From Warsaw With Love: Polish Spies, the CIA, and the Forging of an Unlikely Alliance by John Pomfret

Author:John Pomfret [Pomfret, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250296061
Google: 6SAQEAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Henry Holt and Company
Published: 2021-10-26T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

DIDN’T GET THE MEMO

Czempiński returned to the group with the bad news. They had two options: head back to Baghdad or risk the checkpoint. He had the Americans try to pronounce their names one more time. They mangled every syllable and even flipped the names. “Andy Mark” was how the American who’d been given the name Marek Anders introduced himself. “My stomach went through my nose,” Eugeniusz recalled. “They couldn’t even speak English with foreign accents. They sounded like Americans right out of the movies.”

A return trip could actually end up being more dangerous than continuing north. Every checkpoint would want to know why they’d turned around. Czempiński decided to proceed but he tweaked the plan. Given that his six charges had flunked their language test, he decided that the only way they’d pass would be as drunk Poles, happy to be going home and so blotto that they could barely speak.

“Drink,” he commanded as he handed each of them a fifth of whiskey. And they drank. Feeley looked over at Lahoda, who was guzzling with enthusiasm. “You’re not supposed to get drunk,” he cautioned. “You’re supposed to pretend to get drunk.”

With a flourish, Czempiński took another bottle and poured it on the men. “This is Polish style,” he declared. The whiskey didn’t calm Lahoda’s nerves. “I’m too old for this,” he mumbled. The convoy began moving north.

At the checkpoint into Mosul, the Polish-speaking Iraqi was sitting on a chair by the side of the road with an AK-47 on his lap. Iraqi militiamen, toting automatic weapons, motioned the two vehicles to stop. Czempiński shouted a greeting in Polish and the Iraqi jumped from his seat with a big smile on his face. “It’s so nice to hear Polish again,” he yelled, striding over to Czempiński’s pickup. Eugeniusz leapt from the sedan, embraced the guard, and planted a Slavic triple kiss on his cheeks, nudging him away from the cars. “How great it is to see some Poles!” the Iraqi exclaimed.

It was afternoon. The sky was gray. Traffic had petered off after lunch. Everything suddenly seemed to get very quiet and time slowed. The attention of the Iraqi border detachment fixed on Gromek, Eugeniusz, the other driver, and their six passengers. “Stay for dinner,” the Iraqi said. “Come on. What’s the hurry?”

Czempiński and Eugeniusz politely declined. “You bastard, may hell swallow you,” Eugeniusz thought. “Who wants to eat with you?” Inside the car, Hart felt Lahoda trembling underneath his whiskey-soaked clothes.

Czempiński brought out more cigarettes and two bottles of Johnnie Walker. The Iraqi smiled. “You’re sure you’re not going to stay?” he asked. Then he looked into the vehicles and saw the Americans. Hart and Feeley had closed their eyes, pretending to sleep. “I hope we look Polish,” Hart remembered thinking.

“Go,” the Iraqi officer said to Czempiński, smiling. “But don’t drink and drive.”

North of Mosul the road zigzagged through fields of bloodred poppies before it dropped down to the regional capital, Dohuk. After a checkpoint there, the route rose

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