Weapons of Mass Deception

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The Iranian was late.

Uday Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti shifted in the backseat of the black Range Rover. His face was calm, but inside he raged. He checked his Rolex again — the fifth time in as many minutes.

0200. Two hours! This Iranian asshole has kept the son of Saddam Hussein waiting in the desert for two hours!

He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. The bodyguards on either side of him, hulking men dressed in worn army fatigues — as per the Iranian’s instructions — averted their eyes. The two men in the front seat stiffened and stared straight ahead.

“Out,” Uday barked to the one on his right. “I will walk awhile.”

“But, sir, the—”

“Shut up and let me out!” First they fart in his car, then they try to stop him from getting fresh air.

Stay calm. Father trusted you with this mission — not Qusay — because you are the favored son. Keep it together.

He brought his voice down to a conversational level, but kept the edge of authority. “You will walk with me, Baseer.” His head of security exited the front passenger seat and waited for Uday to join him. The mountain air was sharp and clear after the stuffiness of the Rover. Uday breathed deeply, watching his breath steam when he released it. The very thinnest of crescent moons hung above them, casting a silvery sheen over the landscape. He moved to the Kia 2.5-ton truck, noting that the Iraqi Army emblems had been sanded off and the doors repainted.

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