First Strike (2 page)

Herzfeld tried another tack. “What about Saddam’s links to Al Qaeda?”

“Once again, there’s simply no credible evidence. And believe me, we’ve looked hard.”

“So how come all the polls show two thirds of the American people believe those ties exist?”

Herzfeld’s face lit up in an unexpected smile.

“Because they’re still in shock. Because they’re ill-informed. Because they’ve been misled. Hell, Karl, how should I know? Maybe they just want to believe it. Fact is, bin Laden hates Saddam’s guts. Saddam killed more Muslims fighting his neighbours than anybody else in history. And Saddam runs a secular regime. There are Christian churches in Baghdad, even a Synagogue. That’s anathema to bin Laden, in his eyes Saddam is an infidel. Face it, Karl, you have the wrong target in your sights. If you want to hurt Al Qaeda, hurt the Saudis.”

“In my book the Saudis are the good guys.”

“Bin Laden is a Saudi. Saudi money funded 9/11. Fifteen out of nineteen hijackers were Saudis. How many were Iraqi? Not one. Not a single one. For Christ sake, Karl, what more do you want? You and I both know this war is a smoke screen, it won’t help the fight against terrorism one bit. Right now Al Qaeda has no presence in Iraq. They sure as hell will, once we start to bomb the crap out of Baghdad. For every Muslim kid we kill, five will join Al Qaeda.”

Bill Bradshaw took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“What this Administration really needs is a policy based on the intelligence the CIA provides.”

“This Administration already has a policy, Bill. What we need from you is the intelligence to underpin it.”

“Haven’t you got that the wrong way round?”

Herzfeld got up, went to his desk and retrieved the manila envelope from a locked drawer.

“Take a look at these, Bill.”

Bradshaw opened the envelope and pulled out half a dozen black and white eight by ten photographs, some of which were slightly out of focus. The first one showed the Director of the CIA buck naked, fondling the genitals of a young oriental boy. They were kissing. Bradshaw didn’t bother to examine the rest.

“I especially like the shot where he’s sucking your dick, Bill.”

Herzfeld resumed his seat and took another swig of beer.

“OK, Bill, now I have your full attention, I don’t care how you do it but get me some fucking evidence.”

***

2

Since David Frost interviewed Nixon on his resignation the White House had used the British media to address the American people obliquely. And President Santos had reason to be grateful to one particular British journalist. Melanie Drake, Chief Reporter of the London Echo, arrived at the White House punctually at 10.15 a.m. She wore a grey suit, flat shoes, and carried a briefcase but no handbag. Her auburn hair cascaded to her shoulders. Her eyes were green. She went through two security checks, one at the entrance to the White House and one in the antechamber of the Oval Office where a guard removed the scissors and a nail file from her make-up bag.

Melanie felt a little apprehensive as she waited in the outer office. She hadn’t spoken to the President since he’d won the nomination. She’d been there in New Hampshire when he’d snatched the primary against the odds and followed his faltering campaign as he’d eked out a fragile lead in the run-up to November, laboriously assembling a coalition of the poor, the under privileged, the ethnically diverse, as the big money went elsewhere. The White House press secretary opened the door to the Oval Office and motioned Melanie to step inside. President Santos stood up as she entered and offered his hand.

“Miss Drake. Always a pleasure. How long has it been?”

“Not since the night you won the nomination, Mr President.”

Melanie noted how attractive he’d become in office. He’d lost weight and gained authority. He looked sort of...Presidential.

The President smiled.

“You were the only journalist that night who thought I had any chance of winning. Or that maybe I deserved to. It took guts to say that when everybody else was rooting for the opposition. That’s something I’ll never forget, Miss Drake. You’ll always be welcome at the Santos White House.”

“Thank you, Mr President.”

Melanie opened her briefcase, took out her pad and a ballpoint pen. At the top of the sheet she wrote the time, the date and the location. The conversation would be taped but Melanie would note down her impressions; the way the President emphasised a given phrase, the time he took to formulate an answer.

“Shall we make a start?”

The President glanced at his watch.

Melanie finished thumbing through her notes, cleared her throat, pressed the start button on the recorder and got straight down to the nitty gritty. “Mr President, if I can take you back to the weeks leading up to 9/11, there were several indications an attack was planned. You received warnings from a number of foreign intelligence sources, most notably the French and the Israelis. US agencies knew the names of four of the eventual hijackers, yet none of them were questioned. An FBI agent in Arizona reported his suspicions of Arab nationals training at flying schools here in the States. Yet, in spite of all this evidence, no steps were taken to prevent the attacks. How do you explain the incompetence of the intelligence community?

The President frowned.

“There appears to have been a failure of co-ordination among the intelligence agencies. It’s something we’re still looking at. Until that process is complete I can’t really comment.”

Melanie adjusted a setting on the recorder.

“Mr President, the first attack was timed at 8.20 a.m. on 9/11. The third plane ploughed into the Pentagon at 9.38 a.m. In the intervening hour and eighteen minutes no military jets were scramble from Andrews Air Force Base. Not one. Yet this is standard FAA procedure. It’s a legal requirement. It’s also quite routine. Military jets are scrambled every week to investigate commercial flights that stray off course. How do you justify this massive failure to react?”

“I guess the military must have been in shock. The whole nation was in shock.”

Melanie paused.

“Mr President, nothing here reminds you of Pearl Harbour? Reliable intelligence from foreign sources is ignored or buried. American military aircraft remain grounded. A calamitous attack becomes the pretext for a pre-determined war. An American city is sacrificed on the altar of public opinion."

“Miss Drake, I can assure you nothing like that ever happened, either then or now.”

Melanie took a couple of deep yogic breaths.

“Mr President, there’s one question the whole world wants an answer to. Is war with Iraq inevitable?”

“No it’s not.” The President’s smile was reassuring. “All Saddam has to do is comply with the UN resolutions. Problem is he doesn’t have much time.”

“Does that imply you’ve already fixed a timetable? The mid-day temperature in Baghdad at this time of year is in the mid-sixties Fahrenheit. In July it’s way over 120
⁰
. You can’t fight a land war in Iraq in the middle of summer, especially not in protective clothing. It has to be over by April.”

“Time is short but no, there’s no fixed schedule.”

“So you haven’t agreed a timetable with the Prime Minister?”

“A timetable hasn’t even been discussed.”

Melanie noted the President’s hesitation.

“This is a dangerous world we live in, Miss Drake. Not just Saddam. Al Qaeda’s still active. Then there’s the FARC in Colombia, the most dangerous terrorist organisation in the Western Hemisphere, right on America’s doorstep, just a few hundred miles from Miami. Though I’m pleased to see the IRA ceasefire appears to be holding.”

“Mr President, are you suggesting there’s some kind of global network? Are all these organisations linked in any way?”

“There is some evidence of contact, exchanges of expertise, maybe some weapons training. I’d put it no higher than that.”

Melanie made a note to explore this at a later date. The idea there were contacts between the IRA, the FARC and Al Qaeda was explosive but it wasn’t today’s issue.

“With regard to weapons of mass destruction, Mr President, why is Iraq different to India or Pakistan or Israel? Great Britain, France and the USA, come to that?”

Another hesitation.

“Uniquely, Iraq has used WMDs. The others haven’t.”

Uniquely?
Melanie was tempted to cite Hiroshima and Nagasaki but she didn’t.

“Mr President, how exactly do you define a weapon of mass destruction? In Rwanda one million people were kill with the machete. Does that make the machete a WMD?”

“No it doesn’t. A weapon of mass destruction is by definition a strategic weapon.”

“So that would specifically exclude battlefield munitions? Artillery shells and the like?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Mr President, UN inspectors have been looking for evidence of WMDs since the end of the last Gulf War. I assume the US intelligence community has been doing the same thing. Mr President, don’t you share your intelligence with the UN inspectors?”

“Yes, we do.”

The President steepled his hands, relieved this wasn’t going out live on television. He could see where the journalist was heading and he didn’t want to go there.

Melanie persisted.

“So you share your intelligence with the UN. The UN has teams of inspectors on the ground. And still no WMDs have been found? Mr President, if you’ll forgive me, something somewhere isn’t working.”

“None have been found yet.”

Melanie noted the President’s emphasis.

“Iraq is a big country, Miss Drake. WMDs aren’t that difficult to hide.”

“And if none were ever found Mr President, would you still go to war?”

This was the one essential question.

“If Saddam refuses to comply we certainly have that option.”

“Mr President, the inspectors are asking for more time. Under the circumstances that doesn’t sound unreasonable. They’re making good progress. The Iraqis seem willing to cooperate at last and the West is under no immediate threat. If there’s no fixed timetable, you have that flexibility. How long will you give them?”

“We’re talking weeks. Not months.”

“So in conclusion, Mr President, the world should prepare itself for war.”

“Ultimately that’s down to Saddam Hussein. The solution is in his hands. But if he doesn’t comply then yes, war is the likely option. The American people understand that. I think they support it.”

This was the positive message he needed to convey. The message he knew the American people wanted to hear.

“One last question, Mr President. Can you assure the world this is not a war against Islam?”

“I most certainly can. This is a war against terror wherever it appears, whether in the Middle East, Colombia or Northern Ireland.”

Again that linkage.

Melanie switched off the recorder, ran her fingers through her auburn hair and gathered up her things.

“Scary stuff, Mr President.”

“If you think that’s scary,” the President laughed, “you should talk to the Secretary of Defence.”

***

3

Deep in the equatorial south of Colombia, in an isolated region of impenetrable rain forest, snow-capped peaks and precipitous ravines, lies the FARC safe-haven; an area the size of Switzerland officially ceded to the narco-terrorists by a government no longer in control of its own territory. Within the safe-haven the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia is the sole authority. The elected government holds no sway at all. The best equipped and by far the richest terrorist group operating in the Western Hemisphere, the FARC was number two on Washington’s hit list, second only to Al Qaeda. But the FARC did not have Al Qaeda’s reach or reputation. The Colombian terrorists had not accomplished anything significant on the international stage. They remained a highly localised phenomenon, though their ambitions as well as their resources were truly global.

The head of FARC, universally known as Tirofijo – Sureshot, in tribute to his skills in marksmanship as a young man was now in his late fifties, overweight, tanned, with thinning hair and a flourishing grey beard. He wore sweat encrusted army fatigues without insignia, dark glasses and a Yankees baseball cap. His lined and pitted face and calloused hands bore the marks of decades of struggle, decades fighting for the dream. The destruction of capitalism. Tirofijo yearned to complete the trinity with Castro and Guevara in the pantheon of the South American revolution. For if Ché outshone him for glamour, and Fidel for achievement, Tirofijo surpassed them both in the purity of his socialist zeal. Late in his career, Tirofijo still ate and slept with his troops, shared their dangers, led them into battle. Above his head turned his only privilege of rank, a whirring fan. 

Opposite Tirofijo sat a man of Middle Eastern origin in pressed white linen trousers, short-sleeved cotton shirt and wrap around gold-rimmed shades. Jamal Habib had a bald freckled head, a round jovial face and full luxuriant moustache flecked with grey. His manicured hands were toying with a string of beads. He was sweating. He could hardly breathe. Habib could tolerate the heat but not the fetid, ninety-five per cent humidity of the insect-infested rain forest. This place really was the pits. The slight draught from the overhead fan barely reached him. Habib longed for the air-conditioned sanitation of his home back in the States.

They sat on hard upright wooden chairs without upholstery. Face down on the desk between the two conspirators lay a battered dog-eared manual.

“So, Jamal, is everything prepared?”

Tirofijo emptied his glass and poured himself another Tequila. He waved the bottle at Habib but the Arab shook his head and opted for a can of ice-cold Pepsi.

“We took delivery of the main consignment many months ago.”

Jamal spoke American English with no trace of an accent.

“But we don’t have anyone in place to co-ordinate the project, bring all the elements together and assemble the package. After 9/11 it’s impossible for our people to move about freely in the States. We’re under constant FBI surveillance. We need an outsider to complete the job. Trouble is, we don’t have one.”