A welcome relief, thought the Israeli.
“If anything were done that could in some small way keep the number of casualties down, even by a handful, both I and my fellow-countrymen would be eternally grateful to whoever had contributed that anything.”
The other half of the sentiment remained unsaid, but Netanyahu was far too experienced a diplomat to miss it. And if anything were done or not done that might increase those casualties, America’s memory would be long and her revenge unpleasant.
“What is it you want from me?” he asked.
Saul Nathanson sipped his wine and gazed at the flickering logs.
“Apparently, there is a man in Baghdad. Code name—Jericho. ...”
When he had finished, it was a thoughtful Deputy Foreign Minister who sped out to Dulles to catch the flight home.
The roadblock that got him was at the corner of Mohammed Ibn Kassem Street and the Fourth Ring Road. When he saw it in the distance, Mike Martin was tempted to hang a U-turn and head back the way he had come.
But there were Iraqi soldiers stationed down the road on each side at the approaches to the checkpoint, apparently just for that purpose, and it would have been crazy to try and outrun their rifle fire at the slow speed necessary for a U-turn. He had no choice but to drive on, joining the end of the line of vehicles waiting for check- through.
As usual, driving through Kuwait City, he had tried to avoid the major roads where roadblocks were likely to be set up, but crossing any of the six Ring Roads that envelop Kuwait City in a series of concentric bands could only be done at a major junction.
He had also hoped, by driving in the middle of the morning, to be lost in the jumble of traffic or to find the Iraqis sheltering from the heat.
But mid-October had cooled the weather and the green-bereted Special Forces were proving a far cry from the useless Popular Army. So he sat at the wheel of the white Volvo station wagon and waited.
It had still been black and deepest night when he had driven the off-road far out into the desert to the south and dug up the remainder of his explosives, guns, and ammunition, the equipment he had promised to Abu Fouad. It had been before dawn when he made the transfer at the lockup garage in the back streets of Firdous from the jeep to the station wagon.
Between the transfer from vehicle to vehicle and the moment when he judged the sun to be high enough and hot enough to send the Iraqis to seek shelter in the shade, he had even managed a two-hour nap at the wheel of the car inside the garage. Then he had driven the station wagon out and put the jeep inside the garage, aware that such a prized vehicle would soon be confiscated.
Finally he had scrubbed his face and hands and changed his clothes, swapping the stained and desert-soiled robes of the Bedou tribesman for the clean white
The cars in front of him inched forward toward the Iraqi infantry grouped around the concrete-filled barrels up ahead. In some cases the soldiers simply glanced at the driver’s identity card and waved him on; in other cases the car was pulled to one side for a search. Usually, it was those vehicles that carried some kind of cargo that were ordered to the curb.
He was uncomfortably aware of the two big wooden trunks behind him on the floor of the cargo area, whose contents were enough to ensure his instant arrest and hand-over to the tender mercies of the AMAM.
Finally the last car ahead of him surged away, and he pulled up to the barrels. The sergeant in charge did not bother to ask for identity papers. Seeing the big boxes in the rear of the Volvo, the soldier waved the station wagon to the side of the road and shouted an order to his colleagues who waited there.
An olive-drab uniform appeared at the driver’s side window, which Martin had already rolled down. The uniform bent, and a stubbled face appeared in the open window.
“Out,” said the soldier. Martin got out and straightened up. He smiled politely. A sergeant with a hard, pockmarked face walked up. The private soldier wandered round to the rear door and peered in at the boxes.
“Papers,” said the sergeant. He studied the ID card that Martin offered, and his glance flickered from the blurred face behind the plastic to the one standing in front of him. If he saw any difference between the British officer facing him and the store clerk of the Al-Khalifa Trading Corporation whose portrait had been used for the card, he gave no sign.
The identity card had been dated as issued a year earlier, and in a year a man can decide to shave his beard.
“You are a doctor?”
“Yes, Sergeant. I work at the hospital.”
“Where?”
“On the Jahra road.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Amiri hospital, in Dasman.”
The sergeant was clearly not of great education, and within his culture a doctor rated as a man of considerable learning and stature. He grunted and walked to the back of the station wagon.
“Open,” he said.
Martin unlocked the rear door, and it swung up above their heads. The sergeant stared at the two trunks.
“What are these?”
“Samples, Sergeant. They are needed by the research laboratory at the Amiri.”
“Open.”
Martin withdrew several small brass keys from the pocket of his
“You know these trunks are refrigerated?” said Martin conversationally, as he fiddled with the keys.
“Refrigerated?” The sergeant was mystified by the word.
“Yes, Sergeant. The interiors are cold. They keep the cultures at a constant low temperature. That guarantees that they remain inert. I’m afraid if I open up, the cold air will escape and they will become very active. Better stand back.”
At the phrase “stand back,” the sergeant scowled and unslung his carbine, pointing it at Martin, suspecting the boxes must contain some kind of weapon.
“What do you mean?” he snarled. Martin shrugged apologetically.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t prevent it. The germs will just escape into the air around us.”
“Germs—what germs?” The sergeant was confused and angry, as much with his own ignorance as with the doctor’s manner.
“Didn’t I say where I worked?” he asked mildly.
“Yes, at the hospital.”
“True. The isolation hospital. These are full of smallpox and cholera samples for analysis.”
This time the sergeant did jump back, a clear two feet. The marks on his face were no accident—as a child he had nearly died of smallpox.
“Get that stuff out of here, damn you!”
Martin apologized again, closed the rear door, slid behind the wheel, and drove away. An hour later, he was guided into the fish warehouse in Shuwaikh Port and handed over his cargo to Abu Fouad.
United States Department of State
Washington, D.C. 20520
October 16, 1990
MEMORANDUM TO: James Baker
