Honour Among Thieves (3 page)

Al
Obaydi would also have smiled, but he realised the Ambassador would not admit
to any personal involvement with the project while it was still in its
formative stage. As long as he distanced himself from his younger colleague for
the time being, the Ambassador could continue his undisturbed existence in New
York until his retirement fell due in three years’ time. By following such a
course he had survived almost fourteen years of Saddam Hussein’s reign while
many of his colleagues had conspicuously failed to become eligible for their
state pension. To his knowledge one had been shot in front of his family, two
hanged and several others posted as ‘missing’, whatever that meant.

The
Iraqi Ambassador smiled as his British counterpart walked past him, but he
received no response for his trouble.

‘Stuck-up
snob,’ the Arab muttered under his breath.

The
Ambassador pulled the earpiece back over his ear to indicate that he had heard
quite enough from his number two. He continued to listen to the problems of
trying to preserve the rainforests of Brazil, coupled with a request for a
further grant from the UN of a hundred million dollars.

Not
something he felt Sayedi would be interested in.

Hannah
would have knocked on the front door of the little terraced house, but it was
opened even before she had closed the broken gate at the end of the pathway. A
dark-haired, slightly overweight lady, heavily made-up and with a beaming smile
came bustling out to greet her. Hannah supposed she would have been about the
same age as her mother, had Mama still been alive.

‘Welcome
to England, my dear. I’m Ethel Rubin,’ she announced in gushing tones. ‘I’m
sorry my husband’s not here to meet you, but I don’t expect him back from his
chambers for another hour.’ Hannah was about to speak when Ethel added, ‘But
first let me show you your room, and then you can tell me all your plans.’ She
picked up one of Hannah’s bags and led her inside. ‘It must be such fun seeing
London for the first time,’ she said as they climbed the stairs, ‘and there
will be so many exciting things for you to do during the next six months.’

As
each sentence poured out Hannah became aware that Ethel Rubin had no idea why
she was in London.

After
she had unpacked and taken a shower Hannah joined her hostess in the sitting
room. Mrs Rubin chatted on, barely listening to Hannah’s intermittent replies.

‘Do
you know where the nearest gym is?’ Hannah had asked.

‘My
husband should be back at any moment,’ Mrs Rubin replied. But before she could
get the next sentence out, the front door swung open and a man of about five
foot three with dark, wiry hair and even darker eyes almost ran into the room.
Once Peter Rubin had introduced himself and asked how her flight had been he
didn’t waste any words suggesting that Hannah might have come to London to
enjoy the social life of the metropolis. Hannah quickly learned that Peter
Rubin didn’t ask any questions he realised she couldn’t answer truthfully.
Although Hannah felt sure Mr Rubin knew no details of her mission, he was
obviously aware that she hadn’t come to London on a package holiday.

Mrs
Rubin, however, didn’t allow Hannah to get to bed until well after midnight, by
which time she was exhausted. Once her head had touched the pillow she slept
soundly, unaware of Peter Rubin explaining to his wife in the kitchen that in
future their guest must be left in peace.

T
HE DEPUTY
AMBASSADOR’S chauffeur slipped out of the UN’s private garage and headed west
through the Lincoln Tunnel under the Hudson in the direction of New Jersey.
Neither Al Obaydi nor he spoke for several minutes while the driver continually
checked his rear-view mirror. Once they were on the New Jersey Turnpike he
confirmed that no one was following them.

‘Good,’
was all Al Obaydi offered. He began to relax for the first time that day, and
started to fantasise about what he might do if the ten million dollars were
suddenly his. When they had passed a branch of the Midlantic National Bank
earlier, he had asked himself for the thousandth time why he didn’t just stop
the car and deposit the money in a false name. He could be halfway across the
globe by the following morning. That would certainly make his Ambassador sweat.
And, with an ounce of luck, Saddam would be dead long before they caught up
with him. And then who would care?

After
all, Al Obaydi didn’t believe, not even for one moment, that the great leader’s
outrageous plan was feasible. He had been hoping to report back to Baghdad
after a reasonable period of time that no one reliable or efficient enough
could be found to carry out such a bold coup. And then the Lebanese gentleman
had flown into New York.

There
were two reasons why Al Obaydi knew he could not touch one dollar of the money
stuffed into the golf bag that rested on the seat beside him. First, there were
his mother and younger sister, who resided in Baghdad in relative comfort and
who, if the money suddenly disappeared, would be arrested, raped, tortured and
hanged -the only explanation being that they had collaborated with a traitor.
Not that Saddam ever needed an excuse to kill anyone, especially someone he
suspected might have betrayed him.

Secondly,
Al Obaydi – who fell on his knees five times daily, faced east and prayed that
Saddam would eventually die a traitor’s death – could not help observing that
Gorbachev, Thatcher and Bush had found it considerably more difficult than the
great Sayedi to cling on to power.

Al
Obaydi had accepted from the moment he had been handed this assignment by the
Ambassador “that Saddam would undoubtedly die peacefully in his bed while his
own chances of survival – the Ambassador’s favourite word -were slim. And once
the money had been paid over, if Antonio Cavalli failed to carry out his side
of the bargain, it would be AI Obaydi who was called back to Baghdad on some
diplomatic pretext, arrested, summarily tried and found guilty. Then all those
fine words his law professor at London University had uttered would turn out to
be so much sand in the desert.

The
driver swung off the turnpike and headed for the centre of Newark as Al
Obaydi’s thoughts returned to what the money was being used for. The idea had
all the hallmarks of his President. It was original, required daring, raw
courage, nerve and a fair degree of luck. Al Obaydi still gave the plan no more
than a one per cent chance of even reaching the starting blocks, let alone the
finishing tape. But then, some people in the State Department had only given
Saddam a one per cent chance of surviving Operation Desert Storm. And if the
great Sayedi could pull this off, the United States would become a laughing
stock and Saddam would have guaranteed himself a place in Arab history
alongside Saladin.

Although
Al Obaydi had already checked the exact location of the building, he instructed
the driver to stop two blocks west of his final destination. An Iraqi getting
out of a large black limousine right in front of the bank would be enough of an
excuse for Cavalli to pocket the money and cancel the deal. Once the car had
stopped, Al Obaydi climbed over the golf bag and out onto the pavement on the
kerb side. Although he only had to cover a couple of hundred yards to the bank,
this was the one part of the journey that he considered was a calculated risk.
He checked up and down the street. Satisfied, he dragged the golf bag out onto
the pavement and humped it up onto his shoulder.

The
Deputy Ambassador felt he must have looked an incongruous sight as he marched
down Martin Luther King Drive in a Saks Fifth Avenue suit with a golf bag slung
over his shoulder.

Although
it took less than two minutes to cover the short distance to the bank, Al
Obaydi was sweating profusely by the time he reached the front entrance. He
climbed up the well-worn steps and walked through the revolving door. He was
met by two armed men who looked more like sumo wrestlers than bank clerks. The
Deputy Ambassador was quickly guided to a waiting lift that closed the moment
he stepped inside. The door slid open only when he reached the basement. As Al
Obaydi stepped out he came face to face with another man, bigger, if anything,
than the two who had originally greeted him. The giant nodded and led him
towards a door at the end of a carpeted corridor. As he approached, the door
swung open and Al Obaydi entered a room to find twelve men waiting expectantly
round a large table. Although conservatively dressed and silent, none of them
looked like bank tellers. The door closed behind him and he heard a lock
turning. The man at the head of the table stood up and greeted him.

‘Good
morning, Mr Al Obaydi. I believe you have something to deposit for one of our
customers.’

The
Deputy Ambassador nodded and handed over the golf bag without a word. The man
showed no surprise. He had seen valuables transported in everything from a
crocodile to a condom.

He
was, however, surprised by the weight of the bag as he humped it up onto the
table, spilled out the contents and divided the spoils among the other eleven
men. The tellers began counting furiously, making up neat piles of ten
thousands. No one offered Al Obaydi a seat, so he remained standing for the
next forty minutes, with nothing to do but watch them go about their task.

When
the counting had been completed, the chief teller double-checked the number of
piles. One thousand exactly. He smiled, a smile that was not directed at Al
Obaydi but at the money, then looked up in the direction of the Arab and gave
him a curt nod, acknowledging that the man from Baghdad had made the
down-payment.

The
golf bag was then handed back to the Deputy Ambassador, as it had not been part
of the deal. Al Obaydi felt slightly stupid as he slung it over his shoulder.
The chief teller touched a buzzer under the table and the door behind him was
unlocked.

One
of the men who had first met Al Obaydi when he had entered the bank was standing
waiting to escort him back to the ground floor. By the time the Deputy
Ambassador stepped out onto the street, his guide had already disappeared.

With
an enormous sigh of relief, Al Obaydi began to stroll the two blocks back to
his waiting car. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction at the
professional way he had carried out the whole exercise. He felt sure the
Ambassador would be pleased to learn that there had been no mishaps. He would
undoubtedly take most of the praise when the message was relayed back to
Baghdad that ‘Operation Desert Calm’ had begun.

Al
Obaydi collapsed on the sidewalk before he realised what had hit him: the golf
bag had been wrenched from his shoulder before he could react. He looked up to
see two youths moving swiftly down the street, one of them clutching their
prize.

The
Deputy Ambassador had been wondering how he was going to dispose of it.

Tony
Cavalli joined his father for breakfast a few minutes after seven the following
morning. He had moved back into their brownstone on 75th and Park soon after
his divorce. Since his retirement, Tony’s father spent most of his time
pursuing his lifelong hobby of collecting rare books, manuscripts and
historical documents. He had also spent many hours passing on to his son everything
he’d learned as a lawyer, concentrating on how to avoid wasting too many years
in one of the state’s penitentiaries.

Coffee
and toast were served by the butler as the two men went about their business.

‘Nine
million dollars has been placed in forty-seven banks across the country,’ Tony
told his father. ‘Another million has been deposited in a numbered account with
Franchard et cie in Geneva, in the name of Hamid Al Obaydi,’ he added,
buttering a piece of toast.

The
father smiled at the thought of his son using an old ploy he had taught him so
many years before.

‘But
what will you tell Al Obaydi when he asks how his ten million is being spent?’
the unofficial chairman of Skills enquired.

For
the next hour, Tony took his father through Operation Desert Calm in great
detail, interrupted only by the occasional question or suggestion from the
older man.

‘Can
the actor be trusted?’ he asked before taking another sip of coffee.

‘Lloyd
Adams still owes us a little over thirty thousand dollars,’ Tony replied. ‘He
hasn’t been offered many scripts lately – a few commercials...”

‘Good,’
said Cavalli’s father. ‘But what about Rex Butterworth?’

‘Sitting
in the White House waiting for his instructions.’

His
father nodded. ‘But why Columbus, Ohio?’ he asked.

‘The
surgical facilities there are exactly what we require, and the Dean of the
Medical School has the ideal qualifications. We’ve had his office and home
bugged from top to bottom.’

‘And
his daughter?’

‘We’ve
got her under twenty-four-hour surveillance.’

The
chairman licked his lips. ‘So when do you press the button?’

‘Next
Tuesday, when the Dean is due to make a keynote speech at his daughter’s
school.’

The
butler entered the room and began to clear the table.

‘And
how about Dollar Bill?’ asked Cavalli’s father.

‘Angelo
is on his way to San Francisco to try and convince him. If we’re going to pull
this off we’ll need Dollar Bili. He’s the best. In fact no one else comes
close,’ added Cavalli.