PEACE PIPE - CHAPTER EIGHT

Character Build

Peter Elkins III - American Mercenary
Paul Connolly - Irish Mercenary
Mary Murphy -Irish Widow Woman
Sergeant Thompson - Mercenary Recruiter
Major Alistair Leigh - Tough Guys
Archie Andrews - African Mercenary

Rashid Al-Mannai - Jordanian Ambassador
Officer Windrush - MPD Patrolman
Jerri Neighbour - Freelance Journalist
Kolé Cutter - American President
J A Metcalfe (JAM) - CIA/UK Liaison
Horace Lime - SO11/CIA Liaison
Philip Dalton - British Assassin
Morris (MO) Schlick - Film Director
Nicola Schlick - Mo's Wife
Tse Lin Yan - Chinese Miliary Attaché
Victor Miles - Secure Armed Services
Abdul Miandad - Syrian Lawyer

Rosie Hoare - Limes' Secretary
Lobb - Policeman

Alan Borg - MPD Homicide Detective
John D Elkins - Bank President & City Mayor

Maurice Le Clerc - Monaco Security Chief
René Dupont - Interpol

Mendy Wade - Chief of White House Staff
George Bartlett - Head of White House Security
Sam McDonald - Head of FBI
Charles Howe - Sam's No.1

Herbert Brown - Embassy Butler
Colonel Najeen - Head of Embassy Security

Aziz Alludashiij (Alluda) - Jordanian Junior Envoy

8

Washington DC - August 19, 2012 - 13.15

Rashid Al-Mannai was in full flow. He lifted the jug. ‘More coffee?’ Schlick offered his cup while the Arab pressed on. ‘Perhaps we can clarify a few things, Morris?’

The director looked questioning. ‘We’re still discussing hostages, right?’

Al-Mannai nodded. ‘Can we, for example, agree situations like this are, shall we say, guided by individual motivations?’ Schlick sat back and nodded as the ambassador continued. ‘In 1990, when Saddam went into Kuwait, the West responded by bombing Baghdad. At that time, a lot of British nationals were in Iraq. He brought them into the Capital and spread them around to stop the bombs.’ The ambassador smiled. ‘Until the West made it clear that humanity was less important than oil, even if one of the nationals did happen to be an ex-British Prime Minister.’

Schlick laughed but his host continued. ‘Put yourself in Iraq’s position, Morris. Might you have tried a similar ploy?’

Schlick would not give up that easily. ‘Never mind the so-called hostages. Who placed them in that spot?’ The inference was obvious. ‘What possessed the mad bastard to go into Kuwait anyway? He must have been aware that he would never get away with it!’

Al-Mannai's face was grim. ‘If Saddam hadn't laid claims to Kuwait, Iraq would not have been condemned by the rest of the world, sanctions would not have been applied and he would not have suffered his first major defeat.’

Schlick nodded. ‘Second time around he found himself ambushed by politicians as lacking in moral probity as himself. When the culprit for 9/11 was patently Osama Bin Laden, the previous American administration, together with the Brits, went for Saddam and his non-existent weapons of mass destruction. Maybe, to deal with someone like this, you have to be prepared to cheat and lie to your own people; even to your own governments?’

The ambassador nodded. ‘By any standards, Saddam qualified as a thug and a bully; a product of his environment. He used the narrow wisdom of his lifetime and kin to attain power and deal with anyone who, for whatever reason, disagreed with him. Even friends became enemies. No doubt he deserved his fate.’ The Arab touched the side of his nose and winked. ‘But the man was intelligent. He had a native cunning; able to concede defeat, claim victory and achieve the equilibrium he needed. As you suggested, he was finally ambushed by men just as unscrupulous as himself. He already knew that blocking his oil was an attempt to destabilize his economy. It was one of the reasons he went into Kuwait. History confirms it was a district in the Iraq Basra Province, originally called ‘Quadha’. At least, this was the situation before Britain, the great colonial power and paternalistic landlord, granted full independence to the area and it became Kuwait. The deal was predictable. They got first priority on the purchase of oil.’

Al-Mannai smiled. ‘I suspect something similar happened once in the ‘so-called’ New World?’ The ambassador grinned. ‘Similar, perhaps, to the great American, John Adams, Saddam Hussein attempt¬ed to retrieve his property.’ Schlick frowned as the man continued. ‘In the meantime, Jordan tried to maintain its sworn neutrality, even in the face of constant bombing. Our citizens were killed on the so called supply routes, like those of Pakistan, on the basis that we were too close to the enemy, or trying too hard to protect ourselves.’ He sounded slightly bitter.

‘And the hostages?’ Schlick could not resist the question.

‘The hostages,’ said Al-Mannai, ‘are the usual suspects. Sometimes important, sometimes relevant, but, mostly, they are the common people, the peasants, keepers of the sheep, simple goat-herders. Many have learned how to fight for their homelands. Their experience has come from times before the Bible or Torah. They come from the scriptures of Islam, translated from Allah, if not in heaven, then on earth by the Prophet Mohammed.’

The American placed a gentle hand on the ambassador’s arm. ‘I'm sorry I muddied the waters. We're not discussing rights or wrongs here; we're discussing a TV documentary on individual freedom and humanity. Hostages, guests, human shields, or whatever, they are an important irrelevance.’ Schlick removed his hand. ‘But can the situation be as serious as you make it sound? Do you not think less danger exists of major conflict today?’

Al-Mannai shook his head. ‘It is not Iran, or Iraq or Syria we should fear; neither Hizbollah. It is not Israel, or the ‘so-called’ Islamists, or the PLO. Like the media, we generalize.’ He tapped the table for emphasis. ‘Too many people in the world today make religion and war their business. Spain plundered South America in the name of Catholic-ism. England plundered the Middle East in the name of Christ. Now America wave their flag in the name of democracy. People sell out their country in the name of religion. In the Middle East, the evil is condoned in the name of Allah. Islam grows while the West talks of democracy. For years America made everything too easy for the problems to grow with their excessive support of Israel. Witness the Iraq invasions and the witless brand-ing of Middle East countries as axes of evil. Now only Palestine is left. Consider just for a moment: with a final peace established in the Middle East, who is there left to blame?’

Schlick shook his head. ‘Bin Laden was Palestine’s biggest supporter. Even in his grave, nothing would suit him better than an established homeland.’

Al-Mannai laughed. ‘His ambitions were never in question in the West; only the way in which he proposed to achieve them. Where would he be in a world where we can live in peace, regardless of nationality, gods or other idolatry? If we can achieve peace, we have a chance.’ He wagged his finger at the director. ‘Think on this. With an established homeland in Palestine, which way can Al Qaeda turn? With peace in the Middle East, what further violence would be necessary?’

* * *

As Rashid Al-Mannai continued his conversation with Morris Schlick from the absolute calm of his study, a terrified Aziz Alludahiij, better known as Alluda, had finally reached the most challenging moment of his young life.

Alluda occupied one of several rooms in the basement which, alongside a recreational area and prayer room, accommodated the junior staff. Months previously, he had discovered a trapdoor under his bed. It led to a lower basement and, thence down to old forgotten drains beneath the building. At this moment the trapdoor was uncovered and exposed. It would shortly allow two unlikely invaders access into his room.

The young envoy recalled the last horrendous four months that, for him, had started in Beirut. What made everything even worse was that he had never wanted to work as a legal attaché in Washington in the first place - certainly not in the embassy which represented his own country; too far away but, in any case, too close to home. In any case, he had only undertaken the job to please his father. It ensured regular top-up allowances and no questions asked about his dubious pastimes.

Beirut, the Lebanon - April 2012 – 4 months earlier

Alluda was once again in the Middle East. The following day, a leading international judiciary would discuss the annexation of Palestine and its doubtful legality. In his capacity as observer, he had 24 hours before official duties would begin. He determined to make the most of them on his first night in Beirut.

In the luxurious confines of a five star hotel, the concierge, whom he had never met, greeted him like a friend and appeared willing to cater for his personal pleasures. The first arrived within an hour: a small package, together with the necessary accoutrements. Then, at the time arranged, a handsome, pale-skinned, young boy rang the doorbell to his room.

It had been a wonderful evening, the best Alluda could ever remember. The boy had obviously enjoyed himself and been most obliging, waking Alluda several times in the night to continue their games - even sharing the line of high quality cocaine that the young legal attaché had managed to procure with a surprising lack of difficulty.

Dawn broke with the first believers called to prayer. Alluda stirred fitfully and cuddled closer to his new friend before descending into a deep, drug-induced sleep. He awakened to a persistent banging, like a drum in his head, which was reaching down through his ears into the recesses of his mind, demanding acknowledgement.

Stumbling through the early morning light into the hallway, having left his young visitor curled up in the king-size bed, he slid the door ajar slowly and with some caution. Then, just as suddenly, it flew open violently, throwing him backwards. He knew immediately that his big toe had been broken.

Naked and exposed, shaking in abject terror, Alluda was pressed against the wall as a series of bright flashes blinded him while loud abuse assaulted his befuddled brain. He howled in agony, cowering on the floor and clutching his foot. One man - a photographer, - continued to aim kicks at him between taking pictures.

A second, rather ragged man uttering fearsome oaths, seemed the most belligerent. He stormed down the hall into the bedroom and emerged, moments later, dragging the screaming boy by his hair, presumably having pulled him out of the bed. Alluda concluded such a madman to be the boy’s father.

Then he noticed a third man. Unlike the others, he was well dressed and exuded sympathy, ruffling Alluda’s hair gently. He almost felt grateful. It seemed obvious the man wanted to calm the situation while striving to protect the young attaché. This reasonable man persuaded the others to go, promising settlement for everyone. Then, with the disruptive elements gone, he helped Alluda into the bathroom.

The man wrapped Alluda in a giant Turkish bath towel and filled the bidet with cold water and ice, commending the foot to a good soak. Alluda felt sick. However, as a result of the help most recently received, he was inclined to be more sanguine about the situation. The man looked at him with compassion, shaking his head knowingly.
‘Harmless fun is always more preferable to some of the awful things happening in the world today,’ he offered in a sorrowful tone.

Alluda, terrified and ready to grasp at any straw no matter how fragile, smiled weakly and nodded his head. He had been sure that his short ca¬reer in the diplomatic service was at an end. It was incredible. Salvation was offered almost before he could draw another breath. The man gave him a formal business card, which he read with care: Lt. Colonel Abdul Miandad, Legal Counsel. His voice was soft and conspiratorial. This may help you understand,’ the lawyer said. In spite of the terrible pain in his foot and the rough treatment received, the horror of his situation finally forced his brain into gear. He began to ask himself some pertinent questions. What connection existed between the beautiful boy he had spent the night with, this kind man, the photographer and the boy's crazy father. The boy's father? Nothing was like it seemed. Was this lawyer just a kind man who had happened along, or someone more sinister, being devious for a purpose as yet unannounced?

Reality had begun to permeate through Alluda’s dull, awakening brain. He remembered how co-operative the concierge had been.The man had never met him before. Everything supplied and not a question asked. He took a fresh look at this smart lawyer, now seated on the toilet seat opposite. Then Alluda nodded, his head moving in rhythm like a duck in the back of a car.

‘I’ve been set up, haven't I?’

Chesapeake Bay – May 2013 – 10 weeks before

It was a warm day in early summer when they arrived at Mile’s cabin near Annapolis, on the edge of Chesapeake Bay. At the end of the room spotlights were positioned to ensure Alluda's illumination, his interrogators visible only by their silhouettes.

The lawyer, Abdul Miandad, sat in the light beside Alluda. His right index finger, severed by Dalton earlier in the year, appeared no worse for its experience, except for a small visible scar around the renewed joint.

Without preamble, Miandad suggested Alluda should submit his story at once. Those in the shadows listened silently until he had finished. Then one of them, a huge black silhouette with a soft menacing voice, took charge.

‘You say you found the trapdoor by accident.’

Alluda nodded at the black bulk in front of him.
‘I thought it might be what you’re looking for.’ He waited for a comment but none came. He shook his head impatiently. ‘I can’t guess what you want from me.’ Again he was met with silence.

Desperately, Alluda continued his discourse.
‘When I arrived eighteen months ago, they gave me a room in the basement, by the prayer room and staff library. There was a carpet….’

Suddenly the voice interrupted. ‘You didn’t like the color and they wouldn't buy a new one, so you went out and bought your own. You return to the embassy, remove the carpet you don’t like, and surprise, surprise, a trap door!’

‘Why should I lie? I just want to get this over. I don't...’

He stopped as the voice interrupted again. ‘I'm not saying I don't believe you. I just need you to get your story right, OK?’ Alluda, embarrassed by his outburst, nodded miserably. ‘You said nothing to anyone. You were not really interested; so what, a trap door? You laid your new carpet over the top and forgot about it, right?’ Alluda nodded. ‘That is, until the little escapade in Beirut where you met Miandad.’

Alluda knew he had been victim to a set up, but what was he to do? They had requested his help to get in. He nodded again and the voice continued. ‘Under your bed?’ He looked confused. The voice tried again. ‘The trap door under your bed?’

‘Yes, yes, under the bed.’ Alluda felt himself getting hot. ‘Look, it’s not as if it’s unusual you know. This part of Washington was known as ‘Nob’ Hill. They had their own toilets.’ He grimaced. ‘Sewers carried away all their waste; probably a few dead bodies as well.’

‘So you get back from Beirut and decide to explore more thoroughly, right?’

‘I waited for a quiet day, locked my door and removed the carpet. That's when I found the treads and...’

‘One step at a time, if you'll pardon...yeah. OK, so you explore and find a room below but, even more interesting, an iron grating...’

‘All sealed up in the centre of the floor.’

The interrogator grunted and the envoy continued with his recollection. ‘Yes, a couple of days later, I dug out the old plaster and lime mortar, opened the thing up and climbed down to what seemed to be the main drains. The place absolutely stunk. I really didn’t…’

‘A shelf?’ The voice reminded him.

‘At the bottom of the steps, the drain veered off at right angles. Fifty yards on and those iron rungs led up again.’

The voice interrupted. ‘So, you climbed up?’

Alluda grinned. ‘I told you. The mesh blocked any access...’

‘And you had trouble removing it?’ The voice struck Alluda as full of cunning, trying to trip him up, but he had told the truth.

‘I couldn't. I said so. There were a total of eight bolts - you’d need steel cutters. But I knew I'd have to find an exit point before...’ Alluda turned to face the lawyer, ‘…before getting back to Mr Miandad.’ His companion listened intently, hardly daring to breathe.

That voice again broke the brief pause. ‘OK, but you had a better idea?’

The envoy nodded uneasily, concentrating hard. ‘I told you...’

‘So tell me again...’ The tone was soft and menacing. Alluda raised his eyes towards the towering shape across the desk. He sensed what Miandad must have sensed: a great danger in this man's presence. He could make out others in the darkness; whoever they were, they hadn’t said a word. Resolving to stay calm, he took a deep breath.

‘I had to be careful. I saw a light from a crack through a sort of cover above. I took measurements, coupled with angles of direction and figured a manhole cover in the central parking zone opposite the embassy.’

A huge talon-like hand appeared in the light and pointed to a drawing illuminated on the table.
‘Look carefully. This is the plan, right? Nothing is missing? Nothing at all?’ Miandad shuddered, clenching his fingers, making sure they were all there, remembering that dreadful moment months earlier.

Alluda nodded. ‘I calculated the distance, I went outside and identified the actual manhole cover in the middle of a diplomatic parking bay on the central reservation.’

Miles confirmed the negatives. ‘A manhole cover right in the open and opposite the embassy. Metro police guards on duty twenty-four hours a day.’ He sounded impatient. ‘OK, so tell me about the ambassador; he’s your uncle, right?’

Alluda nodded. ‘He’s where exactly?’ The young attaché looked puzzled and the voice continued. ‘Where’s his office?’

‘On the first floor landing, overlooking the lobby.’

‘He’s in that office all the time?’
‘His private apartments and bed chamber are on the next floor.’

‘And he doesn’t go anywhere else in the building?’
‘He uses the prayer chamber in the basement next to my room, like everyone else.’

‘So what’s the story?’

‘He visits after prayers on a Sunday if anyone has a problem.’

‘What do you mean, he visits?’

‘He thinks that seeing staff in his office is inhibiting. If anyone has a problem, he sees them in their own quarters. But that’s only after prayers and only on a Monday.

‘So, if you had a problem on a Monday, the ambassador would come and see you?’ Alluda nodded and Miles continued. ‘Who runs the embassy security?’

Alluda hesitated. Three; they’re on duty at all times. Colonel Najeen’s in charge.’

‘OK. We'll get round that.’ Only the dull thud of a finger tapping at the drawing broke the silence. The answers came with a blindingly obvious simplicity.

The planned abduction would take place at the end of the ninth month of the Muslim year, the time of atonement - specifically on Monday, August 19, 2012. Many of the embassy employees would be away with their families in Jordan to end the fast of Ramadan and celebrate the start of another religious holiday, Eid ul-Fitr.

On the day in question, Alluda would arrange a meeting immediately after the ambassador ended devotions in the basement prayer room at two o’clock. Al-Mannai practiced perfect time keeping but, in any case, on the previous day Alluda would confirm the meeting to ensure no slip-ups.
The abductors would arrive and park immediately over the manhole cover. A portion of floor in their vehicle would have been removed to allow direct access so they were able to smuggle themselves into the drain, along the tunnel, through the open trapdoor, then wait in the envoy’s room for the ambassador’s arrival. At exactly the time of Al-Mannai's meeting with Alluda, Abdul Miandad would arrive at the front entrance with forged papers and identify himself as a diplomati ccourier.

He would refuse to enter the embassy but insist on seeing Colonel Najeen. His unexpected arrival would attract immediate attention and scrutiny from security staff, perhaps including conversations with the Foreign Ministry in Amman. Finally, having caused maximum disruption during the abduction, Miandad would depart.

In the meantime, Al-Mannai would arrive at Alluda's room and discover him tied up, drugged and unconscious. The ambassador would then be escorted at gunpoint through the trap door, down the steps, along the passage, up into a van and driven away.

Other than Miandad’s involvement as a phony courier - which the lawyer himself had suggested and Miles thought unnecessary - the plan pleased everyone around the table. On the other hand, Miandad had given Miles an idea about how a real distraction might take place. There was no way this lawyer could be trusted. He already knew too much for his own good and that applied in spades so far as Miles was concerned – maybe if he died on the way in...

Of course, everything would need to be checked out, in particular the Metro drainage system. However, for the moment, Miles seemed satisfied that the plan would work, perhaps with one or two unexpected benefits.

Washington DC - August 19, 2012 – 13.20

The two mercenaries were a lot younger than Alluda had suspected would have been the case. Whether or not they were up to the job he would find out more quickly than he could have imagined. Sitting on his bed, the junior envoy noted that they had ignored him, rather checking their equipment, poring over plans of the building and confirming data long since assimilated. Obviously, the men’s calculations represented only a precaution. If everything went off as planned, they would have no need go any further than this room. What’s more, the whole thing would come down in less than thirty minutes and the major part of their job would be done.

That was what the plan stipulated and, in the absence of surprises, that was how it would work. Al-Mannai would come to them. It would then be a simple matter to transfer him through the drains, up to their transport and away. They were completely unaware of the truth: everything had changed. The ambassador was going to die. Waiting in the drains, a notorious assassin had settled down to await his moment. It was only a matter of time.