Fire Hawk (12 page)

Hardcastle strode back into the hotel.

‘It's from New York,' the New Zealand army captain told him. Where else? thought Hardcastle.

They entered the conference room which UNSCOM used as its operations centre, its walls papered with lists of equipment and personnel involved in Iraq's biological weapons programme. A couple of headquarters staff sat at work tables surrounded by papers, reference books and half-empty coffee mugs. The computers they tapped away at were notebooks whose liquid crystal displays didn't give out the radiation of desktop cathode ray screens, a radiation that could be read by Iraqi electronic monitoring devices set up in rooms nearby.

‘Over here, Mr Hardcastle.' The New Zealander handed him a sealed envelope. ‘Came on the secure fax link.'

‘Secure' didn't mean too much here. The UN's signals from New York used a low-level encryption system that could be cracked within an hour by a good Iraqi technician with a Pentium PC.

‘Thanks.' Hardcastle read the brief note, then grimaced. ‘Bugger!' A change of mission. ‘Damn, damn!' They'd just alerted the Iraqis to their interest in the Haji factory and now they weren't bloody going there. At least not today.

He re-read the fax.

New overhead imagery shows suspected building
materials and heavy plant at site known as Task Two. Urgent you change plan and inspect this site first.

Task Two. The patch of disturbed sand in the desert. Why not do both sites? Send half the team to the Haji place and half out to the wilderness. Why not? Because the Amn people would insist they hadn't the manpower to host both locations. Arrant nonsense of course, but it would provoke hours of prevarication.

‘Right, then,' Hardcastle puffed, resigned to the change of plan. He showed the signal to the New Zealander. ‘You need to know about this. I'll give you the co-ordinates.'

The UN was certain the monitoring centre itself was bugged, so they'd established the routine of passing critical information to one another in writing. Hardcastle jotted down a summary, together with the map reference.

Site is in middle of the desert. U-2 spotted sand disturbance a few days ago. Now think it's being built on. They could be putting up a building to conceal something interesting that's been buried there
.

He swung the small pack from his back and unzipped the map pocket in the lid.

‘I'll show you where on this.'

He unfolded one of the large-scale aviation charts which they used for navigating the desert around Baghdad.

‘X marks the spot.'

‘Got it,' said the New Zealander, marking up his own chart and writing down the exact co-ordinates.

‘Miles from bloody anywhere, as you can see,' Hardcastle complained.

‘And well beyond VHF I should think.'

The ops officer opened a ring-binder and checked his list of the communications masts used to link live pictures from the remote cameras and to extend their radio net.

‘As I thought,' he confirmed. ‘Nothing near it. It'll have to be the sat system.'

‘Don't worry, I'll keep in touch. You'll confirm to New York that I'm switching tasks?'

‘Of course, Mr Hardcastle. Happy hunting.'

Hardcastle stuffed the map back into his rucksack then swung it round onto his shoulders.

‘Thanks.'

Out in the car park Burgess was glad to see the Englishman reappear, whatever his reservations about him. He felt very much the new kid on the block and his American accent had prompted an adverse response from the short, weasel-faced headman of the Iraqi security team. The man, identified to them only as Mustafa, now stood waiting in the shade of a large tree, the armpits of his striped shirt dark with sweat, his gross stomach straining at its buttons.

‘Change of plan, I'm afraid,' Hardcastle grumbled, taking Burgess by the arm. ‘We're heading for the desert. Better inform our guard dogs. Where's Mustafa?'

‘Over there.'

They walked across the car park to the shade-giving tree, watched by the expressionless security man.

‘Mustafa, we have a problem,' Hardcastle announced abruptly.

‘We go now?'

‘Yes. We'd like to leave immediately, but not to where I told you.'

The Iraqi's pinched face darkened.

‘No Haji factory? They all ready for you there.'

You bet, Burgess mused.

‘No. Not the Haji factory today. There's another site we want to see that's west of Baghdad. About ninety k's from here. In the desert.'

Mustafa glared suspiciously at Hardcastle's folded-up air chart.

‘What other site? You have map reference? Co-ordinate?' he growled, hoisting up the trousers which had slipped under the weight of his belly.

‘Of course.'

‘Why you want to go there?' Mustafa bitched, making no attempt to conceal his annoyance.

‘Just for a look.'

Hardcastle spread out his map and pointed at the general area of interest. The Iraqi squinted at it. Needs glasses, thought Burgess, and too vain to wear them.

‘There is nothing in this place,' the Iraqi snapped dismissively. ‘I know this area. Just desert. Maybe some goats.'

‘Then you've no cause to be concerned, have you Mustafa?' Hardcastle purred.

‘You have exact co-ordinate?' the Iraqi repeated, making no attempt to conceal the hatred in his hard, brown eyes.

‘Yes.
I
have them.
You
don't need them.'

The security man bristled.

‘We'll take the highway that leads to Habbaniyah,' Hardcastle continued firmly. ‘
I'll
tell you when to turn off. Just follow my directions, okay? Get a move on, shall we? The sooner we're there, the sooner we can come back again.'

‘One moment . . .' The security man made to walk away with the map.

‘Hang on. That's mine.' Hardcastle grabbed it back. ‘Come on. Let's move it. I'll give you directions on the VHF when we get close.'

‘One moment,' the Iraqi repeated, turning towards his own jeep which was almost blocking the car park exit. ‘I have to check if is possible.'

‘It
is
possible,' Hardcastle growled between clenched teeth. ‘And don't you dare pretend otherwise, you little shit,' he added once the security man was out of earshot.

Burgess flinched at Hardcastle's high-handedness, suspecting that antagonising the minder would prove counterproductive.

‘He's real scared,' Burgess breathed. ‘Thinks we're onto something he doesn't know about.'

‘Probably,' said Hardcastle, then shouted after the Iraqi, ‘Five minutes, Mustafa. Five minutes, then we're setting off! Better tell the troops what's going on,' he added softly to Burgess. He strode over to the UN vehicles to warn his team of the switch to Task Two.

Burgess ambled to the front of the UN convoy and rested his backside against the wing of the leading four-wheel-drive. He watched the Iraqi minders huddle round their own map twenty yards away. They reminded him of a bunch of used car dealers plotting a mileage fraud.

It was nine-thirty in the morning and the last day of September, yet the sun was already blisteringly hot. He'd put on sunblock but was glad of the UN's baseball cap to give his fair skin some extra protection. He wore a long-sleeved, light-grey shirt – added to his bag by Carole in a moment of female practicality because it wouldn't show the dirt if he had to wear it for several days – and over it the fisherman's vest with pockets for his notebook, pens and a compass. Also some spare Hi-8 tapes for the camcorder he was to use to video all significant events. On his feet he wore a stout pair of Nikes.

Hardcastle joined him.

‘I think they're about to play silly buggers,' he warned, leaning against the mudguard next to him. ‘Time for some pressure. Get that camera out.'

Burgess opened his backpack and extracted the Sony. Hardcastle checked his watch.

‘He's had his five minutes. Let's go prod him.'

Burgess folded out the viewer, pressed record and followed in Hardcastle's wake, the camera at chest height. As they approached, one of the minders produced
his own camera and began videoing them. Mustafa emerged from his vehicle poker-faced.

‘Ready, Mustafa?' Hardcastle asked, knowing what the answer would be.

‘What you ask, it is not possible.'

‘What d'you mean? We can go wherever we want. You know that.'

‘National security . . .'

‘Bollocks!'

‘Yes. National security. Where you show me on the map it is a military training area.'

‘Rubbish!' Hardcastle snorted. ‘I know perfectly well where the training areas are and this isn't one of them. I demand you accompany us there. Immediately.'

‘I'm sorry. It is Special Republican Guard training area. I have my orders.'

‘And I have
mine,
Mustafa. I shall take the matter higher.' He turned on his heel. ‘Bugger!' he whispered under his breath. ‘They're such bloody time-wasters.'

Burgess switched off the camera.

‘What now?' he asked, unsurprised that the Iraqi had responded to Hardcastle's aggression in the way he'd predicted.

‘Well, we're in confrontation, so there's a procedure to follow. Official complaint to be lodged, all that sort of stuff. Load of nonsense.'

Back at his vehicle he reached for the VHF handset and told the ops room what was happening. ‘Get the protests in right away,' he instructed the New Zealander. Clipping the microphone back in its holder, he put a hand to his mouth and stared across at the car park exit. ‘Now, I wonder if we can't force the issue. Jump in, Dean. This could be quite a ride.'

The half-caste Canadian major was at the wheel. Hardcastle scribbled words on a notepad then held it up for Latour to read.

That gap between the Iraqi vehicles and the exit – think we can get through it?

The Canadian nodded.

‘Okay.' Hardcastle grabbed the microphone again. ‘Mike three, Charlie nine. Mike three, Charlie nine.'

The signal was code for ‘wagons roll'. The three UN vehicles behind them shifted into gear. Latour let up the clutch and rolled towards the car park exit. The Iraqis had their heads down, talking on their radio.

‘Okay. Foot down. Go, go, go!' Hardcastle hissed.

Latour slipped through the gap. He glanced left, saw a break in the traffic on the highway running parallel to the canal and pushed into it. Burgess twisted round to see whether the others had made it. The second UN Nissan swerved through the gap, then nothing.

‘Shoot! They've blocked the two Landcruisers,' Burgess warned.

‘You want me to stop?' asked Latour.

‘No. Keep going. Steady speed.' Hardcastle squared up to the dashboard where he believed the Iraqi's microphone would be hidden. ‘Under UN Resolution 687, they've no right to impede our inspection,' he declared combatively.

Burgess rolled his eyes. To him this sort of tactic was pointlessly provocative. He was distracted suddenly by two huge turquoise-coloured shells set well back from the road on their left, like halves of a coconut cleaved by a scimitar.

‘Martyrs Memorial,' Hardcastle explained. ‘Impressive, don't you think? So it damn well should be. It's Saddam's tribute to the hundreds of thousands he sent to die in his lunatic war against Iran.'

‘Ha! Looks like we have company,' the Canadian chipped in, one eye on the mirror. He'd spotted a green jeep thundering up behind them.

Hardcastle grabbed the microphone. ‘Sierra four, Sierra four. This is Golf. What's your situation, over?'

‘Golf, Sierra four.' The voice was German and belonged to a demolition specialist from Mannheim in the third vehicle. ‘They block us with two of their jeeps. We are still in the BMVC parking. Over.'

‘Sierra four, have they said anything? Over.'

‘No. But they are not happy. Boss man comes to see you, I think. Over.'

‘Thanks. We see him. Out.'

The Iraqi jeep was closing fast, weaving through the traffic with its headlights ablaze.

‘You want I do some Formula One?' Latour checked, ready to race.

‘No. Let's see what he has to say when he catches up.'

A huge portrait of Saddam loomed up at the roadside then slipped behind them. The jeep pulled alongside, its warning lights flashing and its VHF whip aerial waving wildly. A security man pointed a pistol from a side window and flagged them down.

‘So I stop, yes?' Latour checked, his voice heavy with irony.

‘I think you'd better before they fine you for speeding.'

The two UN patrols slowed and stopped with the Iraqi jeep directly in front. Mustafa erupted from the door and came storming back along the kerb towards them followed by two of his dark-haired men.

‘What you think you do?' he screamed as Hardcastle wound down the window. ‘It not permitted that you go like that. You British, you think you still own Iraq. Mister Hardcastle, if you do not respect us, respect our laws, we will not have you in our country.'

‘I'll respect you when you stick to the UN's rules, Mustafa,' Hardcastle retorted. ‘Under Resolution 687 we can inspect any site we want. Without delay. All that
nonsense about national security. It's rubbish, Mustafa. Rubbish!'

‘You cannot go without escort,' Mustafa grimaced, exposing tobacco-stained teeth. ‘And we need some clarifications. Show me your map, please.'

‘Better still, I'll show you on yours, Mustafa,' Hardcastle countered, stepping from the cool of the vehicle into the scorching sunlight. ‘Now let's be quick about this.'

‘One moment,' said the Iraqi. ‘Wait here.'

Mustafa walked back to his own vehicle and leaned inside, talking on the radio again. Eventually, after a couple of minutes, he returned clutching a military map.

‘Now, show me.'