A/N: In reply to Daoist - Saddam would be in his forties in the 80s. Yes there will be a hint of romance but it will remain a tiny part of the story.
The Chief Prosecutor presented himself before me in July 1980 and insisted rather sweatily that I go through the mountain of evidence against the Monster ...Uday. The prosecutor and his team had taken a good 6 months to compile as much evidence as they possibly could.
I objected that I wasnt a legal mind and I just wanted him to do his job properly not run everything by me.
"Please sir, please. I have a family," the man said sobbing lightly. "Please just go through it."
This was the downside of being Saddam. People were more terrified of disappointing me than of failing to do their job effectively.
I gave in to his demands and he went away looking like he'd been injected with morphine. But that's when the shit hit the fan.
The evidence was compelling and sickening. I was surprised by how many young women and some young men had agreed to be interviewed and to testify to Udays brutality. It wasnt just victims but witnesses as well. From my lay person point of view it was a done deal.
And then the actual case appeared in front of the Court and the media got a hold of it. Just a few months previously I had been the darling of the world media. The swashbuckling meritocrat transforming the ancient land of Mesopotamia into a new cradle of civilization.
Now all the headlines proclaimed me as Ye Olde Arab Despot. One who brutalized his minor son and who encouraged criminal proceedings against minors. Right leaning news outlets rallied behind me, something I wasn't necessarily keen on. But all the big guns trained their cannons on me.
The outcome was depressingly obvious. I got a call from Dickman one fine morning.
"Your Excellency, I have some bad news from Washington."
"Oh?" I was His Excellency again. No more first name basis.
"Unfortunately, this being an election year, Washington felt that it would be too risky to the Presidents re election campaign to host you in America given the current climate."
"You mean that Iraq is prosecuting a heinous psychopath who happens to be my son?" I asked sarcastically.
"Its more about the age Your Excellency."
"Mr. Dickman, all nations around the world including yours prosecute minors in extreme cases where the crime is unconscionable and the minor depicts a level of understanding akin to an adult," I replied.
"I ...errr..."
"So would you not call this rank hypocrisy and cowardice?"
Dickman was silent. Well in a sense I was being incredibly hypocritical as well. I had mutilated the boy extra-judicially. But he wasnt about to point that out.
"Its alright Mr. Dickman," I said finally, allowing him to unclench. "I dont wish to be a problem."
"Thank you for understanding your Excellency!"
"But Mr. Dickman convey to Washington that I regard this as a diplomatic faux pas. And frankly poor manners."
I let the poor, sincere man go after that. I knew he'd be too embarrassed to pop around the Palace for a while.
I won't lie, I entered into a funk after the invitation to America was cancelled. I was really looking forward to getting out of Iraq for a while. If I had a choice to transmigrate anywhere based on geography it wouldn't have been anywhere even remotely arid. Probably would have chosen Scotland or Bolivia or something like that. The East Coast in the beginning of Fall would have been lovely. And I had read in my previous timeline that state guest dinners at the White House were culinary masterpieces. Damnit!
(Break)
September 1980
I moped around the Palace for quite some time I'm not ashamed to say. Kamal dealt with me as best he could.
One evening though, Ahmed came to my office looking breathless. "Sir...weve had contact...from within the Kurdish camp."
I immediately stopped what I was doing. "Burzani?"
He shook his head. "Not Burzani. I don't know who it is. They refused to speak to anyone but you."
"It could be a fake call," I said narrowing my eyes. "Leading us down a rabbit hole."
He shrugged and looked helpless. It was my call after all.
"No," I said after a while. "This person needs to offer us some proof that hes a person of power. He doesn't just get to pick up the phone and talk to Saddam."
"On it sir."
(Break)
We got word back a few days later. Whoever the John Doe was said that our troops stationed at what we called hill 21 near Makhmour, the border of the territory we held within Kurdistan, would have an encounter with a squad of Kurdish fighters. Instead of engaging with our troops they would lay down their weapons and surrender. We were told to look at their arm for the green and white Patriotic Union of Kurdistan patch rather than the yellow sun of the Kurdish Democratic Party.
"Huh, theres dissension in Kurdish ranks as well?" I remarked.
"Sir I think humans are humans. Theres dissent everywhere," replied Ahmed.
A few days later, just like Deep Throat suggested, we got a report that a squad of three Kurdish fighters had surrendered at Hill 21 and bore the green PUK patches.
"This is Saddam," i said into the receiver one balmy Friday evening. My first conversation with Deep Throat.
"My name is Jalal Talabani," came the deep voice speaking impeccable Baghdadi Arabic. "I head the PUK. I wish to discuss the possibility of bringing this war to an end."
Jalal Talabani was an enigma. As an educated young man he had joined the Iraqi Army and served alongside Sunnis and Shias with distinction. After the Ba'ath Party came into power and began to suppress the Kurds, he drifted out of the mainstream and started the PUK as a separatist political party.
Honestly I was surprised to learn that there were multiple power centers amongst the Kurds. I shouldnt have been, I should have done my homework but there you have it. The reason for dissent became clear early into our first conversation.
"We didnt want this war," he said frustratedly. "But Barzani has this old tribal machismo mindset. Like some kind of gangster. His cadres attacked Kirkuk."
"So why wait till now to reach out? You could have reached out immediately after the attack. It doesnt sound very good that you're reaching out when the Iraqi Army is clearly in control of the situation."
He scoffed, "Sir I think you're counting your chickens before they hatch. Also we have been hostile with the Baathists for decades. In the beginning, there was huge popular support in Erbil for this war of independence as Barzani portrayed it..."
"But now?" I prompted.
He hissed again in frustration, "Do I need to say it out loud?"
"No you dont," I replied. "You're cut off from your main allies the Iranians, we rule the skies, were making strategic inroads hill to hill so that you cant even make use of your superior terrain knowledge. The writing is on the wall."
He didn't say anything. And neither did I.
"Whatever the case may be. I know there is enough ground support to break ranks and negotiate with you for a ceasefire."
"Why should I negotiate?" I said in an impertinent. But it was the truth. I had them by the balls. I was 6 months to a year away from complete victory. With minimal loss of life, a buoyant and blooded military and no war crimes that I could be hung on internationally.
He said nothing.
"Call me when you think of something you can offer. I'm not going anywhere," I said before hanging up.