Twelve Red Herrings (16 page)

He was looking
forward to seeing Shereen and the children even before the plane had taken off,
and the American flight attendant with her pronounced New York accent and
friendly smile only added to the feeling that he was already home. After lunch
had been served, and having decided he didn’t want to watch the in-flight
movie,
Hamid dozed off and dreamt about what he could
achieve in America, given time.

Perhaps his son
would go into politics. Would the United States be ready for an Iraqi President
by the year
2025 ?
He smiled at the thought, and fell
contentedly into a deep sleep.

“Ladies and
gentlemen,” a deep Southern voice boomed out over the intercom, ‘this is your
captain. I’m sorry to interrupt the movie, or to wake those of you who’ve been
resting, but we’ve developed a small problem in an engine on our starboard
wing. Nothing to worry about, folks, but Federal Aviation Authority rulings
insist that we land at the nearest airport and have the problem dealt with
before we continue with our journey.

It shouldn’t
take us more than an hour at the most, and then we’ll be on our way again. You
can be sure that we’ll try to make up as much of the lost time as possible,
folks.” Hamid was suddenly wide awake.

“We won’t be
disembarking from the aircraft at any time, as this is an unscheduled stop.
However, you’ll be able to tell the folks back home that you’ve visited
Baghdad.” Hamid felt his whole body go limp, and then his head rocked forward.
The flight attendant rushed up to his side. “Are you feeling all right, sir?”
she asked.

He looked up and
stared into her eyes. “I must see the captain immediately.
Immediately.”
The flight attendant was in no doubt of the passenger’s anxiety, and quickly
led him forward, up the spiral staircase into the first-class lounge and onto
the flight deck.

She tapped on
the door of the cockpit, opened it and said, “Captain, one of the passengers
needs to speak to you urgently.”

“Show him in,”
said the Southern voice. The captain turned to face Hamid, who was now
trembling uncontrollably. “How can I be of help, sir?” he asked.

“My name is
Hamid Zebari. I am an American citizen,” he began.

“If you land in
Baghdad, I will be arrested, tortured and then executed.” The words tumbled
out. “I am a political refugee, and you must understand that the regime will
not hesitate to kill me.” The captain only needed to take one look at Hamid to
realise he wasn’t exaggerating.

“Take over,
Jim,” he said to his co-pilot, ‘while I have a word with Mr. Zebari. Call me
the moment we’ve been given dearance to land.’

The captain
unfastened his seatbelt, and led Hamid to an empty corner of the first-class
lounge.

“Take me through
it slowly,” he said.

During the next
few minutes Hamid explained why he had had to leave Baghdad, and how he came to
be living in America.

When he had
reached the end of his story the captain shook his head and smiled. “No need to
panic, sir,” he assured Hamid. “No one is going to have to leave the aircraft
at any time, so the passengers’ passports won’t even be checked. Once the
engine has been attended to, we’ll be back up and on our way immediately. Why
don’t you just stay here in first class, then you’ll be able to speak to me at
any time, should you feel at all anxious.” How anxious can you feel? Hamid
wondered, as the captain left him to have a word with the co-pilot. He started
to tremble once more.

“It’s the
captain once again, folks, just bringing you up to date.

We’ve been given
clearance by Baghdad, so we’ve begun our descent and expect to land in about
twenty minutes. We’ll then be taxiing to the far end of the runway, where we’ll
await the engineers. Just as soon as they’ve dealt with our little problem,
we’ll be back up and on our way again.’

A collective
sigh went up, while Hamid gripped the armrest and wished he hadn’t eaten any
lunch. He didn’t stop shaking for the next twenty minutes, and almost fainted
when the wheels touched down on the land of his birth.

He stared out of
the porthole as the aircraft taxied past the terminal he knew so well. He could
see the armed guards stationed on the roof and at the doors leading onto the
tarmac.

He prayed to
Allah, he prayed to Jesus, he even prayed to President Reagan.

For the next
fifteen minutes the silence was broken only by the sound of a van driving
across the tarmac and coming to a halt under the starboard wing of the
aircraft.

Hamid watched as
two engineers carrying bulky toolbags got out of the van, stepped onto a small
crane and were hoisted up until they were level with the wing. They began
unscrewing the outer plates of one of the engines. Forty minutes later they
screwed the plates back on and were lowered to the ground. The van then headed
off towards the terminal.

Hamid felt
relieved, if not exactly relaxed. He fastened his seatbelt hopefully. His
heartbeat fell from 8o a minute to around no, but he knew it wouldn’t return to
normal until the plane lifted off and he could be sure they wouldn’t turn back.
Nothing happened for the next few minutes, and Hamid became anxious again. Then
the door of the cockpit opened, and he saw the captain heading towards him, a
grim expression on his face.

“You’d better
join us on the flight deck,” the captain said in a whisper. Hamid undid his
seatbelt and somehow managed to stand. He unsteadily followed the captain into
the cockpit, his legs feeling like jelly. The door was closed behind them.

The captain didn’t
waste any words. “The engineers can’t locate the problem. The chief engineer
won’t be free for another hour, so we’ve been ordered to disembark and wait in
the transit area until he’s completed the job.”

“I’d rather die
in a plane crash,” Hamid blurted out.

“Don’t worry,
Mr. Zebari, we’ve thought of a way round your problem. We’re going to put you
in a spare uniform.

That will make
it possible for you to stay with us the whole time, and use the crew’s
facilities. No one will ask to see your passport.’

“But if someone
recognises me...” began Hamid.

“Once you’ve got
rid of that mustache, and you’re wearing a flight officer’s uniform, dark
glasses and a peaked hat, your own mother wouldn’t know you.” With the help of
scissors, followed by shaving foam, followed by a razor, Hamid removed the
bushy mustache that he had been so proud of, to leave an upper lip that looked
as pale as a blob of vanilla ice cream. The senior flight attendant applied
some of her make-up to his skin, until the white patch blended in with the rest
of his face. Hamid still wasn’t convinced, but after he had changed into the
co-pilot’s spare uniform and studied himself in the toilet mirror, he had to
admit that it would indeed be remarkable if anyone recognised him.

The passengers
were the first to leave the plane, and were ferried by an airport bus to the
main terminal. A smart transit van then came out to collect the crew, who left
as a group and sheltered Hamid by making sure that he was surrounded at all
times. Hamid became more and more nervous with each yard the van travelled
towards the terminal.

The security
guard showed no particular interest in the air crew as they entered the
building, and they were left to find themselves seats on wooden benches in the
white-walled hall. The only decoration was a massive portrait of Saddam Hussein
in full uniform carrying a kalashnikov rifle. Hamid couldn’t bring himself to
look at the picture of his ‘good and close friend’.

Another crew was
also sitting around waiting to board their aircraft, but Hamid was too
frightened to start up a conversation with any of them.

“They’re
French,” he was informed by the senior flight attendant.

“I’m about to
find out if my night classes were worth all the expense.’

She took the
spare place next to the captain of the French aircraft, and tried a simple
opening question.

The French
captain was telling her that they were bound for Singapore via New Delhi, when
Hamid saw him: Saad all-Takriti, once a member of Saddam’s personal guard,
marched into the hall. From the insignia on his shoulder, he now appeared to be
in charge of airport security.

Hamid prayed
that he wouldn’t look in his direction. A1-Takriti sauntered through the room,
glancing at the French and American crews, his eyes lingering on the
stewardesses’ black-stockinged legs.

The captain
touched Hamid on the shoulder, and he nearly leapt out of his skin.

“It’s OK, it’s
OK. I just thought you’d like to know that the chief engineer is on his way out
to the aircraft, so it shouldn’t be too long now.” Hamid looked beyond the Air
France plane, and watched a van come to a halt under the starboard wing of the
Pan Am aircraft.

A man in blue
overalls stepped out of the vehicle and onto the little crane.

Hamid stood up
to take a closer look, and as he did so Saad all-Takriti walked back into the
hall. He came to a sudden halt, and the two men stared briefly at each other,
before Hamid quickly resumed his place next to the captain. A1-Takriti
disappeared into a side room marked “Do Not Enter’.

“I think he’s
spotted me,” said Hamid. The make-up started to run down onto his lips.

The captain
leant across to his chief flight attendant and interrupted her parley with the
French captain. She listened to her boss’s instructions, and then tried a
tougher question on the Frenchman.

Saad all-Takriti
marched back out of the office and began striding towards the American captain.

Hamid thought he
would surely faint.

Without even
glancing at Hamid, all-Takriti barked, “Captain, I require you to show me your
manifest, the number of crew you are carrying, and their passports.”

“My co-pilot has
all the passports,’ the captain replied. “I’ll see you get them.”

“Thank you,”
said all-Takriti. “When you have collected them, you will bring them to my
office so that I can check each one. Meanwhile, please ask your crew to remain
here. They are not, under any circumstances, to leave the building without my
permission.” The captain rose from his place, walked slowly over to the
co-pilot, and asked for the passports. Then he issued an order which took him
by surprise. The captain took the passports into the security office just as a
bus drew up outside the transit area to take the French crew back to their
plane.

Saad all-Takriti
placed the fourteen passports in front of him on his desk. He seemed to take
pleasure in checking each one of them slowly. When he had finished the task, he
announced in mock surprise, “I do believe, captain, that I counted fifteen crew
wearing Pan Am uniforms.”

“You must have
been mistaken,” said the captain. “There are only fourteen of us.”

“Then I will
have to make a more detailed check, won’t I,
captain ?
Please return these documents to their rightful owners.

Should there
happen to be anyone not in possession of a passport, they will naturally have
to report to me.”

“But that is
against international regulations,” said the captain, ‘as I’m sure you know.

We are in
transit, and therefore, under UN Resolution 238, not legally in your country.”

“
Save ,our
breath, captain. We have no use for UN resolutions
in Iraq. And, as you correctly point out, as far as we are concerned, you are
not legally even in our country.” The captain realised he was wasting his time,
and could blu no longer. He gathered up the passports as slowly as he could and
allowed all-Takriti to lead him back into the hall. As they entered the room
the Pan Am crew members who were scattered around the benches suddenly rose
from their places and began walking about, continually changing direction,
while
at the same time talking at the top of their voices.

“Tell them to
sit down,” hissed all-Takriti, as the crew zig-zagged backwards and forwards
across the hall.

“What’s that
you’re saying?” asked the captain, cupping his ear.

“Tell them to
sit down!” shouted all-Takriti.

The captain gave
a half-hearted order, and within a few moments everyone was seated. But they
still continued talking at the top of their voices.

“And tell them
to shut up!” The captain moved slowly round the room, asking his crew one by
one to lower their voices.

A1-Takriti’s
eyes raked the benches of the transit hall, as the captain glanced out onto the
tarmac and watched the French aircraft taxiing towards the far runway.

A1-Takriti began
counting, and was annoyed to discover that there were only fourteen Pan Am crew
members in the hall. He stared angrily around the room, and quickly checked
once again.

“All fourteen
seem to be present,” said the captain after he had finished handing back the
passports to his crew.

“Where is the
man who was sitting next to you?” all-Takriti demanded, jabbing a finger at the
captain. “You mean my first officer?”