Honor Among Thieves

by Jeffrey Archer

  “I would be fascinated to know, Sayedi, if you felt able to confide in such an unworthy soul.”

  Twelve members of the Council looked towards the President to gauge his reaction to the Deputy Ambassador’s comment. Al Obaydi felt immediately that he had gone too far. He sat, terrified, during what felt like the longest silence in his life.

  “Then I shall let you share my secret, Hamid,” said Saddam, his black eyes boring into the Deputy Ambassador. “When I captured the Nineteenth Province for my beloved people, I found myself at war not with the traitors we had invaded, but the combined strength of the Western world—and that despite an agreement previously reached with the American Ambassador. Why? I had to ask, when everyone knew that Kuwait was run by a few corrupt families who had little interest in the welfare of their own people. I’ll tell you why. In one word, oil. Had it been coffee beans that the Nineteenth Province was exporting, you would never have seen as much as an American rowboat armed with a catapult enter the Gulf.”

  The Foreign Minister smiled and nodded.

  “And who were the leaders who ganged up against me? Thatcher, Gorbachev and Bush. That was less than three years ago. And what has happened to them since? Thatcher was removed by a coup carried out by her own supporters; Gorbachev was deposed by a man he himself had sacked only a year before and whose own position now looks unstable; Bush suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of the American people. While I remain the Supreme Leader and President of my country.”

  There followed a burst of applause which died instantly when Saddam began speaking again.

  “That, of course, would be ample reward for most people. But not me, Hamid. Because Bush’s place has been taken by this man Clinton, who has learned nothing from his predecessor’s mistakes, and who now also wishes to challenge my supremacy. But this time it is my intention to humiliate him along with the American infidels long before they are given the opportunity to do so. And I shall go about this in such a way that will make it impossible for Clinton to recover any credibility in his lifetime. I intend to make Clinton and the American people the laughingstock of the world.”

  The heads continued nodding.

  “You have already witnessed my ability to turn the greed of their own people into a willingness to steal the most cherished document in their nation’s history. And you, Hamid, are the chosen instrument to ensure that my genius will be acknowledged.” Al Obaydi lowered his head.

  “Once I am in possession of the Declaration I shall wait patiently until the Fourth of July, when the whole of America will be spending a peaceful Sunday celebrating Independence Day.” No one in the room uttered a word while the President paused.

  “I shall also celebrate Independence Day, not in Washington or New York, but in Tahrir Square, surrounded by my beloved people. When I, Saddam Hussein, President of Iraq, will in front of the entire world’s media burn to a cinder the American Declaration of Independence.”

  Hannah lay awake in her barracks-room bed, feeling not unlike the child she had been some fifteen years before when she had spent her first night at boarding school.

  She had collected Karima Saib’s cases from the carousel at Charles de Gaulle Airport, dreading what she might find inside them.

  A driver had picked her up as promised, but as he had been unwilling to make any attempt at conversation she had no idea what to expect when they pulled up outside the Jordanian Embassy. Hannah was surprised by its size.

  The beautiful old house which was set back from the boulevard Maurice Barrès was formerly the home of the late Aga Khan. The Iraqi annex had been allocated two complete floors, tangible proof that the Jordanians did not wish to get on the wrong side of Saddam.

  On entering the annex to the embassy, the first person she met was Abdul Kanuk, the Chief Administrator. He certainly didn’t look like a diplomat, and when he opened his mouth she realized he wasn’t. Kanuk informed her that the Ambassador and his senior secretary, Muna Ahmed, were tied up in meetings and that she was to unpack and then wait in her room until called for.

  The cramped accommodation was just about large enough for a bed and two suitcases, and might, she thought, have been a storeroom before the Iraqi delegation moved in. When she eventually forced open one of Karima Saib’s suitcases she quickly discovered that the only things that fitted from her wardrobe were her shoes. Hannah didn’t know whether to be relieved, because of Saib’s taste, or anxious about how little of her own she had to wear.

  Muna Ahmed, the senior secretary, joined her in the kitchen for supper later that evening. It seemed that secretaries in the embassy were treated on the same level as servants. Hannah managed to convince Muna that it was better than she had expected, especially as they were only able to use the annex to the Jordanian Embassy. Muna explained that as far as the Corps Diplomatique of France was concerned, the Iraqi Ambassador was to be treated only as a Head of Interest Section, although they were to address him at all times as “Your Excellency” or “Ambassador.”

  During the first few days in her new job, Hannah sat in the room next to the Ambassador’s on the other side of Muna’s desk. She spent most of her time twiddling her fingers. Hannah quickly discovered that no one took much interest in her as long as she completed any work the Ambassador had left for her on his dictating machine. In fact that soon became Hannah’s biggest problem, since she had to slow down in order to make Muna look more efficient. The only thing Hannah ever forgot was to keep wearing her nonprescription glasses.

  In the evenings, over supper in the kitchen, Hannah learned from Muna everything that was expected of an Iraqi woman abroad, including how to avoid the advances of Abdul Kanuk. By the second week, her learning curve had already slowed down, and increasingly Hannah found the Ambassador was relying on her skills. She tried not to show too much initiative.

  Once they had finished their work, Hannah and Muna were expected to remain indoors, and were not allowed to leave the building at night unless accompanied by the Chief Administrator, a prospect that didn’t tempt either of them. As Muna had no interest in music, the theater or even going to cafés, she was happy to pass the time in her room reading the speeches of Saddam Hussein.

  As the days slowly passed Hannah began to hope that the Mossad agent in Paris would contact her so that she could be pulled out and sent back to Israel to prepare for her mission—not that she had any clue who the Mossad agent was. She wondered if they had one in the embassy. Alone in her room, she often speculated. The driver? Too slow. The gardener? Too dumb. The cook? Certainly possible—the food was bad enough to believe it was her second job. Abdul Kanuk, the Chief Administrator? Hardly, since, as he pointed out at least three times a day, he was a cousin of Barazan Al-Tikriti, Saddam Hussein’s half brother and the UN Ambassador in Geneva. Kanuk was also the biggest gossip in the embassy, and supplied Hannah with more information about Saddam Hussein and his entourage in one night than the Ambassador managed in a week. In truth, the Ambassador rarely spoke of Sayedi in her presence, and when he did he was always guarded and respectful.

  It was during the second week that Hannah was introduced to the Ambassador’s wife. Hannah quickly discovered that she was fiercely independent, partly because she was half Turkish, and didn’t consider that it was necessarily her duty always to stay inside the embassy compound. She did things that were thought extreme by Iraqi standards, like accompanying her husband to cocktail parties, and she had even been known to pour herself a drink without waiting to be asked. She also went—which was more important for Hannah—twice a week to swim at the nearby public baths in the boulevard Lannes. The Ambassador agreed, after a little persuasion, that it would be acceptable for the new secretary to accompany his wife.

  Scott arrived in Paris on a Sunday. He had been given a key to a small flat on the avenue de Messine, and they had opened an account for him at the Société Générale on boulevard Haussmann in the name of Simon Rosenthal.

  He was to telephone or fax Langley only after he had
located the Mossad agent. No other operative had been informed of his existence, and he had been told not to make contact with any field agent he had worked with in the past who was now stationed in Europe.

  Scott spent the first two days discovering the nine places from which he could observe the front door of the Jordanian Embassy without being seen by anyone in the building.

  By the end of a week he had begun to realize for the first time what agents really meant by the expression “hours of solitude.” He even started to miss some of his students.

  He developed a routine. Every morning before breakfast he would run for five miles in the Parc Monceau, before he began the morning shift. Every evening he would spend two hours in a gym on rue de Berne before cooking supper, which he ate alone in his flat.

  Scott began to despair of the Mossad agent ever leaving the embassy compound, and to wonder if Miss Kopec was even in there. The Ambassador’s wife seemed to be the only woman to come and go as she pleased.

  And then without warning, on the Tuesday of his second week, someone else left the building accompanying the Ambassador’s wife. Was it Hannah Kopec? He only caught a fleeting glimpse as the car sped away.

  He followed the chauffeur-driven Mercedes, always remaining at an angle that would make it difficult for the Ambassador’s driver to spot him in his rearview mirror. The two women were dropped outside the swimming pool on the boulevard Lannes. He watched them get out of the car. In the photographs he had studied at Langley, Hannah Kopec had had long black hair. The hair was now cropped, but it was unquestionably the Mossad agent.

  Scott drove a hundred yards further down the road, turned right and parked his car. He walked back, entered the building and purchased a spectator’s ticket at a cost of two francs. He strolled up to the balcony which overlooked the pool. By the time he had selected an obscure seat in the gallery Hannah Kopec was already swimming up and down. It only took moments for Scott to realize how fit she was, even if the Iraqi version of a swimsuit wasn’t all that alluring. Her pace only slowed when the Ambassador’s wife appeared at the edge of the pool, after which Kopec ventured the occasional dog paddle from one side to the other.

  Some forty minutes later, when the Ambassador’s wife left the pool, Kopec immediately quickened her pace, covering each length in under a minute. When she had swum ten lengths she pulled herself out of the water and disappeared towards the changing room.

  Scott returned to his car, and when the two women reappeared he allowed the Mercedes to overtake him before following them back to the embassy.

  Later that night he faxed Dexter Hutchins at Langley to let him know he had seen her, and would now try to make contact.

  The following morning, he bought a pair of swimming trunks.

  It was on Thursday that Hannah first noticed him. He was doing the crawl at a steady rate, completing each length in about forty seconds, and looked as if he might once have been a useful athlete. She tried to keep up with his pace but could only manage five lengths before he stretched away. She watched him pull himself out of the water after another dozen lengths and head off in the direction of the men’s changing room.

  On Monday morning the following week, the Ambassador’s wife informed Hannah that she wouldn’t be able to go for their usual swim the next day as she would be accompanying the Ambassador on his visit to Saddam Hussein’s half brother in Geneva. Hannah had already been told about the trip by the Chief Administrator, who seemed to know even the finest details.

  “I can’t think why you haven’t been invited to join the Ambassador as well,” said the cook that evening. The Chief Administrator was silenced for about two minutes until Muna left the kitchen to go to her room. Then he revealed a piece of information that disturbed Hannah.

  The following day Hannah was given permission to go swimming by herself. She was glad to have an excuse to get out of the building, especially as Kanuk was in charge of the delegation in the Ambassador’s absence. He had taken the Mercedes for himself, so she made her own way to the boulevard Lannes by Métro. She was disappointed to find that the man who swam so well was nowhere to be seen when she started off on her thirty lengths. Once she had completed her exercise she clung to the side, tired and slightly out of breath. Suddenly she was aware that he was swimming towards her in the outside lane. When he touched the end he turned smoothly and said distinctly, “Don’t move, Hannah, I’ll be back.”

  Hannah assumed he must be someone who remembered her from her days as a model, and her immediate reaction was to make a run for it. But she continued to tread water as she waited for him to return, thinking he might just be the Mossad agent Kratz had referred to.

  She watched him swimming towards her, and became more apprehensive with each stroke. When he touched the edge he came to a sudden halt and asked, “Are you alone?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “I thought I couldn’t see the Ambassador’s wife. She usually displaces a great deal of water without much forward motion. By the way, I’m Simon Rosenthal. Colonel Kratz instructed me to make contact. I have a message for you.”

  Hannah felt stupid shaking hands with the man while they were both clinging to the edge of the pool.

  “Do you know the avenue Bugeaud?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Good. See you at the Bar de la Porte Dauphine in fifteen minutes.”

  He pulled himself out of the pool in one movement and disappeared in the direction of the men’s changing room before she had a chance to reply.

  A little over fifteen minutes later Hannah walked into the Bar de la Porte Dauphine. She searched around the room and almost missed him perched behind one of the high-backed wooden chairs directly below a large, colorful mural.

  He rose to greet her and then ordered another coffee. He warned her that they must spend only a few minutes together, because she ought to return to the embassy without delay. As she sipped the first real coffee she had tasted in weeks, Hannah took a closer look at him, and began to recall what it was like just to enjoy a drink with someone interesting. His next sentence snapped her back into the real world.

  “Kratz plans to pull you out of Paris in the near future.”

  “Any particular reason?” she asked.

  “The date of the Baghdad operation has been settled.”

  “Thank God,” said Hannah.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Scott, risking his first question.

  “The Ambassador is expecting to be called back to Baghdad to take up a new post. He intends to ask me to go with him,” replied Hannah. “Or that’s what the Chief Administrator is telling everyone, except Muna Ahmed.”

  “I’ll warn Kratz.”

  “By the way, Simon, I’ve picked up two or three scraps of information that Kratz might find useful.”

  He nodded and listened as Hannah began to give him details of the internal organization of the embassy, and of the comings and goings of diplomats and businessmen who publicly spoke out against Saddam while at the same time trying to close deals with him. After a few minutes he stopped her and said, “You’d better leave now. They might begin to miss you. I’ll try and arrange another meeting whenever it’s possible,” he found himself adding.

  She smiled, rose from the table and left, without looking back.

  Later that evening, Scott sent a coded message to Dexter Hutchins in Virginia to let him know that he had made contact with Hannah Kopec.

  A fax came back an hour later with only one instruction.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On May 25, 1993, the sun rose over the Capitol a few minutes after five. Its rays crept along the White House lawn and minutes later seeped unnoticed into the Oval Office. A few hundred yards away, Cavalli was slapping his hands behind his back.

  Cavalli had spent the previous day in Washington, checking the finer details for what felt like the hundredth time. He had to assume that something must go wrong and, whatever it turned out to be, it would automatically become his respons
ibility.

  Johnny Scasiatore walked over and handed Cavalli a steaming mug of coffee.

  “I had no idea it could be this cold in Washington,” Cavalli said to Johnny, who was wearing a sheepskin jacket.

  “It’s cold at this time of the morning almost everywhere in the world,” replied Johnny. “Ask any film director.”

  “And do you really need six hours to get ready for three minutes of filming?” Cavalli asked incredulously.

  “Two hours’ preparation for a minute’s work is the standard rule. And don’t forget, we’ll have to run through this particular scene twice, in somewhat unusual circumstances.”

  Cavalli stood on the corner of 13th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue and eyed the fifty or so people who came under Johnny’s direction. Some were preparing a track along the sidewalk that would allow a camera to follow the six cars as they traveled slowly down Pennsylvania Avenue. Others were fixing up massive IK arc lights along the seven hundred yards that would eventually be powered by a 200-kilowatt generator which had been transported into the heart of the capital at four o’clock that morning. Sound equipment was being tested to make sure that it would pick up every kind of noise—feet walking on a sidewalk, car doors slamming, the rumble of the subway, even the chimes of the clock on the Post Office tower.

  “Is all this expense really necessary?” asked Cavalli.

  “If you want everyone except us to believe they’re taking part in a motion picture, you can’t afford to risk any shortcuts. I’m going to shoot a film that anybody watching us, professional or amateur, could expect to see one day in a movie theater. I’m even paying full Equity rates for all of the extras.”

  “Thank God none of my people have a union,” commented Cavalli. The sun was now full on his face, twenty-one minutes after the President would have enjoyed its warmth over breakfast in the White House.

  Cavalli looked down at the checklist on his clipboard. Al Calabrese already had all his twelve vehicles in place on the curbside, and the drivers were standing around in a huddle drinking coffee, sheltered from the wind by one of the walls of Freedom Plaza. The six limousines glistened in the morning sun as passersby, cleaners and janitors leaving offices and early-morning commuters coming up from the Federal Triangle Metro slowed to admire the spectacle. A painter was just touching up the Presidential Seal on the third car while a girl was unfurling a flag on the right-hand fender.