Bechtel, the General and Lawrence of España

By Frida Ghitis

(Kuwait City) On a Saturday afternoon, the first day of the week in this part of the world, I rounded the corner from the gift shop towards the lobby of the Sheraton. I had to take a quick sideways step to avoid running into a short man walking with a resolute, if slightly absent-minded pace towards the hotel Barber shop. His face looked familiar. Knowing this was, after all, the Sheraton Kuwait – center of the action – I turned back and went to take a second look.

There he sat, waiting his turn to climb on the barber’s chair. Lieutenant General Jay Garner, US Army - retired, the man chosen to run America’s newly liberated Iraq, No security detail, no bodyguards, no aides de camp, waiting for a haircut. Something seemed out of place.

When Gen. Garner emerged with a clean new haircut – looking much like he did before – I approached him for a little chat. He was charming, friendly and, I thought, a little depressed. No, he said, he was not on his way to Washington. He was going to Qatar, where his boss, Gen. Tommy Franks keeps his “office.” Time for a meeting with the boss. It sounded a little ominous.

Garner was, in fact, about to be “redeployed” back to the US. It seemed only fair he would get the news in person. In a matter of 24 hours, the headlines around the world would shout the news that he, officially, had failed in his mission to stabilize and rebuild Iraq.

In Kuwait, he was another character in the revolving door of the powerful, the famous and the wealthy that spins in and out of this hotel in the center of Kuwait.

By Monday morning Garner was again at the Sheraton -- staging ground for the post-war conquest of Iraq. This time, after a little coffee at the lobby, he would make his way to the Southern Iraqi city of Basra. A few hours later, as he arrived in Basra, the cameras would pan away from Garner in his customary sport shirt and turn to the only grey suit in the delegation, the stern and business-like Ambassador L. Paul Bremer III, Garner’s replacement as Iraq civilian administrator.

I expect we will see the general again in a few days, this time with all his luggage, catching a flight back home. Garner and his team will take the blame for the chaos that has swept through Iraq. In reality, their departure will again offer proof that Washington’s military machine is formidable, but its’ planning for peace was always dangerously naïve.

By now, the Sheraton Kuwait has become something of a dressing room for America’s Iraq. The stages of the country’s metamorphosis can be traced through the pages of the hotel’s guest register.

First came the journalists, hordes of them. From the top names, recognizable in world capitals, to scruffy freelancers chasing a good story. The hotel became a parade ground for camping and adventure-travel fashion -- pockets , zippers, velcro and vests galore. Every journalist covering the war became an expert in the latest moisture-wicking micro-fibers.

As the ranks of mud-caked embeds started thinning out, the transformation began. The parking lot across the street remained full of satellite trucks – including the Bloom Mobile, the satellite truck designed by the late David Bloom, the rising star at NBC who died covering the war. Bloom died not from enemy, or even friendly fire. He died in the service of television, when a blood clot traveled from his leg to his lung after weeks in the cramped confines of the vehicle.

Other media vehicles are still visible: humvees painted a yellowish shade of desert grey with small satellite dishes on top; dozens of 4-wheel drives with huge letters on the door and hood that say “TV” and blue and red jerry cans on the roof.

Some journalist remain, like the Spanish television producer who likes to dress in Ghalabiya and Keffiyah, the traditional flowing white floor-length robe and head-cover worn by Arab men. He explains that it helps him mix with the crowds and find the truth about what’s on people’s minds. The only problem is that Lawrence of España spends much of his time in the Sheraton. It doesn’t matter, though. The crowds in Kuwait’s streets are filled less with Arabs than with workers from India, Bangladesh and other nationalities, who make up two-thirds of this emirate’s population. In parts of Kuwait city he would stand out as the lone Arab in the crowd.

As journalists move on to other stories, the average vehicle pulling up to the hotel entrance has changed, as has the sartorial splendor of those who enter the Sheraton lobby.

The main “Spy Phase” has passed, as has much of the “Cowboy Entrepreneur” stage. The leading current at the Sheraton now is plainly “Big Business.” Read: Bechtel.

When the spies came, they were almost endearing in their conflicted wishes to remain undetected while casting a shadow of mystery. Friendly in the elevator, they said just enough to let you know they could not tell you why they had come, who they worked for, or where they were going. I did not ask for a business card, but if I had I think they would read, If I Told You, I’d Have to Kill You.

Then there was Secret Service Man. Secret Service Man always dressed immaculately. He had a little trouble keeping his presence secret, because his voice was a little too loud. At breakfast, with a couple of American assistants and a Kuwaiti in full Arab dress, he expounded on the beauty of living in France. Oh, yes, a lovely home, the elegant women, the educational opportunities for the kids. We all learned tidbits of Secret Service man’s life. His apartment by the river, somewhere in France, the tax benefits of an expatriate existence, and a few other puzzling details.

Very kindly, he made it easy for us to lift his cover. He walked into the Sheraton business center and in his booming voice asked if he had received a fax. “Spicka, Frank Spicka is the name.”

Spicka, as any modern spy with Google technology can tell you, is on loan from the secret service to the Interpol, heading up anti-terrorism activities. He held many lobby meetings with Arab Sheikhs and never removed his tie and starched white shirt.

Spicka and his team moved on at about the same time as the cowboy businessmen did. Before they left, the cowboys talked of the enormous opportunities in the new frontier: No telephone service. All it takes to make money, they explained, is a small portable cellular set up. Money could be made with telephones, television dishes, water purification and other products. The possibilities were endless.

But making money from Iraqis whose homes have been robbed, whose currency displaying Saddam’s likeness has become little more that a curiosity, is not the way to go. The real money deals are made in Washington.

There are still American soldiers, young and old, roaming the lobby in their non-military attire. They all walk with distinctive confidence, but they come in different sizes and shapes. The young ones look like children about to ask their parents if they can borrow the car. The older ones look a little grittier, a little wiser. They speak of office politics and of getting promotions, much as the Bechtel workers do.

The Big businessmen may have nothing to hide, but they make sure any excess printouts are promptly shredded in the business center. In the hallways you can hear them whispering lines like, “he’s close to Cheney.” Or, “…that guy is eating out of our hand” or, “he’s working on Garner right now.” (A tip to cloak-and-dagger businessmen: the Sheraton hallways have better acoustics than Carnegie Hall.)

The shockwaves of Washington deal making reverberate at the Kuwait Sheraton. Executives from the multi-national mega-project firm of Bechtel arrived in small numbers, initially. Many of them, middle aged men with graying hair, still sported the thick necks that betray a history of military service.

You could see them passing in the lobby, or having breakfast at the table next to the New York Times’ Thomas Friedman on his way to Basra, or Lawrence of España, or perhaps a Baghdad-bound missionary, a spy or a retired general.

Bechtel’s top men are ill-at-ease sharing the building with what is still a significant contingent of journalists. After all, the $680 million deal it made to help rebuild Iraq’s infrastructure has stoked the fires of conspiracy theorists and the anger of those who keep an eye on the relationship between the White House and the business community.

The hotel registry includes representatives from contractors and subcontractors from Australia, the US and Britain. By now, however, Bechtel is the number one tenant here.

The Bechtel men (there appears to be only one woman among the scores of Bechteleers) walk around with a credential hanging from the lanyard around their neck. It doesn’t say Bechtel. It describes them instead as “humanitarian workers.” They run in and out of a large room in the back of the hotel that operates as the company’s command center here.

The company’s job, for now, is to work on water, sewage and other infrastructure projects in Iraq. They define the work as infrastructure and humanitarian ventures. So, humanitarian workers they are.

Their initial contract for $680 million put the company and the White House on the defensive. Former Secretary of State George Shultz, prior president and current Director of Bechtel, denied that he used his considerable influence to get Bechtel a sweetheart deal.

Bechtel has enough PR problems around the world. They’re even accused of overcharging the peasants of Bolivia for their water. The operation based at the Sheraton wants to focus sharply on the business at hand, and leave the job of denying it is a sinister, kleptocractic, corporate giant to the highly-paid professionals whose job is to polish the company name.

The stakes are high. If Bechtel and the other member of the brotherhood of Big Business can keep the controversy under control, there are many more billions to be made in the reconstruction of Iraq. And the Sheraton Kuwait, is a charming place for a base of operations. Now that Kuwait City is slowly morphing into a desert oven, with temperatures routinely reaching 106 degrees, the marble lobby of the Sheraton remains chilly enough to make the hotel steam room appear inviting. It’s not easy working so close to a war zone. As one Bechteleer, fresh out of the sauna told me, “this is rough. Last night they did not leave a chocolate on my bed”