely to stun her with a surprise date for McDermott’s big day in New York. She needed to be ready.
She was just about to pick up the phone to call the lab when it rang. Unmistakable; the voice of Greg Spencer.
‘I’ll have to be quick,’ he said, a nervous edge to his voice. ‘You get the message from our friend?’
‘I’ve been working on it all day – there’s nothing new. It’s all out in the open here. We’d been secretly supplying Iraq for years with chemicals.’
‘No, not that stuff, the other info. It’s dynamite.’
A shiver ran through her. ‘What other stuff?’
But the line suddenly went dead. Frantic, she tried to call him back – no response. Hurrying over to her computer she scrolled down the pages of Aban’s email, convinced she hadn’t missed
anything. Page after page flashed by. No, she’d covered everything. So what the hell was Greg talking about?
Slumping back in her chair, her mind began racing. There’d been over a hundred emails waiting for her when she got back – and she still hadn’t read half of them. Opening her inbox, she ran down the list. Nothing else from Aban. Many of the others were simply junk. She often cursed why they weren’t always filtered to the spam file on her Hotmail account, the one she used to pick up her emails when abroad. It always confused her how some got through to her main account and some didn’t.
Then the thought struck her. Her spam file! Logging into her Hotmail server, she waited for the tab to appear, impatiently tapping her fingers on the edge of her desk. She clicked on the spam box. Her eyes flicked over the lines of blue type – and there it was. Another email from Aban, with the heading: ‘Greetings’.
Opening it, Alex began devouring the contents. She gave out a low whistle as she took in the implications of Aban’s overview of the material. It was just as Greg had described, dynamite. Hundreds of firms from around the world, including America, had paid kickbacks to Saddam during the seven terrible years of sanctions against Iraq in the UN’s oil for food programme starting in 1996. This definitely had not been published.
She nodded to herself as she read further, understanding Aban’s take on how the scam worked. Companies exporting a controlled range of goods to Iraq had their invoices paid from a UN bank account. In turn, Iraq was allowed to sell oil, the proceeds going back to that UN account to balance the books.
But Aban’s documents showed firms had been secretly sending ten per cent of the invoice value as an upfront payment directly to Saddam’s coffers. These payments were classed by Iraq as ‘trucking and service fees’.
The company then inflated the price of its invoice by that ten per cent – which the UN, unknowingly, paid in full.
Aban explained he had heard rumours of such a slush fund.
Now he was convinced Saddam and his inner circle had obviously raked in millions of dollars, probably billions, while the country grew steadily weaker. Children had died in their thousands because of the sanctions. The tales of suffering were endless. Infant mortality alone had sent Iraq scurrying back to the Dark Ages.
Aban was hoping Alex and his other ‘good friend’, Mr Greg, could bring the matter to the public’s attention.
Alex read further, discovering there was an extra edge to the situation. It appeared some powerful foreign individuals, friendly to Saddam, had received millions of dollars of oil credits. Through a myriad of shell companies, the Iraq government had given them the rights to buy several million barrels of its oil at a reduced price. This was then sold on at market rates to earn a healthy commission for the individual.
She sat back in her chair, astounded. It was fraud and corruption on a mammoth scale.
But what could she do about it? Who could she tell?
* * *
It was a little after two in the morning – eight hours ahead in Iraq – by the time she switched off her computer, shattered. Summoning a final reserve of energy, she called Greg’s cell phone from her quick-dial menu. He would have ideas what to do about Aban’s material – his contacts were first class. The number did not ring out. She dialled it again, this time deliberately pressing each button, so she could hear the tune of each key. The number sounded unobtainable.
Maybe he’d left Baghdad and was on his way back to Oz although, when they’d spoken earlier, he’d made no mention of it. Perhaps he’d meant to before he was cut off.
Tiredness quickly taking over again, she felt somewhat relieved she hadn’t made contact. A dull ache pounded her brow and her head swam with questions she hadn’t the strength
to answer. She made her way to bed, vowing to speak to him in the morning.
Pulling the duvet tight around her, she lay there thinking what a strike for democracy it would be if they could make everything public.
Kowolski wouldn’t like it; Richard Northwood would hate it. And the White House would go berserk.
* * *
They came for Aban at 6.10 a.m. Iraq time.
A hammering on his door woke everyone in the house. Deep thuds like someone was trying to break in. Throwing on his dressing gown, he rushed to the window, could see five soldiers outside, one thumping the solid wooden door with his rifle. A Humvee lay parked at an angle in the street. He ran down the stairs, his heart in pieces, drew the bolts, and turned the key.
No sooner had he released the catch when the soldiers burst in. Two grabbed him before he could utter more than a cursory protest. Forcing his hands behind his back, he was quickly subdued with plastic handcuffs. Farrah appeared on the landing. She screamed.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ a soldier shouted, running up the stairs towards her.
Their sons appeared. Aban could see they were as scared and confused as he was.
‘On the floor, NOW,’ the soldier shouted at them, pushing Farrah roughly.
Aban tried to struggle free. A soldier hit him with his rifle butt, catching him to the right side of his forehead, blood immediately spilling down his face. Fighting hard not to faint, he felt his legs starting to wobble. Two soldiers entered his study. Panic gripped him. Then, a black cloth hood was roughly forced over his head and he was dragged outside. His head swam and his eyes stung from the blood dripping down his face.
‘What are you doing? What do you want of me?’ The words
came out in a disconcerted mumble. No one answered. They bundled him into the vehicle, pushing him down. Suddenly, he felt the bulk of two powerful bodies, one either side.
He wasn’t sure if he had passed out or not on the journey. Still dazed, he lurched against both captors each time the Humvee made a turn, could feel them pressed close. Their sweat smell taunted his intestines. Was the nausea that gripped him the result of his own fear? Where were they taking him? What for?
He sensed the vehicle finally stopping, stiffened when the door opened. A blast of warm, fresh air hit him. Trying to gulp a lungful of the sweet solace, he groaned as he was marched double time, a soldier either side grasping him firmly under each shoulder. He stumbled and was roughly pulled upright.
The jangle of keys, booming voices, a door clanging shut behind him. Then another door. Finally, he was pushed down into a sitting position, the cold of smooth metal chilling the backs of his knees through his thin pyjamas.
Foosteps, fading. Another heavy door closing. Now, alone. His wrists were numb where the plastic handcuffs seared his flesh. He tried to wiggle his fingers to ease the feeling back into them. Screwing each eye, he could tell the blood had dried, but still felt as if he was wearing a mask beneath the hood. And his head ached violently.
They left him in this state for more than twelve hours.
* * *
She was sound asleep when the shrill of her mobile on the bedside cabinet stirred her.
‘It’s me again.’ Greg’s voice carried the same edge as the previous night.
‘What the… you okay?’ Squinting at the clock, she cursed. It was just after 10 a.m. and she’d overslept.
‘Listen, no names, this thing – I got my room broken into. They stole my laptop and my phone.’
She sat up, startled, reached for her dressing gown. ‘How would anyone know – maybe just coincidence?’
‘It’s dangerous. Know what I’m saying?’
‘No one would know we…’
‘Don’t want to think about it. I can’t afford to get kicked out – I’ve been contracted for another three months in Baghdad. Just watch your back and get rid.’
The line went dead again. Alex wasn’t sure if it was Greg simply hanging up. She sat on the edge of the bed staring at her mobile. No wonder she couldn’t get through to him last night. Stolen? And his laptop? It was unlike Greg to scare like this. The man she thought she knew would have grabbed the Aban material with both hands and worked it until the cows came home. What did he mean by dangerous? And his opening words – ‘no names’ – did he think the lines were tapped or something?
Shit
.
Fastening her robe, she hurriedly made coffee, taking quick short sips from the steaming mug as she carried it to her desk. A blinding headache accompanied her – the price of oversleeping. She rubbed her temples with both hands. When she sat back, the sight of the blinking red button of the answer machine almost made her jump. She didn’t have a main line into the bedroom, relying on her mobile for emergencies. So, someone had called her main line during the night – and she had slept through it.
Greg’s call had frightened her. She stared at the machine, hesitant. Her finger trembled, hovering over the play button. Summoning her nerve, she pressed it. The voice was strained, pleading.
‘Alexandra. This is Farrah al-Tikriti, Aban’s wife. They have taken him, the soldiers. I don’t know where he is. Please help us.’
She replayed the message several times. The anguish in the voice was unmistakable.
‘No!’ Alex cried. Why would they take him? But she
answered herself just as quickly. He’d been a member of the Ba’athist Party – like everyone working for the government. There was a purge going on against former members. They’d rounded him up, probably a routine sweep.
Jesus
, the email. If they hadn’t known about it then, they would now. Soldiers didn’t march off with anyone without turning the house over. She could imagine the scene; garbage bags emptied, toilet cisterns lifted, files and papers removed. And computers taken.
Greg’s laptop stolen? Surely too much of a coincidence. If she was right, it would mean only one thing.
She was next on the list.
* * *
Quickly, she dressed. Pair of jeans, old sweater. Then tried to think. She switched on her laptop. Aban’s email jumped at her.
Just too good to dump
. But what the hell should she do? Who could she send it to? Who to trust? Who had the balls to investigate such stuff, never mind print it? Besides, might it be classified, therefore illegal? She couldn’t afford to be caught in possession of it, not now.
Opening the email again sent her into a spin. A receipt box appeared on the screen asking the recipient to acknowledge they had read the message.
Shit
. Did she see this last night and click the ‘yes’ button? If they’d taken Aban’s computer, the acknowledgement would show up and they would definitely know she’d read it. Alex couldn’t answer herself. She’d ended up so tired last night that, right now, she simply couldn’t remember.
Her mind flew in all directions. Surely she hadn’t given herself away with a weary click of the mouse? She stared at the screen, trying to concentrate, going over the sequence of last night’s events.
Then it dawned on her. For some reason, known only to computers, there mustn’t have been a box to click last night – or
she hadn’t noticed it – that’s why one was appearing now. Logic told her the message wouldn’t appear a second time had she already acknowledged receipt. She checked her ‘sent items’ file just to make sure. Nothing.
Relieved, she leant back in her chair and stared at the ceiling, puffing her cheeks and blowing out the tension, a slow, measured rasp from deep within. She wasn’t that computer literate but, she asked herself, if she deleted the email from all her files, could anyone tell whether or not she had actually read it?
It took only another thirty seconds before a detached logic hammered at her heart; this was the CIA she was dealing with. They could find out practically anything about anyone. The organisation hired the best brains in the business and, for all she knew, they’d already tapped into her email accounts. Maybe they knew at what time she’d opened Aban’s message.
Even if they hadn’t secretly investigated her, the last thing she needed was for a team of goons to call with a search warrant and whisk her computer away. Some of the research she’d done on Aban’s earlier email would be on her hard drive and the CIA would have no problem accessing that and pointing an accusatory finger her way. Being thrown into a cell didn’t figure on her list of things to do right now.
Working feverishly for the next couple of hours, half expecting a knock on her door at any minute, she transferred Aban’s material to a memory stick then deleted all his emails. She double-checked she’d wiped all trace of any correspondence from him on either of her servers. Next, she began work on her McDermott photos, transferring them to a different memory stick.
Her final job was to return to her email inbox. When she scrolled down to the bottom of the remaining list, she came to the oldest message on file, one she had opened and read countless times. It was from Richard Northwood, a passionate note sent only hours after they had first made love. She thought of deleting it, but checked herself. Then she called a cab.
While waiting for it to arrive, she unplugged everything from the back of the computer, lifting the modem on to the table. Fetching a screwdriver from the kitchen, she undid the back of the casing and peered inside.
‘This looks like it,’ she murmured, locating the hard drive among the confusion of wires and circuit boards. She reached in and scratched the lump of metal with the screwdriver – two marks that looked like a cross.
* * *
The electrical store was surprisingly busy which meant Alex had to stand in line for several minutes. At her turn, the shop phone rang prompting the sole assistant to throw up his arms in a gesture of helplessness. Resigned to further delay, Alex gestured for him to answer the call.