Juggernaut

‘Anthrax spores, sheltered in crevices and shadows. The odds of infection are low, but the consequences could be severe. Pulmonary collapse. Maybe worse. Intramuscular shots of antibiotic would give you some protection. But the real concern is botulinum residue. A strong neuro-toxin. It could paralyse your whole respiratory tract, kill you in minutes.’

‘Bio-weapons? Chemical munitions?’

‘Saddam’s legacy. An attempt to suppress internal dissent. The airstrikes were methodically documented, although the files have long since been destroyed. It was an open secret. A deliberate attempt to obliterate the tribal population, instil terror and obedience.’

‘What exactly happened?’

‘It was early evening. The best time of day to release a chemical weapon. Diminishing sunlight. A blanket of rapidly cooling air hung over the desert. Perfect conditions for the dissemination of aerosol particles. They used an adapted L-29 Delfin trainer. Czech. A light jet with three-hundred-litre storage tanks slung below each wing. They flew at two thousand feet. Made a slow pass over every hamlet and farmstead in the western sector. Released their payload like a crop-duster laying down pesticide. A steady stream of vapour.

‘Families were sitting down to dinner. Sheep and goats in their pens.’

‘Why? Why did he do it?’

‘September, ninety-eight. Saddam wanted to consolidate his power. He wanted to punish the northern Kurds for supporting Peshmerga rebels. Crush the tribal system. He wiped out Shabaks, Yazidis, Turkoman. There were deportations, mass executions. He released anthrax spores to kill cattle and poison the land. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted a final solution. Operation Panther. To this day, no one knows exactly what they used. Some kind of binary nerve agent. Maybe VX. Maybe hydrogen cyanide. Something truly satanic.

‘The plane flew overhead. Minutes later animals convulsed and dropped dead. Dogs. Cattle. They say some people coughed blood, and others died laughing. There were terrible lesions and skin turned blue. The ground remains tainted to this day. When some tribesmen returned to the area they soon suffered respiratory problems, birth abnormalities and high rates of cancer. Saddam’s cousin organised the attack. Ali Hassan al-Majid. People will dance in the street the day he is hung.’

‘Christ.’

‘I was part of the regime. We all knew. We all heard. We all share responsibility. I’m not proud of the things I’ve seen and done. I’m not a good man. Each night I pray to God to spare me his terrible judgement and hell.’

‘Your battalion spent weeks out there, camped in the contamination zone.’

‘Yes.’

‘And none of them got sick?’

‘None of them got Anthrax.’

Lucy sat back.

‘A fortune in gold, sitting in the desert, waiting to be found. Can you prove any of this story?’

‘What is your instinct?’ asked Jabril. ‘Am I lying?’

‘Yeah. I think you’re lying through your arse. I don’t know what happened out there in the desert, but you know what? I don’t care. Tell me straight. Is there gold? Is that much true?’

‘Yes.’

‘If my crew go searching for the gold, if we travel to Al-Qa’im and find nothing but sand, I think you know what will happen. The boys won’t be in a forgiving mood. It won’t be pretty.’

Jabril nodded and lit another cigarette.

‘Here’s the deal,’ said Lucy. ‘Military Intelligence are done with you. A few days from now you’ll be transferred to local jurisdiction and shipped out. They won’t take you to Ganci right away. They’ll take you for processing at the Central Station. Throw you in a holding cell. You’ll be surrounded by fifty Sunni fucks wanting payback for a lifetime of hurt. You’ll spend every waking moment trying to stay alive. You won’t dare sleep. But there is an alternative. We could arrange your freedom.’

‘In return for the gold.’

‘We’d treat you fair. You’d get a cut.’

‘How many of you are there?’ asked Jabril.

‘A team of five.’

‘Do you trust them?’

‘With my life.’

‘Wait until your friends lay eyes on a mountain of gold. You will soon see how much their trust is worth.’

Lucy and Amanda rode the expressway towards Baghdad. Suffocating humidity. Rain blattered against the cracked windshield.

Amanda scrunched her Abu Ghraib visitor pass and tossed it from the window. She turned the air-con dial, put her hand over a dash vent until she felt a blast of chill air.

‘Western Desert,’ said Amanda. ‘Tough terrain. Bandit country. Peshmergas. Jihadi guerrillas. Fuckheads of every stripe.’

‘Think it’s all right?’ said Lucy. ‘Taking the gold?’

‘It’s dirty money. It’s not going to build a hospital. It’s going to end up in some asshole’s Swiss bank account. Might as well be ours, right?’

‘Yeah.’

Amanda kicked at bullets rolling in the foot well. The Suburban got shot to hell in the previous day’s ambush. AK rounds had penetrated the Kevlar door panels. Gleaming silver mushrooms littered the carpet and seats.

She took an envelope from the glove box. Two new passports. Big gold crest. Canada. Passport/Passeport.