henchmen came to replenish the rulerâs military supplies and shop for his grocery list of weapons of mass destruction. It was also where the CIA and Britainâs MI6 focused an increasing amount of their resources. Amman had become the Middle Eastâs version of Cold War Berlin. Any country that was big enough to care had spies on the ground in Amman, and with so many intelligence agencies operating in the city it was almost impossible to do business without someone noticing.
That was why David had chosen to meet his Iraqi contact in the Jordanian capital. He wanted to settle a score, send a message and muddy the waters in one fell swoop. Davidâs connection to Prince Omar and the Saudi royal family needed to be protected at all costs. Yes, the Iraqis could provide money to the cause, but nothing compared to the Saudis. If the grand plan did not go as he hoped, David wanted to be able to point the Israelis and the Americans and anyone else who cared in the direction of Saddam Hussein. He did not want them to go looking in the kingdom of Saudi Arabia for him.
The green Range Rover snaked its way up Al Ameer Mohammed Street toward one of Ammanâs famous seven hills. Night had fallen on the city and they were headed for the Intercontinental Hotel. It was Ammanâs finest hotel, and the arrogant man David was going to meet would stay nowhere else. David sat in the backseat and went over the plan one more time. He had carefully applied a black beard flecked with gray to his face and had added a touch of gray to his eyebrows. Over his hair he was wearing the black-and-white keffiyeh of a Palestinian. As they neared the hotel he put on a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and checked his disguise with a small mirror. He looked a good fifteen years older. He had met with the Iraqi on six previous occasions and he had worn the same disguise each time.
David trusted very few people, and none of them were Iraqis. He had caught them in many lies during his business dealings with them, but in truth he had expected nothing less. They were the bullies of the neighborhood, and in the Middle East there was no shortage of bullies. The Iraqis made up the rules and then changed them again when they didnât like the way things were going. David despised them for the way they feigned concern over the Palestinian plight. The truth was that there wasnât a single Iraqi who truly cared for the Palestinians. To Saddam and his henchmen the Palestinians were nothing more than a lightning rod to attract anti-Semitism and hatred for America.
As the Range Rover pulled up to the front of the hotel, David was focused on the task at hand. Tonight the bloodbath would begin. If things went right it would be the first step in a long odyssey that would change the face of Middle East politics. It takes war to make peace and tonight would be the first shot in Davidâs war.
He stepped from the vehicle and buttoned the jacket of his double-breasted blue suit. His posture slouched and his stride shortened, he moved toward the door of the hotel playing the role of an older man. The doors were opened by two bellmen who greeted David warmly. They knew him only as Mohammed Rashid, a Palestinian businessman who had strong ties to the PLO. David continued through the lobby, his Prada loafers clicking on the marble floor. He entered the bar and peered through the smoke-filled haze. The man he was looking for was seated in the far corner, his back to the wall like he was some cowboy in an American film. Two of his bodyguards were seated at the adjacent table and were eyeing the rest of the patrons, their menacing stares reminding everyone to mind their own business. All three men had bushy black mustaches, a prerequisite for anyone in Saddamâs inner circle.
David approached the table with feigned enthusiasm. âGeneral Hamza, it is so good to see you again.â
Hamza did not offer his hand. He simply looked at the chair opposite him
That was why David had chosen to meet his Iraqi contact in the Jordanian capital. He wanted to settle a score, send a message and muddy the waters in one fell swoop. Davidâs connection to Prince Omar and the Saudi royal family needed to be protected at all costs. Yes, the Iraqis could provide money to the cause, but nothing compared to the Saudis. If the grand plan did not go as he hoped, David wanted to be able to point the Israelis and the Americans and anyone else who cared in the direction of Saddam Hussein. He did not want them to go looking in the kingdom of Saudi Arabia for him.
The green Range Rover snaked its way up Al Ameer Mohammed Street toward one of Ammanâs famous seven hills. Night had fallen on the city and they were headed for the Intercontinental Hotel. It was Ammanâs finest hotel, and the arrogant man David was going to meet would stay nowhere else. David sat in the backseat and went over the plan one more time. He had carefully applied a black beard flecked with gray to his face and had added a touch of gray to his eyebrows. Over his hair he was wearing the black-and-white keffiyeh of a Palestinian. As they neared the hotel he put on a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and checked his disguise with a small mirror. He looked a good fifteen years older. He had met with the Iraqi on six previous occasions and he had worn the same disguise each time.
David trusted very few people, and none of them were Iraqis. He had caught them in many lies during his business dealings with them, but in truth he had expected nothing less. They were the bullies of the neighborhood, and in the Middle East there was no shortage of bullies. The Iraqis made up the rules and then changed them again when they didnât like the way things were going. David despised them for the way they feigned concern over the Palestinian plight. The truth was that there wasnât a single Iraqi who truly cared for the Palestinians. To Saddam and his henchmen the Palestinians were nothing more than a lightning rod to attract anti-Semitism and hatred for America.
As the Range Rover pulled up to the front of the hotel, David was focused on the task at hand. Tonight the bloodbath would begin. If things went right it would be the first step in a long odyssey that would change the face of Middle East politics. It takes war to make peace and tonight would be the first shot in Davidâs war.
He stepped from the vehicle and buttoned the jacket of his double-breasted blue suit. His posture slouched and his stride shortened, he moved toward the door of the hotel playing the role of an older man. The doors were opened by two bellmen who greeted David warmly. They knew him only as Mohammed Rashid, a Palestinian businessman who had strong ties to the PLO. David continued through the lobby, his Prada loafers clicking on the marble floor. He entered the bar and peered through the smoke-filled haze. The man he was looking for was seated in the far corner, his back to the wall like he was some cowboy in an American film. Two of his bodyguards were seated at the adjacent table and were eyeing the rest of the patrons, their menacing stares reminding everyone to mind their own business. All three men had bushy black mustaches, a prerequisite for anyone in Saddamâs inner circle.
David approached the table with feigned enthusiasm. âGeneral Hamza, it is so good to see you again.â
Hamza did not offer his hand. He simply looked at the chair opposite him
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