Honour Among Thieves (35 page)

Kratz
followed the light and came to a halt in front of what appeared to be an old
army truck. It was stationed just inside the far end of the tunnel.

He
jumped out of the car and Scott quickly followed, trying to accustom himself to
the half-light. Then he saw three men standing on each side of the vehicle. The
man nearest them came to attention and saluted. ‘Good morning, Colonel,’ he
said.

‘Put
your men at ease, Feldman, and come and meet Professor Bradley,’ said Kratz.
Scott almost laughed at the use of his academic title among these men, but
there were no smiles on the faces of the six soldiers who came forward to meet
him.

After
Scott had shaken hands with each of them he took a walk round the truck. ‘Do
you really believe this old heap is capable of carrying Madame Bertha to
Baghdad?’ he asked Kratz in disbelief. ‘Sergeant Cohen.’

‘Sir,’
said a voice in the dark.

‘You’re
the trained mechanic. Why don’t you brief Professor Bradley?’

‘Yes,
sir.’ Another figure appeared out of the gloom. Scott couldn’t see his features
clearly, as he was covered in grease, but from his accent he would have guessed
he had spent most of his life in London. ‘The Heavy Expanded Mobile Tactical
Truck, or HEMTT, was built in Wisconsin. She has five gears, four forward, one
reverse. She can be used on all terrains in most weather conditions in
virtually any country. She weighs twenty tons and can carry up to ten tons, but
with that weight on board you cannot risk driving over thirty miles per hour.
Any higher than that and she would be impossible to stop, even though if pushed
she can top 120 miles per hour.’

‘Thank
you, Cohen. A useful piece of kit, I think you’ll agree,’ said Kratz, looking
back at Scott. ‘We’ve wanted one of these for years, and then suddenly you
arrive on the scene and Uncle Sam offers us the prototype model overnight. But
then, at a cost of nearly a million dollars of taxpayers’ money, you’d expect
the Americans to be choosy about who they loan one out to.’

‘Would
you care to join us for lunch, Professor?’ asked the man who had been
introduced as Feldman.

‘Don’t
tell me the HEMTT cooks as well,’ said Scott.

‘No,
sir, we have to rely on the Kurd for that. Aziz’s speciality is hamburger and
French fries. If you’ve never had the experience before, it can be quite
tasty.’

The
eight of them sat cross-legged on the ground, using the reverse side of a
backgammon board as a table.

Scott
couldn’t remember enjoying a burnt hamburger more. He was also glad of the
chance to chat to the men he would be working with on the operation. Kratz
began to talk through the different contingency plans they would have to
consider once they had reached the Jordan-Iraq border. It didn’t take more than
a few minutes for Scott to realise how professional these men were, or to see
their desire to be part of the final team. He grew confident that the operation
was in good hands, and that Kratz’s team had not been chosen at random.

After
a third hamburger he was sorry when the Mossad Colonel reminded him he had a
flight to catch. He rose and thanked the cook for a memorable meal.

‘See
you in Jordan, sir,’ said Sergeant Cohen.

‘See
you in Jordan,’ said Scott.

As
Scott was being driven to the airport, he asked Kratz, ‘How are you going to
select the final two?’

‘They’ll
decide for themselves. Nothing to do with me, I’m only their commanding
officer.’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘They’re
going to play round-robin backgammon on the way to Jordan. The two winners get
a day trip to Baghdad, all expenses paid.’

‘And
the losers?’

‘Get
a postcard saying “Wish you were here”.’

H
ANNAH GATHERED
UP all the files that the Deputy Foreign Minister would require for his meeting
with the Revolutionary Command Council.

By
working hours that no one else knew existed, and completing tasks the Minister
had never thought would get done, Hannah had quickly made herself
indispensable. Whenever the Minister needed something, it was there on his
desk: she could anticipate his every need, and never sought praise for doing
so. But, despite all this, she rarely left the office during the day or the
house at right, and certainly seemed to be no nearer to coming into contact
with Saddam. The Ambassador’s wife tried valiantly to help on the social side,
and on one occasion she even invited a young soldier round to dinner. He was
good looking, Hannah thought, and seemed to be pleas-ant enough, although he
hardly opened his mouth all evening and left suddenly without a word. Perhaps
she was unable to hide the fact that she no longer had any interest in men.

Hannah
had sat in on several meetings with indi-vidual Ministers, even members of the
Command Council, including Saddam’s half-brother, the Iraqi Ambassador to the
UN in Geneva, but she felt no nearer to Saddam himself than she had been when
she lived in a cul-de-sac in Chalk Farm. She was becoming despondent, and began
to fear that her frustration might become obvious for all to see. As an
antidote she channelled her energies into generating reports on
interdepartmental spending, and set up a filing system that would have been the
envy of the mandarins in Whitehall. But one of the many things Mossad had
taught her during her arduous days of training was always to be patient, and
ready, because in time an opening would appear.

It
was early on a Thursday morning, when most of the Minister’s staff had begun
their weekends, that the first opening presented itself. Hannah was typing up
her notes from a meeting the Deputy Minister had had the previous day with the
newly-appointed Head of Interest Section in Paris, a Mr Al Obaydi, when the
call came through. Muhammad Saeed Al-Zahiaf, the Foreign Minister, wished to
speak to his deputy.

A
few moments later, the Deputy Minister came rushing out of his office, barking
at Hannah to follow him. Hannah grabbed a notepad and chased after the Minister
down the long passageway.

Although
the Foreign Minister’s office was only at the other end of the corridor, Hannah
had never been inside it before. When she followed her Minister into the room,
she was surprised to find how modern and dull it was, with only the panoramic
view over the Tigris as compensation.

The
Foreign Minister did not bother to rise, but hastily motioned his subordinate
into a chair on the opposite side of the desk, explaining that the President
had requested a full report on the subject they had discussed at the
Revolutionary Council the previous evening. He went on to explain that his own
secretary had gone home for the weekend, so Miss Saib should take down a record
of their meeting.

Hannah
could not believe the discussion that followed. Had she not been aware that she
was listening to two Ministers who were loyal members of the Revolutionary
Command Council, she would have dismissed their conversation as an outrageous
piece of propaganda. The President’s half-brother had apparently succeeded in
stealing the Declaration of Independence from the National Archives in
Washington, and the document was now nailed to a wall of the room in which the Council
met.

The
discussion concentrated on how the news of this triumph should be released to
an astonished world, and the date that had been selected to guarantee the
greatest media coverage. Details were also discussed as to which square in the
capital the President should deliver his speech from before he publicly burned
the document, and whether Peter Arnett or Bernard Shaw of CNN should be granted
special access to film the President standing next to the parchment the night
before the burning ceremony took place.

After
two hours the meeting broke up and Hannah returned with the Deputy Minister to
his office. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he ordered her to
make a fair copy of the decisions that had been taken that morning.

It
took Hannah the rest of the morning to produce a first draft, which the
Minister read through immediately. After making a few changes and emendations,
he told her to produce a final copy to be delivered to the Foreign Minister
with a recommendation that it should, if it met with his approval, be sent on
to the President.

As
she walked home through the streets of Baghdad that evening, Hannah felt
helpless. She wondered what she could possibly do to warn the Americans. Surely
they were planning some counter-measures in order to try to recapture the
Declaration, or would at least be preparing some form of retaliation once they
knew the day that had been selected for the public burning.

Did
they even know where it was at that moment? Had Kratz been informed? Had Mossad
been called in to advise the Americans on the operation they had themselves
been planning for the past year? Were they now trying to get in touch with her?
What would Simon have expected her to do?

She
stopped at a cigarette kiosk and purchased three postcards of Saddam Hussein
addressing the Revolutionary Command Council.

Later,
in the safety of her bedroom, she wrote the same message to Ethel Rubin, David
Kratz and the Professor of Arabic Studies at London University. She hoped one
of them would work out the significance of the date in the top right-hand
corner and the little biro’d square full of stars she had drawn on the wall by
the side of Saddam’s head.

‘What
time is the flight for Stockholm expected to depart?’ he asked.

‘It
shouldn’t be long now,’ said the girl behind the SAS desk at Charles de Gaulle.
‘I’m afraid it’s only just landed on its inward journey, so it’s difficult for
me to be more precise.’

Another
opportunity to turn back, thought Al Obaydi. But following his meeting with the
Head of State Security and, the next morning, with the Deputy Foreign Minister,
he felt confident that they had both considered what he had told them no more
than routine. Al Obaydi had dropped into the conversation the fact that he was
due for some leave before taking up his new appointment in Paris.

After
Al Obaydi had collected his luggage from the carousel, he deposited all the
large cases in storage, retaining only one bulky briefcase. He then took a seat
in the corner of the departure lounge and thought about his actions during the
past few days.

The
Head of State Security hadn’t had a lot to offer. The truth – not that he was
going to admit it – was that he had enough problems at home without worrying
about what was going on abroad. He had supplied Al Obaydi with an out-of-date
instruction book on what precautions any Iraqi citizen should take when in
Europe, including not to shop at Marks and Spencers or to mix socially with
foreigners, and an out-of-date collection of photographs of known Mossad and
CIA agents active on the Continent. After looking through the photographs, Al
Obaydi wouldn’t have been surprised to find that most of them had long retired,
and that some had even died peacefully in their beds.

The
following day, the Deputy Foreign Minister had been courteous without being
friendly. He had given him some useful tips about how to conduct himself in
Paris, including which embassies would be happy to deal with him despite their
official position, and which would not. When it came to the Jordanian Embassy itself
and the Iraqi annexe, he gave Al Obaydi a quick briefing on the resident staff.
He had left Miss Ahmed there to guarantee some sort of continuity. He described
her as willing and conscientious, the cook as awful but friendly, and the
driver as stupid but brave. His only guarded warning was to be wary of Abdul
Kanuk, the Chief Administrator, a wonderful title which did not describe his
true position, his only qualification being that he was a distant cousin of the
President. The Deputy Foreign Minister was careful not to voice a personal
opinion, but his eyes told Al Obaydi everything he needed to know. As he left,
the Minister’s secretary, Miss Saib, had presented him with another file. This
one turned out to be full of useful information about how to get by in Paris
without many friends. Places where he would be made welcome and others he
should avoid.

Perhaps
Miss Saib should have listed Sweden as somewhere to avoid.

Al
Obaydi felt little apprehension about the trip, as he had no intention of
remaining in Sweden for more than a few hours. He had already contacted the
chief engineer of Svenhalte AC, who assured him he had made no mention of his
earlier call to Mr Riffat when he returned that afternoon. He was also able to
confirm that Madame Bertha, as he kept calling the safe, was definitely on her
way to Baghdad.

‘Would
passengers travelling to Stockholm...’ Al Obaydi made his way through the
departure lounge to the exit gate and, after his boarding card had been
checked, was shown to a window seat in economy. This section of the journey
would not be presented as a claim against expenses.

On
the flight across northern Europe, Al Obaydi’s mind drifted from his work in
Baghdad back to the weekend, which he had spent with his mother and sister. It
was they who had helped him make the final decision. His mother had no interest
in leaving their comfortable little home on the outskirts of Baghdad, and even
less in moving to Paris. So now Al Obaydi accepted that he could never hope to
escape: his only future rested in trying to secure a position of power within
the Foreign Ministry. He was in no doubt that he could now perform a service
for the President that would make him indispensable in Saddam’s eyes; it might
even present him with the chance of becoming the next Foreign Minister. After
all, the Deputy was due for retirement in a couple of years, and sudden
promotion never surprised anyone in Baghdad.