Chapter 4
Karbala was a far more modern city than Chet had anticipated. King Khalid's putting his petrodollars to work, the American documentary filmmaker thought to himself as his shoes slapped urgently on the hot sidewalk heading for the steps of the American embassy in Karbala Arabesque mosaic architecture blended like fire and water with glass skyscrapers keeping odd company.
He was in search of someone who might enlighten him on the sudden violence in the Middle East and shed some light on the Iranian/Iraqi upheaval. And a few personal issues—like attempts on his life—could use some illumination as well.
The man he sought was an acquaintance from the Special Forces based in Da Nang back in 1975. Colonel Jibsen had been one hell of a Marine, and once a Marine, always a Marine. Chet needed a man like that right now and, luckily for him, Jibsen had found station in the Saudi Arabian branch of the Central Intelligence Agency.
As Bentley's shoes climbed the steps to the embassy, his mind fled to Viet Nam those years back and recalled in particular stout hearted American whose zeal for patriotism was matched only by his muscular structure. Two hundred and thirty pounds of unadulterated beefy muscle, closely cropped hair and bird-like eyes. If the gun he carried didn't scare the pants off indigent American officers whose poor performance was viewed as an embarrassment to the United States and due cause for death by their own countrymen specially trained in high intelligence, the burly sight of him did. That was Jibsen's job: killing lazy Marines who fucked up.
There's trust in distrust, Chet reminded himself, and honor amongst Marines. Jibsen would help for that reason and only that reason.
Jibsen hadn't changed a bit, except for a few extra crowsfeet under his eyes from the searing Karbala sun. His ruddy skin matched his hair in color, making his head look obscenely naked. Robin's egg blue eyes stared at the nervous American filmmaker.
"What the Strait of Hormuz and oil has to do with life, I don't the hell know!" blared Chet across the man's desk. "I've been attacked three times, a plane was sabotaged that should have had me on it, a train track gets blown up in Jordan!" he sighed heavily. "Jordan's not the hell in the war yet!"
"The hell you say," corrected Jibsen. "They're backin' Iraq."
"So what information have the police gotten out of the conductor who tried to put a knife through my heart... huh? What the hell kind of judicial system have they got in this country?"
"You're in a foreign country," rebuked Jibsen, his blue eyes piercing Chet's blazing ones, "...mind your fuckin' manners." His ragged fingernail picked at a piece of meat between his front teeth. "You're American, they're Arabs... they want what you got," he said flatly.
Chet's voice whined in frustration. He spread his hands. "What the hell have I got?" He enumerated the items on his fingers. "A couple pair of underwear, socks, a banged up camera, a coupla shirts and a present for my girl." He drew in a deep breath. "Shit, I
forgot about giving it to her."
"What?" Jibsen cocked his head to the side.
Chet shook his head disgustedly. "It's not important... I bought my girl a little something in Beirut, something I was saving for a surprise and I forgot to give it to her."
"Maybe that's what they're after," suggested Jibsen with renewed enthusiasm.
"A pair of panties and a camisole; the world's in a worse state of affairs than I thought if that's cause for trying to kill somebody!"
"So what do you want me to do about it? This is a big country, Bentley, biggern' Vietnam ever thought about a bein'." He shook his head appreciatively. "Lots a bucks to be made in this part of the world if you got the right connections." He leaned over his desk and grunted, "These fuckin' Arabs'll own the world in a couple of years after they clog up the Persian Gulf. Huh," he snorted, "the stupid shits in the States'll be ridin' bicycles."
Chet failed to see the humor in it. "Who the hell's side you on, anyway? I'm surprised you're not wearing a Khomeini button, for Chrissakes."
"Listen!" Jibsen's coarse features hardened. He levered his meaty palms on the top of his desk and rose off his chair. "The only reason I'm talkin' with you is because you're a Marine. You were a chickenshit in Nam, and you're a chickenshit now... but you're a Marine, so I gotta treat you like one."
"You win," Chet held up his hands. "Maybe I am a chickenshit, but I got this aversion to people trying to kill me. I want to find out who's after me and why, and get some information out of the conductor. He's probably the bastard who blew up the tracks. I've got an assignment to work on, I'm waiting for orders from CBS in New York. I need a bodyguard for Karen. I can't take her to Abadan with me."
Jibsen stiffened. "Abadan... that was bombed yesterday."
"What?"
Jibsen slapped an English newspaper on the desk under Chet's nose. "We're at war, boy. The fuckin' Strait's all clogged up!"
Back in the hotel room, Chet explained the situation to Karen: She would stay in Karbala under Jibsen's auspices and he, unassisted would head for location when word came from Goodfellow to advance. War documentary assignments, he was beginning to understand; weren't a hell of a lot different from being in the Special Forces. Both took guts.
That afternoon the awaited telegram arrived from CBS. CONTACT ABDULLAH IN BASRA. STOP. REPORT BACK UPON ARRIVAL. STOP. HARRY.
"That's it," sighed Chet resignedly, never having appreciated Karen's luscious bumps and curves more in his life. Christ, he hadn't felt this scared since he landed in a rice paddie in Viet Nam up to his knees in muck, leeches chewing at his kneecaps and guerilla farmers throwing glass Molotov cocktails in his face.
Something about being in the midst of war with no gun and a sense of survival your only ammunition, un-nerved the ex-Marine. He felt it, but didn't show it.
Cupping Karen's shoulders, he stared into her emerald eyes. "Jibsen's an asshole, but he stays alive." He shook a finger at her. "But don't let the ugly bastard seduce you, that's all I ask, because if you get turned on by him, that'll make me look pretty damned unattractive."
"Oh, Chet, I want to go back to New York, both of us." Her lovely shoulders shivered and she pressed her soft curves to match his muscular ones. "I don't like being in the middle of war with no news of what's going on. I keep thinking of the American hostages in Tehran who've been cooped up going crazy for over a year, and anything seems possible."
"I've got a plane to catch," he announced, pulling reluctantly away from her tempting lusciousness. He'd have given anything for an hour naked in bed with her in one of those Hemingway love scenes, feeling the earth move for them... but damn it, this was real life. He had a job to do.
Chet was retracing those thoughts, wishing he'd gone for that one last screw, when he walked up the steps of a government building in Basra. The streets of the city were eerily vacant and the smell of sulphur and burning oil stung his nostrils. The imminent feeling that a bomber could strafe overhead any second and nail his bloody carcass to the American Embassy doorstep, shivered through his lanky frame. Times like this, he wished he shared some of Jibsen's cocksure sentiment. Jibsen was a man who'd never die.
Chet's growing distrust of Arabs intensified as he eventually came face to face with Abdullah. Events happened so damned fast in war, yesterday's friend could be tomorrow's foe. With that in mind, he extended a hand to Abdullah, the Minister of Information at the Embassy. The sweaty faced Iraqi looked the epitome of the typical Arab male. A large nose dominated his long, thin face. Taut lips spreading in a welcoming smile nearly brushed the tip of his nose. His attire created a strange contrast of East and West, He wore a natty suit, with a crisp white shirt and about his head a turban draped over his shoulders.
Bentley handed him the letters of introduction which the diplomat read carefully. After perusing them, Chet stuffed them back into his satchel along with his clean socks and underwear. His fingers touched the crinkly Milady lingerie bag stuffed in the bottom, and mentally he snapped his fingers at his stupidity for neglecting to give Karen her gift. He wondered what the Iraqi would think if he knew he was carrying a pair of lacey panties in his bag. Damn things getting to be a bad luck charm...
"You are from New York City, the Big Apple?" put in Abdullah rhetorically.
Chet eyed the Iraqi diplomat quizzically, and nodded. He hadn't expected this kind of reception in a country devoted to anti-Americanism.
"And your assignment is to take footage of our petrochemical plants for use in a documentary film?" He spread his hands as he spoke.
Chet nodded. "Correct. I was originally scheduled to go to Abadan but after the oil war broke out, my supervisor decided my assistant and I should not risk the dangers."
"You are wise not to step foot in Iran," he said crisply, shifting slightly in his chair. The Khomeini has treated your people badly."
Chet got the instant impression that anti-Iranian was equated with pro-Americanism in this country, and that helped dispel a bit of distrust.
"The world does not understand that Iran and Iraq are two totally different cultures. They are Persians, Indo-Europeans, we, the Iraqis are Arabs," he said proudly. We belong to the Sunni sect of Islam, the Iranians to the Shiite sect."
The American filmmaker stared at the map of the Islam world over the diplomat's shoulder. Red arrows marked war zones. "I had no idea the war had spread that far. When I left the States there was talk, but—"
"It is the war of the century."
Chet dove for the chance to change the subject. He had the distinct impression he could waste a whole day listening to the Iraqi damn the Iranians. "About my permission for filming..."
"Oh, yes. You mentioned an assistant." The Iraqi leaned back and touched his fingers together.
"Karen O'Malley. For safety sake, I left her in Karbala under the auspices of an American by the name of Jibsen."
Abdullah's eyebrows raised, and his thin lips fell slack. "Jibsen... I have heard many things about the man."
Chet didn't like the delivery of that admission. "Yes, he works with the Central Intelligence Agency. I knew him in the Special Forces in Viet Nam."
"There have been reports that your Mr. Jibsen is allied with an Iranian terrorist group who are anti-Khomeini." His face was set in a knowing smirk.
"Jibsen? With the Iranians?" Chet scratched his head. "I find it hard to believe... the man would have given his right testicle to die for America..."
Abdullah lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. The air stung with a clovish smell. "Believe me, Mr. Bentley, the man is a clever capitalist. The Arabs are just now coming into wealth; we are enamored by what I shall call Western fast talk, and your Mr. Jibsen fits well into that category. He has made many petrodollars procuring wives for American women-hungry sheiks and now he is reputedly working in this country for an oil field heir back in the United States who despises the Ayatollah, and wants only to embarrass him. You see," and here the Minister of Information stiffened judgmentally, "the Ayatollah is the savior of the poor masses. There are others who oppose his dictatorial regime."
The idea of Jibsen being involved with wealthy oil men didn't sit comfortably with Chet. Somehow it amused him that the burly, redheaded hulk had managed to finagle his way into Arab money.
The American filmmaker squinted off into space. "Come to think of it, I recall there being a rash of arrests involving anti-Khomeini demonstrators."
"You see, this is the war of the century. We are twice torn—by religion and by money. The Iranians are united for a cause now, but soon it will be the oil rich versus the hungry masses. Such is the curse of our universe." He paused. "Which is why your Mr. Jibsen is being hired to gather information in case of future wars within our countries."
"Meaning..."
"I'm talking explosives, bombs, Mr. Bentley."
Chet gulped. A dark cloud of doom haloed his head, growing more dense as he lifted his head to stare into the Arab's snappy eyes.
"I fear you've made a grave mistake leaving Mr. Jibsen to care for your female assistant. Especially if she is young and pretty. The man is ruthless."
Bentley's hand rose to his forehead. Alarm sizzled through his veins. "Karen, I've got to find Karen."
"Believe me, Mr. Bentley, you had better hurry. It may already be much too late. I will do anything to assist you in dealing with this Mr. Jibsen. If you need help, please feel free to contact me."