main road that runs from Jahra, in Kuwait, due southwest to cross into Saudi Arabia at the Al Salmi customs station. After sundown he waited until almost midnight before setting out. He knew the border could not be more than twelve miles to the south.
His late start enabled him to move between the last Iraqi patrols at about three A.M., that hour when human spirits are lowest and sentries tend to doze.
By the light of the moon, he saw the Qaimat Subah police station slip by to one side, and two miles farther on, he knew he had crossed the border. To be on the safe side, he kept going until he cut into the lateral road that runs east-west between Hamatiyyat and Ar-Rugi.
There he stopped and assembled his radio dish.
Because the Iraqis to the north had dug in several miles on the Kuwait side of the border, and because General Schwarzkopf’s plan called for the Desert Shield forces also to lie back to ensure that, if attacked, they would know the Iraqis had truly invaded Saudi Arabia, Martin found himself in an empty no-man’s-land. One day, that empty land would become a seething torrent of Saudi and American forces streaming north into Kuwait, but in the predawn darkness of October 24 he had it to himself.
Simon Paxman was awakened by-a junior member of the Century House team who inhabited the villa.
“Black Bear has come on the air, Simon. He’s crossed the border.”
Paxman was out of bed and running into the radio room in his pajamas. A radio operator was on a swivel chair facing a console that ran along one complete wall of what had once been quite an elegant bedroom. Because it was now the twenty-fourth, the codes had changed.
“Corpus Christi to Texas Ranger, where are you? Say again, state your position, please.”
The voice sounded tinny when it came out of the console speaker, but it was perfectly clear.
“South of Qaimat Subah, on the Hamatiyyat-to-Ar-Rugi road.”
The operator turned to glance at Paxman. The SIS man pressed the Send button and said:
“Ranger, stay there. There’s a taxi coming for you. Acknowledge.”
“Understood,” said the voice. “I’ll wait for the black cab.”
It was not actually a black cab. It was an American Blackhawk helicopter that swept down the road two hours later, a loadmaster strapped in the open door beside the pilot, masked with a pair of binoculars, scanning the dusty track that purported to be a road. From two hundred feet, the loadmaster spotted a man beside a camel and was about to fly on when the man waved.
The Blackhawk slowed to a hover and watched the Bedou warily. So far as the pilot was concerned, this was uncomfortably close to the border. Still, the map position he had been given by his squadron intelligence officer was accurate, and there was no one else in sight.
It was Chip Barber who had arranged with the U.S. Army detail at the Riyadh military air base to lend a Blackhawk to pick up a Britisher who was due to come over the border out of Kuwait. The Blackhawk had the range, but no one had told the Army pilot about a Bedouin tribesman with a camel.
As the American Army aviators watched from two hundred feet, the man on the ground arranged a series of stones. When he had finished, he stood back. The loadmaster focused his glasses on the display of stones. They said simply: Hi there.
The loadmaster spoke into his mask.
“Must be the guy. Let’s go get him.”
The pilot nodded, and the Blackhawk curved around and down until it hovered a foot off the ground twenty yards from the man and his beast.
Martin had already taken the panniers and the heavy camel saddle off his animal and dumped them by the roadside. The radio set and his personal sidearm, the Browning 9-mm. thirteen-shot automatic favored by the SAS, were in the tote bag slung over his shoulder.
As the helicopter came down, the camel panicked and cantered off.
Martin watched her go. She had served him well, despite her foul temper. She would come to no harm alone in that desert. So far as she was concerned, she was home. She would roam freely, finding her own fodder and water, until some Bedou found her, saw no brand mark, and gleefully took her for his own.
Martin ducked under the whirling blades and ran to the open door.
Over the whine of the rotors, the loadmaster shouted:
“Your name, please?”
“Major Martin.”
A hand came out of the aperture to pull Martin into the hull.
“Welcome aboard, Major.”
At that point the engine noise drowned out further talk, the loadmaster handed Martin a pair of ear-defenders to muffle the roar, and they settled back for the run to Riyadh.
Approaching the city, the pilot was diverted to a villa on the outskirts of the city. Next to it was a patch of waste ground where someone had laid out three rows of bright orange seat-cushions in the form of an H.
As the Blackhawk hovered, the man in Arab robes jumped the three feet to the ground, turned to wave his thanks to the crew, and strode toward the house as the helicopter lifted away. Two house servants began to gather up the cushions.
Martin walked through the arched doorway in the villa wall and found himself in a flagged courtyard. Two men were emerging from the door of the house. One he recognized from the SAS headquarters in West London all those weeks ago.
“Simon Paxman,” said the younger man, holding out his hand.
“Bloody good to have you back. This is Chip Barber, one of our cousins from Langley.”
Barber shook hands and took in the figure before him: a stained, off-white robe from chin to floor, a striped blanket folded and hung over one shoulder, a red-and-white-checked
“Good to know you, Major. Heard a lot about you.” His nose twitched.
“Guess you could use a hot tub, eh?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll get that sorted out at once,” said Paxman.
Martin nodded, said “Thanks,” and walked into the cool of the villa.
Paxman and Barber came in behind him. Barber was privately elated.
“Damn,” he thought to himself. “I do believe this bastard could even do it.”
It took three consecutive baths in the marble tub of the villa, obtained for the British by Prince Khaled bin Sultan, for Martin to scrape off the dirt and sweat of weeks. He sat with a towel around his waist while a barber summoned for the purpose gave his matted hair a cut, then he shaved with Simon Paxman’s wash-kit.
His
“Would you mind telling me,” he asked, “why you pulled me out?”
It was Chip Barber who answered.
“Good question, Major. Damn good question. Deserves a damn good answer. Right? Fact is, we’d like you to go into Baghdad. Next week.
Salad or fish?”
Both the CIA and the SIS were in a hurry. Although little mention was made of it then or since, by late October there had been established in Riyadh a very large CIA presence and operation.
Before too long, the CIA presence was at loggerheads with the military chieftaincy a mile away in the warren of planning rooms beneath the
Saudi Defense Ministry. The mood, certainly of the air generals, was one of conviction that with the skillful use of the amazing array of technical wizardry at their disposal, they could ascertain all they needed to know about Iraq’s defenses and preparations.
And an amazing array it was. Apart from the satellites in space supplying their constant stream of pictures of
