Escape from Saddam Read Online Free PDF Page B

almost psychopathic contempt for ordinary Iraqis, and stories about his terrible deeds abounded. As a fifteen-year-old he had taken part in a massacre of cabinet ministers who opposed his father. It was rumored that he sometimes killed the girls who were brought to the presidential palace to entertain him. On one occasion he shot a civilian in the street, with no provocation and in full view of many witnesses. Nobody intervened or complained—doing so would have given Saddam’s henchmen carte blanche to execute them on the spot—but word of the shootings soon spread and Saddam was forced to take action. It was announced that a punishment would be imposed upon Uday: he was to be exiled from his beloved Iraq for a period of two months. Nobody was fooled, however: this was in the days when the Hussein family could travel freely in the West, and Uday’s “punishment” was little more than a vacation in the casinos of Geneva.
    Back in Iraq, Uday took charge of the Iraqi soccer team, and under his supervision players were routinely beaten and tortured if they played poorly. His diversions became increasingly extreme. He kept lions as pets. Zoological experts later said that it seemed probable these lions were fed human meat and sometimes killed and ate human beings. Saddam’s son was breeding man-eaters for his own amusement.
    Several meters away, Hakim and I stood staring for some moments, caught between apprehension and the excitement of seeing a famous—if notorious—face. Suddenly Uday’s eyes met mine and, unsmilingly, he held my gaze. Whether through fear or not I can’t say, but as I stood only a few meters away from one of the most dangerous men in Baghdad, my Coca-Cola bottle slipped from my fingers and smashed on the ground. I looked down to see the black liquid foaming over my shoes; when I looked up again, Uday had raised his hand and was gesturing at me and Hakim to approach him.
    Slowly we walked up to the Mercedes. The pungent smell of the cigar was not strong enough to mask the sickly sweet aroma of the strawberry milkshake. A solid-silver Colt handgun with a glass handle rested on Uday’s lap. He had a satisfied air, but who knows what twisted desires he had recently satiated.
    “Why did you throw that bottle?” Uday asked, the quiet of his voice barely concealing its menace. He had a lisp, but Hakim and I were in no mood to mock.
    “I didn’t,” I replied honestly. “I dropped it.”
    Uday dragged on his cigar, shrouding himself in smoke. The hubbub of the busy street seemed to disappear into the background as he eyed me, cobra-like. “Where do you live?”
    “At the bottom of Princess Street,” I lied.
    “Really?” He looked unconvinced, and with good reason. I did not have the bearing of a well-to-do Iraqi, but even in this situation I was ashamed to admit that we lived in a poor house. Why I felt I could lie to this man, I cannot say—it was probably the recklessness, or stupidity, of youth. “What is your name?” he continued.
    “Sarmed.”
    “Sarmed what?” he intoned wearily.
    “Sarmed Alsamari.”
    “Alsamari?” His interest had been caught. The Alsamari tribe had a long-standing feud with the Hussein tribe, which dated back years before Saddam’s coming to power. The dispute was over something fairly insignificant—the ownership of a stretch of the Tigris River, which divided their two villages; but old enmities run deep, and Uday was the sort of person who would use any pretext to spark his particular brand of unpleasantness. “From Samarra?”
    I nodded. “Yes.”
    “But you live in Baghdad?” He continued his interrogation.
    “With my grandparents. They are from Baghdad.”
    He stretched out in the front seat of the car, making himself more comfortable. He was clearly enjoying himself. “And what is your father’s name?”
    “Saadoon Alsamari.”
    “Where is he?”
    “In London.”
    “What is he doing there?”
    “Studying for a Ph.D.”
    Uday nodded his head