The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 24: My Dinner with ISIS
We stared at each other for a few seconds. I decided to put my pistol back in my waist band, because the older prisoner was clearly upset by the sight of it.
“Are you ... Colonel Meisl? From Fatherland?” asked the other prisoner. I’m afraid I got very, very angry about that. Unreasonably so. I was dressed as a guard and had a few millimetres of my beard and moustache back, but this guy spotted me in an instant! And I couldn’t even blame him, because I have that very same knack. Ten minutes of watching Babylon 5 and I’ve spotted three people who were in Blake’s Seven, even though they’re wearing a pound of make-up.
“Oh, fucking awesome. Trust me to find a movie buff in a desert,” I said, as I located the lock in the frame and tried to open the door. It didn’t even budge. “Who are you?”
The scared prisoner looked at the other one.
“Who is he?”
“He is an actor! Herr Carstairs! YOU ARE HERR CARSTAIRS! Oh mein Gott! Was machen Sie denn hier?”
“Oi! Fritz! No! Shut the fuck up. We are NOT playing twenty questions here. We only have a few minutes and I am not the one locked up. Answer my questions quickly and briefly. Understand?”
The German nodded. Germans like clear orders. I like Germans for that very reason. If there’s ever a global pandemic that requires people to follow orders, I know exactly which country will be laughing through their schnitzel.
“Your name.”
“Dieter von Wernigerode.”
“Why are you here?”
“I was captured by the Islamic State in Syria. I’m a German soldier, assigned to the UN peacekeeping forces. I was captured almost two years ago.”
“And you?” I asked the other guy.
“My name is Adam Portheault, I am married, three kids, I work for Le Monde and I was kidnapped three months ago in Abu Dhabi. Who are you?”
“A journalist? Why were you kidnapped?”
“I was working on a story about nuclear equipment being smuggled into Saudi Arabia. Are you British?”
I turned to the German again, as I liked his brevity.
“What is going on here? In this fort, I mean.”
“I believe this is a missile base. The fort is new, it was built as a facade. Before, it was a training base for Islamic insurgents. They still operate nearby and serve as guards for the base.”
I won’t deny I was relieved to hear him say that. After I’d killed three guards who didn’t put up much of a fight, I was beginning to get a bit worried I was actually bumping off the Saudi equivalent of park rangers.
“What’s nearby, another base?”
“I believe there is a Bedouin camp somewhere. It moves around. I don’t know where.”
“Okay, so everyone here is a bad guy?”
The Frenchman could no longer shut up.
“Oh, yes! We can hear the guards radio in the other room! We know everything going on here! There is a large underground base with Korean scientists and engineers. They are the ones who have installed the missiles and will oversee the launch. They’re North-Korean. Why does he know you? Are you famous?”
I moved nearer to the German and handed him the pistol I got from the last guard.
“Can you handle this?”
“Na klar.”
“You’re a real soldier? Not a desk clerk or something?”
By way of an answer he performed a chamber check with practiced ease and only then ran his pinky finger on the inside of the barrel to get an idea of how dirty or clean it was.
“Not clean. Yes, I’m a real soldier. Sondereinsatzkommando. But my leg got infected after a beating. I can’t run any more.”
I unshouldered my rifle.
“Even so, you probably have more use for this than I do. I’m going to have to leave you here. They are about to launch. Do you know where the keys to the cell doors are?”
“The guards have keys. Some of them. They are praying now. Almost done, I think.”
“In that case, lure a guard into your cell and pop him. Or don’t. I really don’t care. But I don’t think this is where you want to be during launch, so escape when you can. I’ve picked off a few guards, but there are quite a few left. There are a few cars parked outside. With any luck the keys are in the ignition. Do you have a general idea of the area?”
“Yes. We are sometimes allowed to do some walking on the roof.”
“There’s a cave about one kilometre East of here, overlooking this fort. Go down the ramp and drive around the mountain in front of you anticlockwise. But not if you have people in pursuit, okay? There are only two people in that cave and one is injured. But there’s a radio. Otherwise, head South until you hit the main road to Tabuk and turn left towards Jordan. What? Why are you staring at me?”
“You are ... exactly like Colonel Meisl. It’s almost as if this is a hidden camera show.”
I reached between the bars, pulled on his shirt and pulled him in. He understood I was only doing that for dramatic effect.
“Listen very carefully, I will say this only once: if you want to show me your gratitude for helping you out, you will forget who I am or who you think I am. That goes for him, too. Do you understand me?”
“Jawohl. Sorry, Herr Carstairs. I mean...”
“DUDE! Shut THE FUCK up! You don’t know me!”
“Yes. Sorry.”
I handed him the rifle.
“Anything I should know before I leave?”
“Uhm ... The entrance to the underground base is in the South-West tower. There are fifteen Koreans and some guards. The Koreans only come out at night. It’s cool down there, they like that.”
“Thanks. What’s in the villa?”
“I have never been there, but the head guard has an office in the villa and he’s there all the time. There are some cameras he can watch from there. An important visitor stays there, sometimes. They call thim ‘the prince’. When he’s not there, they watch TV and use the pool.”
“Is he there now?”
“No, I don’t think so. He likes to stay at the Bedouin camp, where they train recruits. But the soldiers travel there by car and the prince uses a helicopter for everything. Oh! You should know this: there’s a ... uhm ... waffenzimmer?”
“Armoury?”
“Yes! Also ground floor. Probably near the entrance to the underground base. I’m not really sure, but I think that’s where they do weapons maintenance.”
“I think prayer has ended,” warned the Frenchman.
“Okay. Sorry, I have to run. Get out of here.”
“I now have eighteen bullets. That should help,” said Dieter, with a grim smile.
“Good man. Forget we ever met.”
“Thank you. God be with you, Sir.”
“And Kate be with you,” I answered, as I headed for the door.
“What? What did he say? Who WAS that?”
“Shut up! Pretend you’re ill and lie down!” was the last thing I heard before I ran ... okay speedwalked to the end of the corridor, towards the South-West tower.
As I feared, they started a search for their missing buddies right after prayer. I’d left it too long. I loitered on the first floor of the South-West tower, a room with a single bed, a locker and a sink. There was also a small waste paper basket that smelled rather a lot like Callery pear trees, if you catch my drift. I guess guarding a hidden nuclear launch site gets a bit boring after a while.
I could hear a lot of footsteps and doors closing throughout the building, so I opened a door at random hoping to find that armoury. Instead, I found a supply closet. It was empty except for a toolbox, a big yellow bottle of Harris roach powder and a stepladder, but given how narrow it was and because there was no natural light, it could only have been a closet. The light came from a bare lightbulb hanging from a metre of electric cable. Surprisingly, it was an energy-saving lamp. How considerate of these terrorists to care about climate change.
I stepped in and switched on my radio.
“Can you hear me?” I whispered.
“Just about. Go ahead,” answered Gerard.
“I found two prisoners. A German UN soldier and a French journalist. Over.”
“Wow. Copy that. Names?”
“Dieter von Wernige ... oh fuck...”
Was I now going to have to spell a German name to an American? Guess I was.
“ ... Oscar Delta Echo. Over.”
“Copy that. The other one? Over.”
“Adam something. Adam Pothole. He works for Le Monde. Captured six months ago in Abu Dhabi. Over.”
“Did you release them? Over.”
“Didn’t have a key. Gave them a pistol and a rifle. Over.”
“Where’d you get a rifle? Over.”
“From a guard. He’s not using it. And the pistol from another one. If they make it out of the building, they’ll head for a car. Some sniper support may come in handy. The tall one can’t run.”
“Understood. Over. What’s your next move?”
“Headed to the villa to see if I can knock out the satellite. There’s an underground base, but I’m not going in there with just a pistol and a smile.”
“Consider not smiling. Over.”
“Funny. Over.”
“It’s by no means certain that knocking out the dish will delay the launch, over.”
“Then at least I’ll be out of this building. Out.”
I opened the door and heard a voice coming from below.
“Mohammed?”
Oops. I guess the search was still in progress. I quickly closed the door and decided it might be wise to unscrew that bulb. Thankfully it was barely warm, being of low wattage.
“MOHAMMED? Hal ‘ant alrajij maratan ‘ukhraa ‘ayuha alrajul aleujuwz?”
My Arabic was just about good enough for that one: ‘Are you jerking off again, old man?’
Someone came up the stairs. I backed away from the door. My foot touched the tool box. I bent down and felt around, trying not to make a noise. A heavy wrench! Even that tenth dentist would agree those are perfect for crushing heads. I listened at the door.
“MOHAMMED!”
The guard was on this floor now. I backed away and moaned as if I was panicking.
“UUUUUNGH!”
“Mo! Hal ‘ant fi aldakhl?” (Are you in there?)
“La la la la!” I said, trying to sound like someone in the middle of having a wank. Good thing I’m an acclaimed actor with a Best Actor award from the film critics’ guild of Stoke-on-Trent or wherever it was. The guard opened the door with a gleeful ‘HAHAAA!’ and reached for the light switch. It didn’t do anything.
“‘Atrakna wuh shanuna,” I whispered, hoping that meant ‘leave me alone’.
“Nahn?!” (Us?! Okay, wrong pronoun. I just said: ‘Leave US alone’.)
He tried the light switch again, but obviously that wasn’t going to work. He stepped inside, probably expecting to find at least two missing colleagues fellating each other. What he got was an almighty clip ‘round the earhole with a heavy wrench. For some reason he said: ‘Wuk’, and then he went down like a sack of dates. I listened for other voices or footsteps nearby, screwed the lightbulb back in and closed the door. Those camo pants looked a lot roomier than mine.
“Nasty, nasty Muslimses...” I mumbled. “So ... What has its got in its pocketses?”
Three minutes later I was wearing much better trousers, a new pistol, a combat knife that could only have been made for display purposes, a two way radio lifted off the guard and a lovely Zippo brass lighter any twelve year old would kill to have. I also lifted the guy’s cigarettes, because I once saw a movie where they were used as timed detonators for an explosion. As I put the lighter in my breast pocket, I discovered a key ring with four keys there. Guess I had the cell door keys on me all the time!
I rushed back to the cells and found Dieter and Adam there, ready to start a little amateur dramatics production.
“Please! Help ... oh. Hello.”
“Hi guys. Try one of these. Gotta go,” I said, and tossed them the key ring.
“Danke!”
“Oh, hang on: do you speak Arabic?”
“I do now,” said the Frenchman, with some regret. The German nodded. WHY CAN EVERYONE ELSE SPEAK ARABIC BUT ME!? I handed them the walkie talkie.
“Here, maybe this helps. I have my own. Toodle pip!”
There’s an old joke about characters in computer games having infinite, invisible pockets. I’m certainly not the first one to have wondered how CJ, the protagonist in GTA San Andreas, managed to carry around brass knuckles, a pistol, a machine gun, a rifle, a missile launcher, a grenade launcher, molotov cocktails, hand grenades, satchel charges, a night stick, a katana and a chain saw plus a whole bunch of ammunition while wearing nothing but training pants and a sleeveless shirt. Well, I was running into that same problem right now. I had already ditched the cooling vest in the supply closet as it restricted my movements, particularly bending over. It didn’t cool me down much either, probably because the battery was running low. I could tell from the very gentle buzzing sound behind my back, which had been getting lower in pitch.
The wrench was hard to hide, but these new pants had deep side pockets. For now, I kept it behind my back as I walked along the corridor to the North-East tower, then downstairs and to the door where I’d left my bike. For a second I was tempted to leave the plateau: this wasn’t my problem and I wasn’t equipped to deal with it. And what was Israel to me, except an everlasting source of misery on the evening news for the past four decades and the reason old people in Florida always voted for a Republican? Besides, special forces were inbound and maybe they would hit a few green lights, or the Saudi military would get off their keister. It might be a good idea to haul ass before then.
So, given all that, why was I now headed towards the bench where I’d left the explosive charges? Why then, after having retrieved them, did I calmly stroll along the ridge towards the villa, in full view of three men near the barrack who were smoking and talking? Sure, they were at least fifty metres away and by now it was almost dark, so maybe they didn’t even see me, but I should have been on my bike!
The villa was clearly as new as the fort. Whoever designed it had made at least a token effort to make it fit in with the natural environment, rather than just slamming down a generic expensive looking glass box. It was two floors high (ground floor plus one) and the walls were made from the same materials as the fort, albeit a lot thinner. It had small, narrow windows. A wall ran around the back half, presumably a garden with a pool. That side, not visible from the fort, looked a lot more modern, with a large glass facade that opened up to a balcony. Tyre tracks ran to the back of the building, where a wooden sun shade offered shade to three parked cars. Not that there were cars there right now, but there was one white minivan. It had been backed into its spot, ready to leave. A military habit, I’m told.
I headed straight for the satellite dish, which rested on a wooden frame. It wasn’t all that big, at about twice the size of a dish for home use. I examined the heads, but they seemed to me to be identical to those you’d use to pick up TV-signals. The cable that ran towards the house wasn’t anything special, either. It seemed a shame to waste explosives on this, especially since I had a screwdriver on me, so I just unscrewed a bracket, pulled out the cable that led to the LNB head, folded it double about a foot away from the end and was then able to pull the solid copper core out of the cable. I then reassembled the plug it and the bracket and threw the small length of copper wire over the edge. If anyone came looking, the dish would look as if it had never been touched. But somehow I didn’t think this dish was instrumental in thwarting the launch. At best I’d just prevented someone from watching Babestation.
While I waited to see if anyone would come out of the villa to check the satellite dish, I decided I’d light a cigarette, not because I smoke but because people who smoke have more of an excuse to wander around and look at stuff. I did see a camera on top of the roof, but it only seemed to be overlooking the garden area within the wall.
At the back of the compound was a small wooden extension, on the outside of the wall. I heard a burbling sound coming from inside and opened the keyless door, just to see if this would be a good hiding place. Not really: half of the space was taken up by a pool filtration system and what seemed to be a heat exchanger. I guess the pool was temperature controlled. It was also automatically chlorinated: a rubber hose ran to a large, sealed canister filled with Chlorine. A generous supply of extra bottles was stacked up next to it, leaving hardly any space inside. It smelled unpleasant and it was warmer than outside, so I left in a hurry.
I then walked up to the van and tried the door to see if it had keys inside. If so, I’d bring that thing to the fort, pick up Dieter and Adam and just drive off.
Sadly, however, the doors were locked. People don’t trust anyone, nowadays! My grandmother used to have a pull-string dangling through the letterbox so I could come in at any time. Granted, she was eventually killed in a violent home invasion, but right up to that moment there had been no problems whatsoever! (I’m kidding, my grandmother was never robbed and she did have that pull-string for a while, but then a drunk student spent the night in her hallway and that was it for her. She didn’t mind him sleeping there, but he’d vomited all over himself and the fitted carpet. Besides, I was old enough for my own key at that point.)
I walked back to the villa, looking for a gate or another point of entry, when suddenly a voice spoke to me from the shadows of a wall. By now the moon was visible. ‘Waxing gibbous’ I think it’s called. Full moon to you and me. It was so bright it did indeed manage to cast a bit of a shadow behind the villa.
“Salaam,” said the voice. I turned my head and saw a glowing, orange dot in the dark, faintly illuminating a nose and two dark set eyes. Someone else had decided to take a smoke break.
“Salaam,” I answered, trying to sound calm.
“Sorry I startled you, brother,” said the man, in very fractured Arabic. He stepped away from the wall and the moon caught his face and upper body. He wore a white cotton skullcap and had white straps around his shoulders. When he took another step in my direction, I noticed he wore a white apron. In other words: he looked like a chef, or at least a kitchen worker.
I made a sound I hoped would convey a general air of ‘never mind’, because I’d been so startled even English words failed me. He grinned and extended his hand. He was a broad-shouldered guy and like me sported a circular beard, except his was done. He also had an eye patch.
“Ayoub. You’re new, right?”
“Yes, I am new,” I mumbled, rather uncertain about the grammar.
I shook his hand, wondering if I’d placed that big knife in my left or right thigh strap. As he got a look at me he switched to English.
“Hey, are you a brother from Europe?”
“Yes,” I answered. “How did you know?”
He released my hand and I reached for the wrench, ready to cave in his head.
“Your accent. I’m Moroccan, but I come from Holland. Netherlands?”
“Oh, ik ook!” (Me too.)
“NEEEEEE! Echt waar?! Gaaf!” (No! Really? Neat!)
We continued in Dutch, which I hadn’t spoken in months. I won’t say I was rusty, but my mouth clearly wasn’t expecting it.
“But are you Moroccan? No ... What are you?”
Time for some grade A lying. I could have struck him down, but he might have some information for me.
“I’m Dutch. I converted.”
Even though Muslims may try to convert Western friends, or at least suggest the option is always open, they’re often less than enthusiastic to meet someone who has indeed turned to Islam. Those converts are usually much more observant than they are, and want to discuss complicated religious concepts that people born into the religion have long ago created workarounds for. (‘It’s not pork, it’s just pork flavoured. Pork is only a chop, or bacon. Sausages don’t count. Sure, dating non-Muslims is fine! Not for my sister, but for me it’s no problem. I just don’t tell my parents about her, or my friends. Stealing? Yes, that’s a sin. But only if you steal from OTHER Muslims.’ Etc.)
“Wow, that’s great. I was born in The Netherlands but I’m a real ... I mean ... I was born...”
“I get it. Crazy to run into someone who speaks Dutch, though, right?”
“Yeah! So they let you do guard duty?”
‘Yes, because I have depth perception,’ was on the tip of my tongue, but I restrained myself.
“Yes. Just the outside, though. I’ve never even been in the underground base,” I said, hoping to learn something about that.
“I have,” he said, almost boastfully. “I’m a chef. That’s what I was back home, too. Well ... at a Van der Valk. But that still counts. I prepare all the food. Them and us. Just did the bunker. I’m resting up before I get started on your meal.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Pasta for us. Sorry, I haven’t been able to drive into Tabuk the past few days, because of the lockdown.”
“Well, that should be over after tonight.They launch tonight, right?”
“Yeah, guess so. They’ve fuelled up the missiles, so...”
His voice trailed off as he took another drag. I wanted to bring the conversation back to the bunker.
“What did they have?” I asked, pointing in the general direction of the ground beneath the fort.
“Oh, the mole people? Fucking kimchi, mate. Kimchi every day. They have huge jars of the stuff. I just bring them grilled chicken or beef, and lots of boiled rice. They asked for pork the other day, haha!”
I joined in. Having been to South-Korea I am well aware of their obsession with kimchi. I’m no great fan of their cuisine, really. Japchae (stir-fried noodles) is nice, but that’s generally seen as a side dish. It’s usually bibimbap (fried rice with sautéed veggies and pork or beef) for me, but that gets old after a day or two.
“Really? Pork? Idiots,” I said, forcing a chuckle. “How many chickens do they go through in a day, though?”
“There’s only about ten of them down there, so not that much. And they will leave tomorrow, so that’s the end of that. Then I can focus on your meals, back at the camp. How long have you been here?”
“Three days. I’ve only been on the night shift so far. Curious about that base, though. I mean, how often do you get to see something like that?”
“Oh, it’s not that great. Lots of tiny rooms, fluorescent lights. Stairs all the way down: no lifts. Draughty as hell, because of the air circulation. But the launch silos are pretty impressive. It’s tonight, right?”
“That’s what I hear. I do wonder how they think this location will stay secret, though. You’d think a launch like that would be detected.”
He shrugged and reached for another cigarette.
“They seem to think that tarp is enough. Those missiles aren’t like the space shuttle, you know. Over in Tabuk they won’t even be able to see it.”
“Oh, right. So, what’s in your future after tonight?”
“More cooking. We’ll keep on training jihadi as they come in. So ... are you here to train or just as a guard? Were you at the camp? The one with the assault course?”
“Oh, yes. But I got sent here for guard duty. I don’t think they trust us with proper work.”
He seemed surprised.
“What ... You WANT to be a jihadi? Listen to me, brother. I have been in Raqqa. I’ve fought in Syria, too. It’s not nearly as glorious as the imams say. It’s disgusting. I’ve seen dead children being dragged around by weeping mothers. Muslim children. Trust me, you don’t want to see that. I mean, I think it’s great you converted. But I never again want to have to shoot a man for not having a long enough beard, or cut off his hand for allowing his wife to go around without a full niqaab. In a way I’m glad I lost my eye, so I got sent here. You can serve God in many ways, you know.”
“I suppose so,” I said, rubbing my chin. “But what made you join the fight in the first place?”
“Well, you know ... the recruiters. Our mosques are run by elders who mean well, but they are weak. They don’t see our struggle. They don’t see how the West disrespects us, and our faith. The cheeseheads, they ... Oh. Sorry.”
Cheeseheads is what Moroccans and Turks call native Dutchmen. I forced a grin.
“That’s okay, brother. Go on.”
“They will never accept us. They will never trust us. We are not even allowed to follow the teachings of the Prophet in the country where we are born! I sent out so many letters to get an internship as a cook, and even more to get a job. When they read your name, that’s enough. They are done with you. When you date their daughters, they turn her against you. They’d rather see her walking around in a bathing suit in the street than marrying a decent man who will love her and respect her and keep her safe indoors, you know? I just got so sick of it. Then we got a visit from a preacher from Qatar. He opened my eyes. He showed me how a true Muslim should live. Not cowering and begging, like a dog. But proud. And if we want that world, we have to build it. Which starts with the caliphate.”
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