The Gilgamesh Conspiracy (2 page)

‘That pilot, did you kill him?’

‘Yes. He got hold of some kind of crowbar. It must have been in the flight deck somewhere, maybe part of the aircraft equipment. Anyway I managed to get it off him.’

‘He was the man who took me to Guantanamo Bay years ago,’ said Ali.

‘What…Ryan Carson? The pilot?’

‘Yes. He was the one who turned up at the prison in Abuja with some other American soldiers and escorted me to the airport. I was put on a plane and flown to the prison camp. I didn’t see him again until I was taken away from the camp yesterday and put on that aircraft.’

‘So it was Carson! Was there an English guy with him at all?’

‘There was, but I haven’t seen him since.’

‘Describe him, then’

‘Come on Gerry, it’s been years. I only just remember Ryan Carson because he is such a handsome type.’

‘Can’t you try?’

‘Well he was very smart, short hair. I suppose he looked like another military type actually.’

‘Old or young?’

‘Oh probably the same age as Carson, I would have said.’

‘Vince Parker,’ Gerry muttered to herself. ‘I bet it was bloody Vince Parker, always turning up. Those bastards are the ones who killed Philip, it was those two pieces of shit.’

There was no more to be said for the moment. The two of them lay slumped in the water that swirled around in the bottom of the raft. Fortunately the night was mild and apart from the occasional shiver she mostly felt clammy and sweaty. And thirsty. She sunk into a torpor while the long Atlantic rollers slowly heaved the raft up and down and despite her anxiety, her exhaustion lead to periods of fitful sleep until the dawn began to lighten the sky to the east.

She gazed over at Ali Hamsin slumped against the side a couple of feet away from her. ‘Are you awake, Ali?’

There was no reply. She crawled over and felt his neck. There was a strong pulse. She sighed in relief and patted him on the cheek. His head sagged away from her and she realised the side of his head was smeared with blood. It was old blood but her fingers felt swollen flesh around the cut and he moaned slightly as she pressed the wound.

‘Oh crap,’ she muttered. ‘Come on Ali, we’ve got stuff to talk about. Don’t die now.’

His eyes opened briefly and then closed. ‘I’m tired Gerry; my head aches badly.’ He inhaled a gasping stuttering breath and then gave a long drawn out sigh.

‘Ali! Wake up!’ she commanded. She felt his neck and was relieved to feel his pulse again and suddenly he resumed breathing but remained in his semi-comatose condition.

She stood up precariously, wondering if she might see any wreckage but the aircraft appeared to have sunk without trace apart from a few small pieces of debris and another seat cushion or perhaps it was the same one that saved Ali’s life, but nothing else. She thought that there was a slight oily sheen to the surface and she dipped her hand in and smelt fuel on it. She scanned the horizon, yearning to see a ship but it was a forlorn hope, and the nearest land was Bermuda probably hundreds of miles distant.

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 taking 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.’