Honour Among Thieves Part 24

'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 sceneand 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".'

HANNAH 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: shecould antic.i.p.ate 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 Amba.s.sador'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 Amba.s.sador 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 rus.h.i.+ng out of his office, barking at Hannah to follow him. Hannah grabbed a notepad and chased after the Minister down the long pa.s.sageway.

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 ofthe 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 Was.h.i.+ngton, and the doc.u.ment 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 doc.u.ment, 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 withher? 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 emba.s.sies would be happy to deal with him despite theirofficial position, and which would not. When it came to the Jordanian Emba.s.sy 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 t.i.tle 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sengers 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 coupleof years, and sudden promotion never surprised anyone in Baghdad.

When the plane landed at Stockholm, Al Obaydi disembarked, using the diplomatic channel to escape quickly.

The journey to Kalmar by taxi took just over three hours, and the newly-appointed Amba.s.sador spent most of the time gazing aimlessly out of the grubby window, pondering the unfamiliar sight of green hills and grey sides. When the taxi finally came to a halt outside the works entrance of Svenhalte AC, Al Obaydi was greeted by the sight of a man in a long brown coat who looked as if he had been standing there for some time.

Al Obaydi noticed that the man had a worried expression on his face. But it turned to a smile the moment the Amba.s.sador stepped out of the car.

'How agreeable to meet you, Mr Al Obaydi,' said the chief engineer in English, the tongue he felt they would both feel most comfortable in. 'My name is Pedersson. Won't you please come to my office?'

After Pedersson had ordered coffee - how nice to taste cappuccino again, Al Obaydi thought - his first question proved just how anxious he was.

'I hope we did not do wrong?'

'No, no,' said Al Obaydi, who had himself been put at ease by the chief engineer's gus.h.i.+ng words and obvious anxiety. 'I a.s.sure you this is only a routine check.'

Mr Riffat was in possession of all the correct doc.u.ments, both from the UN and from your government.'

Al Obaydi was becoming painfully aware that he was dealing with a group of highly-trained professionals.

'You say they left here on Wednesday afternoon?' Al Obaydi asked, trying to sound casual.

'Yes, that is correct.'

"How long do you imagine it will take them to reach Baghdad?'

'At least a week, perhaps ten days in that old truck, if they make it at all.'

Al Obaydi looked puzzled. 'An old truck?'

'Yes, they came to pick up Madame Bertha in an old army truck. Though, I must confess, the engine had a good sound to it. I took some pictures for my alb.u.m. Would you like to see them?'

'Pictures of the truck?' said Al Obaydi.

'Yes, from my window, with Mr Riffat standing by the safe.They didn't notice.'

Pedersson opened the drawer of his desk and took out several pictures. He pushed them across his desk with the same pride that another man might have displayed when showing a stranger snapshots of his family.

Al Obaydi studied the photographs carefully. Several of them showed Madame Bertha being lowered onto the truck.

'There is a problem?' asked Pedersson.

'No, no,' said Al Obaydi, and added, 'Would it be possible to have copies of these photographs?'

'Oh yes, please keep them, I have many,' said the chief engineer, pointing to the open drawer.

Al Obaydi picked up his briefcase, opened it and placed the pictures in a flap at the front before removing some photographs of his own.

'While I'm here, perhaps you could help me with one more small matter.'

'Anything,' said Pedersson.

'I have some photographs of former employees of the state, and it would be helpful if you were able to remember if any of them were among those who came to collect Madame Bertha.'

Once again, Pedersson looked unsure, but he took the photographs and studied each one at length. He repeated, 'No, no, no,' several times, until he came to one which he took longer over. Al Obaydi leaned forward.

'Yes,' said Pedersson eventually. 'Although it must have been taken some years ago. This is Mr Riffat. He has not put on any weight, but he has aged and his hair has turned grey.

A very thorough man,' Pedersson added.

'Yes,' said Al Obaydi, 'Mr Riffat is a very thorough man,'

he repeated as he glanced at the details in Arabic printed on the back of the photograph. 'It will be a great relief for my government to know that Mr Riffat is in charge of this particular operation.'

Pedersson smiled for the first time as Al Obaydi downed the last drop of his coffee. 'You have been most helpful,'

the Amba.s.sador said. He rose before adding, 'I feel sure my government will be in need of your services again in the future, but I would be obliged if you made no mention of this meeting to anyone.'

'Just as you wish,' said Pedersson as they walked back down to the yard. The smile remained on his face as he watched the taxi drive out of the factory gate, carrying off his distinguished customer.But Pedersson's thoughts did not match his expression.

'All is not well,' he muttered to himself. 'I do not believe that gentleman feels Madame Bertha is in safe hands, and I am certain he is no friend of Mr Riffat.'

It surprised Scott to find that he liked Dollar Bill the moment he met him. It didn't surprise him that once he had seen an example of his work, he also respected him.

Scott landed in San Francisco seventeen hours after he had taken off from Stockholm. The CIA had a car waiting for him at the airport. He was driven quickly up into Marin County and deposited outside the safe house within the hour.

After s.n.a.t.c.hing some sleep, Scott rose for lunch, hoping to meet Dollar Bill straight away, but to his disappointment the forger was nowhere to be seen.

'Mr O'Reilly takes breakfast at seven and doesn't appear again before dinner, sir,' explained the butler.

'And what does he do for sustenance in between?' asked Scott.

'At twelve, I take him a bar of chocolate and half a pint of water, and at six, half a pint of Guinness.'

After lunch, Scott read an update on what had been going on at the State Department during his absence, and then spent the rest of the afternoon in the bas.e.m.e.nt gym. He staggered out of the session around five, nursing several aches and pains from excessive exercise and one or two bruises administered by the judo instructor.

'Not bad for thirty-six,' he was told condescendingly by the instructor, who looked as if he might have been only a shade younger himself.

Scott sat in a warm bath trying to ease the pain as he turned the pages of Madame Bertha's bible. The doc.u.ment had already been translated by six Arabic scholars from six universities within fifty miles of where he was soaking. They had been given two non-consecutive chapters each. Dexter Hutchins had not been idle since his return.

When Scott came down for dinner, still feeling a little stiff, he found Dollar Bill standing with his back to the fire in the drawing room, sipping a gla.s.s of water.

'What would you like to drink, Professor?' asked the butler.

'A very weak shandy,' Scott replied before introducing himself to Dollar Bill.

'Are you here, Professor, out of choice, or were yousimplv arrested for drunk driving?' was Dollar Bill's first question. He had obviously decided to give Scott just as hard a time as the judo instructor.

'Choice, I fear,' replied Scott with a smile.

'From such a reply,' said Dollar Bill, 'I can only deduce you teach a dead subject or one that is no use to living mortals.'

'I teach Const.i.tutional Law,' Scott replied, 'but I specialise in Logic'

'Then you manage to achieve both at once,' said Dollar Bill as Dexter Hutchins entered the room.

'I'd like a gin and tonic, Charles,' said Dexter as he shook Scott's hand warmly. 'I'm sorry I didn't catch up with you earlier, but those guys in Foggy Bottom haven't been off the phone all afternoon.'

'There are many reasons to be wary of your fellow creatures,' Dollar Bill observed, 'and by asking for a gin and tonic, Mr Hutchins has just demonstrated two of them.'

Charles returned a moment later carrying a shandy and a gin and tonic on a silver tray, which he offered to Scott and the Deputy Director.

'In my university days, logic didn't exist,' said Dollar Bill after Dexter Hutchins had suggested they go through to dinner. 'Trinity College, Dublin would have no truck with the subject. I can't think of a single occa-sion in Irish history when any of my countrymen have ever relied on logic'