Honour Among Thieves (39 page)

‘I
need one copy of this report drafted as quickly as possible, no further copies
to be made, nothing put on tape, and all your shorthand notes must be shredded
once the memo has been handed to me.’ Hannah nodded as the Deputy Foreign
Minister picked up the phone and dialled the internal number of his superior.

Hannah
returned to her room and began typing up the dictation slowly, at the same time
trying to commit the salient points to memory. Forty-five minutes later she
placed a single copy of the report on the Minister’s desk.

He
read the script carefully, adding the occasional note in his own hand. When he
was satisfied that the memo fully covered the meeting that had taken place that
morning, he set off down the corridor to rejoin the Foreign Minister.

Hannah
returned to her desk, aware that the team bringing the safe from Sweden were
moving inexorably towards Saddam’s trap. And if they had received her postcard
...

When
Al Obaydi landed in Jordan, he could not help feeling a sense of triumph.

Once
he had passed through customs at Queen Alia airport and was out on the road, he
selected the most modern taxi he could find. The old seventies Chevy had no air
conditioning and showed 187,000 miles on the clock. He asked the driver to take
him to the Iraqi border as quickly as possible.

The
car never left the slow lane on its six-hour journey to the border, and because
of the state of the roads Al Obaydi was unable to sleep for more than a few
minutes at a time. When the driver eventually reached the highway, he still
couldn’t go much faster because of the oil that had been spilt from lorries
carrying loads they had illegally picked up in Basra, to sell at four times the
price in Amman. Loads that Al Obaydi had assured the United Nations Assembly
time and again were a figment of the Western world’s imagination. He also
became aware of trucks travelling in the opposite direction that were full of
food that he knew would be sold to black-marketeers, long before any of it
reached Baghdad.

Al
Obaydi checked his watch. If the driver kept going at this speed he wouldn’t
reach the border before the customs post closed at midnight.

When
Scott landed at Queen Alia airport later that day and stepped on to the tarmac,
the first thing that hit him was a temperature of ninety-five degrees. Even
dressed in an open-neck shirt, jeans and sneakers, he felt roasted before he
had reached the airport terminal. Once he’d entered the building, he was
relieved to find it was air conditioned, and his one bag came up on the
carousel just as quickly as it would have done in the States. He checked his
watch and changed it to Central Eastern time.

The
immigration officer hadn’t seen many Swedish passports before, but as his
father had been an engineer, he wished Mr Bernstrom a successful trip.

As
Scott strolled through the green channel, he was stopped by a customs official
who was chewing something. He instructed the foreigner to open his bulky canvas
bag. After rummaging around inside, the only thing the officer showed any
interest in was a long, thin cardboard tube that had been wedged along the bottom
of the bag. Scott removed the cap on the end of the tube, pulled out the
contents and unrolled a large poster, which was greeted by the official with
such puzzled amazement that he even stopped chewing for a moment. He waved
Scott through.

Once
Scott had reached the main concourse, he walked out onto the road in search of
a taxi. He studied the motley selection of cars that were parked by the side of
the pavement. They made New York Yellow Cabs look like luxury limousines.

He
instructed the driver parked at the front of the queue to take him to the Roman
theatre in the centre of the city. The eleven-mile journey into Amman took
forty minutes, and when Scott was dropped outside the third-century theatre he
handed the driver two ten-dinar notes -.enough, the experts at Langley had told
him, to cover the cost of the trip. The driver pocketed the notes but did not
smile.

Scott
checked his watch. He was still well in time for the planned reunion. He walked
straight past the ancient monument that was, according to his guidebook, well
worth a visit. As instructed by Kratz, he then proceeded west for three blocks,
occasionally having to step off the pavement into the road to avoid the
bustling crowds. When he reached a Shell petrol station he turned right,
leaving the noisy shoppers behind. He then took the second turning on the left,
and after that another to the right. The roads became less crowded with locals
and more full of potholes with each stride he took. Another left, followed by
another right, and he found himself entering the promised cul-de-sac. At the
end of the road, when he could go no further, he came to a halt outside a
scrapyard. He smiled at the sight that greeted him.

By
the time Al Obaydi reached the border, it was already pitch dark. All three
lanes leading to the customs post were bumper to bumper with waiting lorries,
covered with tarpaulins for the night. The taxi driver came to a halt at the
barrier and explained to his passenger that he would have to hire an Iraqi cab
once he was on the other side. Al Obaydi thanked the driver and gave him a
handsome tip before going to the front of the queue outside the customs shed. A
tired official gave him a languid look and told him the border was closed for
the night. Al Obaydi presented his diplomatic passport and the official quickly
stamped his visa and ushered him through, aware that there would be no little
red notes accompanying such a document. Al Obaydi felt exhilarated as he
strolled the mile between the two customs posts. He walked to the front of
another queue, produced his passport once again, and received another smile
from the customs officer.

‘There
is a car waiting for you, Ambassador,’ was all the official said, pointing to a
large limousine that was parked near the highway. A smiling chauffeur stood
waiting. He touched the peak of his cap and opened the back door.

Al
Obaydi smiled. The Chief Administrator must have warned them that he would be
coming over the border late that night. He thanked the customs official, walked
over to the highway and slipped into the back of the limousine. Someone else
was already there, who also appeared to be waiting for him. Al Obaydi began to
smile again, when suddenly an arm shot across his throat and threw him to the
floor. His hands were pinned behind his back, and a pair of handcuffs clicked
into place.

‘How
dare you?’ shouted Al Obaydi. ‘I am an Ambassador!’ he screamed as he was
hurled back up onto the seat. ‘Don’t you realise who I am?’

‘Yes,
I do,’ came back the reply. ‘And you’re under arrest for treason.’

Scott
had to admit that the HEMTT carrying Madame Bertha looked quite at home among
the colourful collection of old American cars and lorries piled high on three
sides of the scrapyard. He ran across to the truck and jumped up into the cab
on the passenger side. He shook hands with Kratz, who seemed relieved to see
him. When Scott saw who was seated behind the wheel, he said, ‘Good to see you
again, Sergeant Cohen. Am I to assume you play a mean game of backgammon?’

‘Two
doubles inside the board clinched it for me in the final game, Professor,
though God knows how the Kurd even reached the semi-final,’ Cohen said as he
switched on the engine. ‘And because he’s a mate of mine, the others are all claiming
I fixed the dice.’

‘So
where’s Aziz now?’ asked Scott.

‘On
the back with Madame Bertha,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Best place for him. Mind you,
he knows the back streets of Baghdad like I know the pubs in Brixton, so he may
turn out to be useful.’

‘And
the rest of the team?’ asked Scott.

‘Feldman
and the others slipped over the border during the night,’ said Kratz. ‘They’re
probably in Baghdad waiting for us by now.’

‘Then
they’d better keep well out of sight,’ said Scott, ‘because after the bombing
last Sunday, I suspect death might prove the least of their problems.’

Kratz
offered no opinion as Sergeant Cohen eased the massive vehicle slowly out of
the yard and onto the street; this time the roads became wider with each
turning he took.

‘Are
we keeping to the plan that was agreed in Stockholm?’ asked Scott.

‘With
two refinements,’ said Kratz. ‘I spent yesterday morning phoning Baghdad. After
seven attempts, I got through to someone at the Ministry of Industry who knew
about the safe, but it’s the age-old problem with the Arabs: if they don’t see
the damn thing in front of their eyes, they don’t believe it exists.’

‘So
our first stop will have to be the Ministry?’ said Scott.

‘Looks
like it,’ replied Kratz. ‘But at least we know we’ve got something they want.
Which reminds me, have you brought the one thing they don’t want?’

Scott
unzipped his bag and pulled out the cardboard tube.

‘Doesn’t
look a lot to be risking your life for,’ said Kratz as Scott slipped it back
into his bag.

‘And
the second refinement?’ asked Scott.

Kratz
removed a postcard from his inside pocket and passed it over to Scott. A
picture of Saddam Hussein addressing the Revolutionary Command Council stared
back at him. A little biro’d square full of stars had been drawn in by the side
of his head. Scott turned the card over and studied her unmistakable
handwriting: ‘Wish you were here.’

Scott
didn’t speak for several moments.

‘Notice
the date, did you?’

Scott
looked at the top right-hand corner: 4.7.93.

‘So,
now we know where it is, and she’s also confirmed exactly when Saddam intends
to let the rest of the world into his secret.’

‘Who’s
Ethel Rubin?’ asked Scott. ‘And how did you get your hands on the card?’

‘The
lady Hannah was billeted with in London. Her husband is Mossad’s legal representative
in England. He took the card straight to the embassy the moment it -arrived and
they sent it overnight in the diplomatic pouch. It reached our embassy in Amman
this morning.’

Once
they had reached the outskirts of the town, Scott began to study the barren
terrain as the lorry continued its progress along the oil-covered, potholed
roads.

‘Sorry
to be going so slowly, Professor,’ said Cohen, ‘but if I throw my brakes on
with the road in this condition, Madame Bertha might travel another hundred
yards before the wheels even have a chance to lock.’

Kratz
went over every contingency he could think of as Cohen drove silently towards
the border. The Mossad leader ended up by describing the layout of the Ba’ath
headquarters once again.

‘And
the alarm system?’ asked Scott when he had come to an end.

‘All
you have to remember is that the red buttons by the light switches activate the
alarm, but at the same time close all the exits.’

Scott
nodded, but it was some time before he asked his next question. ‘And Hannah?’

‘Nothing’s
changed. My first task is to get you in and then back out with the original
document. She still remains an unlikely bonus, although she obviously knows
what’s going on.’

Neither
of them spoke again until Sergeant Cohen pulled off the highway into a large
gravel layby packed with lorries. He parked the vehicle at an angle so that
only the most inquisitive could observe what they were up to, then jumped out
of the cab, pulled himself over the tailboard and grinned at the Kurd who was
lounging against the safe. Between them they removed the tarpaulin that covered
the massive structure as Scott and Kratz climbed up to join them in the back of
the truck.

‘What
do you think, Professor?’ asked Aziz.

‘She
hasn’t lost any weight, that’s for sure,’ said Scott, as he tried to remember
the nightly homework he had done in preparation for this single exam.

He
stretched his fingers and smiled. All three bulbs above the white square were
red. He first turned all three dials to a code that only he and a man in Sweden
were aware of. He then placed his right hand on the white square, and left it
there for several seconds. He leaned forward, put his lips up against the
square and spoke softly. ‘My name is Andreas Bernstrom. When you hear this
voice, and only this voice, you will unlock the door.’ Scott waited as the
other three looked on in bemused silence. He then swivelled the dials. All
three bulbs remained red.

‘Now
we discover if I understood the instructions,’ said Scott. He bit his lip and
advanced again. Once more he twiddled the dials, but this time to the numbers
selected by Saddam, ending with 0-4-0-7-9-3. The first light went from red to
green. Aziz smiled. Scott placed the palm of his hand in the white square and
left it there for several seconds. The second light switched to green.

Scott
heard Kratz sigh audibly as he stepped forward again. He put his lips to the
white square so they just touched the thin wire mesh. ‘My name is Andreas Bernstrom.
It’s now time for the safe to -’ The third light turned green even before he
had completed the sentence. Cohen offered up a suppressed cheer.

Scott
grasped the handle and pulled. The ton of steel eased open.