Desert Fire Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

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  8

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  10

  11

  12

  13

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  15

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  24

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  27

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  II

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

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  45

  46

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  49

  50

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  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  III

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

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  70

  71

  72

  73

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  FICTION BY DAVID HAGBERG

  PRAISE FOR DAVID HAGBERG

  Notes

  Copyright Page

  FOR LAURIE

  I

  1

  SADDAM HUSSEIN AL-TIKRITI stood at the open flap of his desert tent some miles west of Baghdad, the skirts of his flowing galabia ruffling in the cool evening breeze. He was alone for the moment, which he seldom was, and it gave him a curiously disquieting feeling. As if he were the very last man on earth. Cities were empty. No one worked the land. No one lived across the sea. Emptiness.

  Far to the southeast he picked out a slow-moving pinprick of light against the brilliant backdrop of the stars. His advisers told him that it was the CIA’s latest spy satellite, the KH-15, sent up on the tail of an infidel rocket to watch them.

  He edged a little deeper into the darkness of the tent. This night he felt as old as the desert hills and wadis around him, almost one with the spirits of the ten thousand years of history here. This was the Fertile Crescent. The valley of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. The birthplace of a dozen religions, of civilization itself.

  Like Mu‘ammar al-Qaddafi, Hussein had begun coming to the desert to find solace among his ancestors after his defeat over the reclamation of Iraqi homelands in Kuwait. The Revolutionary Command Council was still his to control, and therefore the nation was his. Western forces had, for the most part, finally withdrawn from the region. And once again his oil was flowing, bringing his people the much-needed revenue so long denied them by the infidels.

  And yet it wasn’t enough. A people could either grow and prosper, or wither and die. Iran to the east and Israel to the west would have to be defeated. Decisively. But the Gulf War, as the Western media called the battle, had taught him an important lesson. One of patience. One of cat and mouse.

  “General,” the voice of one of his bodyguards called from the darkness.

  Hussein’s hand went to the pistol in the pocket of his felt jacket. “‘Ay-wa,” Yes, he said, softly.

  “He is here.” The guard was visible now just beyond the ten-meter proximity detectors. A dark figure stood behind him.

  The man was an old friend and comrade in the jihad against the West. Munich, Hama, Beirut. A dozen places, a hundred times, he’d proved himself. And yet there was something different about him in the past months since he’d gone to Germany. Hussein had seen it in the man’s eyes, and he wanted to see if there’d been any change.

  He reached to a panel on his left and flipped a switch that would interrupt the elaborate protective alarm system for ten seconds.

  “Come,” he said, and his grip tightened on the pistol. So much was at stake, and they were so close this time, that he could not afford to take any chances. This time there would be no Desert Storm.

  The dark figure came forward, his hands spread outward in a gesture of humility and peace. Seconds later the alarm circuits tripped back on with an audible snap.

  “I serve at your command,” the man known to the world only as Michael said graciously.

  He was taller than Hussein and just as thickly built. His features, which, unlike Carlos’s, were in no police or intelligence file anywhere in the world, were dark and handsome, his hair only slightly gray.

  They embraced; left cheek, right cheek, and left again, then separated. Hussein managed a slight smile. All was right with Michael. Some tension, perhaps, but nothing was amiss.

  “How was your trip?” the Iraqi leader asked, taking Michael’s arm and leading him into the more secure rear room of the tent.

  “Tedious, in part because of the security precautions I had to observe. But it is good to be among friends. Believe me.”

  “You are not tiring yourself out? The strain is not too much?”

  Michael shook his head in sadness. “Germany has deteriorated since the reunification. Nothing is the same. Nothing will remain the same. They watch us continuously.”

  “It is why we must be victorious,” Hussein said.

  “Yes, my general. There is no God but God.”

  Hussein thought of Michael as his soldier of Allah. The righteous fist of God will come down and smite mine enemies dead. It was written.

  “Now, come and tell me what progress you are making,” Hussein said, motioning Michael to take a place among the cushions at a low table laden with food and drink. Of all the men and women he’d sent to Germany on the project, Michael was the best. Michael would be the tool of Iraq’s salvation.

  2

  BONN LAY UNDER a thick fall overcast that covered the night sky. Streets glistened from the rains, shops were closed, traffic was heavy and angry. The Rhine flowed impassively, darkly, through the city.

  Occasionally, a mournful barge whistle rose above the clamor along the Hauptstrasse or beneath the Konrad Adenauer Bridge, but there had been no pleasure boats on the river all day, and certainly none this night. If a city could be said to be holding its breath, waiting for something to happen, then Bonn was doing it now.

  The killer felt it too. But he had the patience of a desert Bedouin, willing to wait, to watch, to stalk his prey. His time would come, as it had before and before that. He was one of the fedayeen … . of the ones willing to sacrifice themselves.

  “Insha’ Allah,” Praise God, he muttered.

  He waited in his dark gray Mercedes away from the violet sodium-vapor lights on tall aluminum stanchions in the west parking lot of Kraftwerk Union’s Research Facility Nord. The early shift had left hours ago and now only a few engineers and midlevel managers trickled out of the courtyard gates to their cars in the rain. They hurried, heads bent low, faces hidden beneath umbrellas, coat collars hunched up. No one noticed him in the darkness.

  He’d been watching the girl for weeks now, ever since he’d spotted her downtown. She was just like the others. Chance encounters at a time when he felt as if he were going to explode with rage.

  He’d known immediately that she would be the one, so he had followed her to her apartment. He’d watched as she parked h
er yellow Opel on the narrow street, its wheels properly up on the curb. He’d watched as she let herself in, and a half-minute later as the third-floor windows suddenly showed light.

  Understanding full well what he was risking, he’d remained parked in front of her apartment building until well after midnight, when the lights in her window went out. Still he remained. If a passing police unit had spotted him, there would have been questions impossible to answer. But the blood lust was on him.

  Hours later, perhaps around three, he’d seen the glowing tip of a cigarette at her window.

  “Can’t sleep, little girl?” he whispered to himself. “The demons are getting you. Satan is near. Night sweats? Legs cramping up? Breath coming short? Heart pounding in your chest?” He knew all those feelings. And there was only one cure for them, and that was death.

  Now, at the research facility, a man and a woman passed the lighted security booth, pausing under the canopy that extended over the driveway, and then the man scampered across to the parking lot, leaving the woman behind.

  The killer studied her, how she held herself, how she waited. Though she too was obviously an infidel, she was the wrong type. She was tall, and even beneath her raincoat he could see that her figure was slight. Not suitable at all, though her kind would be much easier to kill. He could snap her neck with little effort. There’d be no fight. The thought gave him no pleasure.

  A car came up one of the rows and pulled beneath the canopy. The woman got in and they left. The killer watched in his rearview mirror as the taillights disappeared down the ramp that led to the Autobahn. Once more the parking lot was still.

  He got out of his car and hurried past four rows of cars to where the girl’s yellow Opel was parked. The driver’s side door was unlocked, as he knew it would be. He opened it, and from inside released the hood latch. Around front, he lifted the hood.

  Working in the dim light from a distant stanchion, he pulled the wire out of the ignition coil, then replaced the rubber tip a scant half-inch back down into the connector so that though the coil was now unplugged, it looked to be properly connected.

  He closed the hood and walked back to his own car, the entire operation taking him barely forty-five seconds.

  He was shaking when he got behind the wheel, and he had to force himself to calm down, to take deep breaths. It wasn’t fear, it was excitement tinged with rage. The whore. The infidel. Satan’s imp. He shuddered as he started his car and headed out of the parking lot back toward the city.

  Control, that was everything. It was the lesson they’d learned at the Munich Olympics, at Hama, at Yemen, at Lockerbie, at a hundred places in the past twenty-five years. Even in insanity, control was important if he was to survive to continue doing Allah’s work.

  The killer knew he was insane. He’d known that for a number of years. And he understood his condition with a cold, clinical certainty. Cure was impossible. Survival meant maintaining control until his personal demons became so overwhelming in the night that he had to strike.

  He took care with his driving, going with the traffic along the Köln-Bonn Autobahn, past the airport southeast of the plant, into the city. At times the urgent desire to hurry came over him, but he resisted. There was time. Plenty of time, he told himself.

  Crossing the river at midtown on the Konrad Adenauer Bridge, he took the busy Friedrich-Ebert Allee into Bad Godesberg, arriving fifteen minutes later on the narrow street where last night again he had parked until nearly dawn. This time he stopped in the middle of the next block, shut off the car and sat back in his seat, adjusting the rearview mirror so that he could see her apartment building.

  Time now, he thought, to wait. But not long. Not much longer, Insha’ Allah.

  He began to chant softly the Shahada. “Allah-u Akbar; Allah-u Akbar; La illah illa Allah …” God is most Great; God is most Great; I testify that there is no other God but God and Muhammad is His Prophet; God is most Great; God is most Great …

  3

  IT WAS AFTER 10:00 P.M. when Sarah Razmarah was finally finished with work and ready to leave her office for home. She shut down her computer terminal and pulled a dust cover over the monitor and keypad. She pulled on her coat and got her purse. At the door she switched off the lights, but she remained standing in the dark as tears began to slip down her cheeks.

  At five feet four she was attractive in a buxom, Middle Eastern peasant way, with thick, shimmering black hair, large, jet-black eyes and a dark complexion. She’d been raised in the United States, but her parents never stopped talking about the paradise that was Iran under the Shah.

  “Oh, Ahmed,” she whispered.

  It was the spying, of course. She had become a BND whore, but she hadn’t counted on falling in love. “Watch him, Sarah,” her controller had told her. “He is lonely, Sarah. He will tell you things in the night. He will trust you, they always do with their trousers down.”

  It was so goddamned cold and calculating. But then her life in the United States had been no bed of roses. It was a question of loneliness, of drifting. Where one day (except for her work as a nuclear engineer) was exactly like the day before. She wasn’t accepted by her peers in a male-dominated field. Nor did she have female friends. They thought she was an egghead. And in California’s Silicon Valley they took her dark looks for Hispanic, which isolated her even further.

  “Knowledge is all we want, Sarah,” Ludwig Whalpol had told her. “The truth, as simple as that. Nothing dishonorable in such an endeavor.”

  No there wasn’t, in Sarah’s mind. At least there hadn’t been until she got the specifics.

  “Ahmed Pavli,” he’d told her. “About your age, perhaps three or four years older … thirty-five. This man is the chief engineer on the team. Very influential. Of much importance. Are you listening, Sarah?” He leaned forward for emphasis. “Let me tell you that this man Pavli is a walking compendium of everything we must know. At least he will be a start for you. With this man I want you to begin your concentration. He will be your first important conquest.”

  She hadn’t counted on falling in love with him. Not that. She pulled herself together and left her office, taking the elevator down to the ground floor and signing out with the night guard.

  “Have a good evening, Fräulein,” the older man said. “But drive carefully, it’s a bad night out there.”

  “A good night to curl up with a book,” she said over her shoulder. Outside, she held up for a moment beneath the canopy. It was raining in earnest. “Damn,” she muttered. She pulled her coat collar around her neck and strode into the parking lot.

  Within fifty feet she was soaked to the skin. Her raincoat was old, its waterproof qualities long gone, but then in California she hadn’t needed it often.

  Reaching her car, she yanked open the door and climbed inside. Within seconds the windows began to fog up. She fumbled her keys out of her purse and in the dark searched for the ignition. When she turned the key the engine cranked, but did not start. She tried again and again.

  “Damn,” she cried. “Damn … Oh, goddammit to hell!”

  There seemed to be plenty of battery power, but the engine simply wouldn’t catch. She turned on the interior lights, found the hood release and pulled it.

  Outside, it took her a couple of seconds to find the safety catch on the hood and open it. In the dim illumination from the parking lot lights she tried to see if anything was obviously wrong. She was an engineer, after all. An automobile engine certainly was much simpler than the control systems she designed for nuclear-powered electrical generating facilities. But she was no mechanic.

  After a moment she looked up toward the entry courtyard fifty yards away and shook her head ruefully. She wanted a hot bath, a stiff drink and a good cry, preferably in that order.

  She lowered the hood, retrieved her purse and sprinted back across the parking lot. It would be nearly impossible to get a cab out here at this hour, but one of the other engineers might be leaving soon and she could catch a ride
.

  4

  THE LAST PERSON in the world she wanted to see this night was coming down the corridor when she reentered the building. His feral grin faded when he realized something was wrong.

  “Why aren’t I surprised to see you here, Ludwig?” she said to her control officer.

  “What’s wrong, Sarah? You look all in.” Major Whalpol spoke with as much genuine concern as he was capable of.

  “My damned car won’t start.”

  “Shall I call a mechanic for you?”

  “I don’t want to deal with it tonight. I came back to see if I could get a ride to town.”

  Whalpol took her arm. “I’m on my way out. I’ll drop you off.”

  She didn’t trust or like him, but she was too tired to argue. Besides, it could be hours before any of the engineers would be ready to leave, and she wanted to get home to be alone.

  “Just no questions tonight, Ludwig. Please?”

  He smiled. “But we’re in the wrong business for that sort of attitude, my dear.”

  He brought his car around and she climbed in beside him. They headed to the Autobahn a half-kilometer down the hill. As darkness closed around them, she felt she was encased in a cocoon. But the feeling wasn’t one of safety. Around Whalpol there never could be safety.

  When he had come to her in California with his proposition, the timing had been right. She was lonely and frustrated and miserable, and despite the fact that she was a U.S. citizen, she didn’t fit in. She was an Iranian. Among other things, Iranians were stupid, lazy, deceitful and fanatical. Her parents were dead, and she had no sisters or brothers. There were some cousins in Tehran, but even if she could get there she doubted that she would be able to find them, or if she did, that they would accept her.

  “We would like for you to help us,” Whalpol had said. He had picked her up after work, telling her he had known her father very well in the old days. They stopped at a small coffee shop just north of the Van Nuys Airport. There were only a few other customers, and Whalpol led her to a booth in a far corner. He was a tall, thin man with a hawklike face. His suit was dark green wool, with narrow lapels set high on the jacket.