Honor Among Thieves

by Jeffrey Archer

  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 reached 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 countermeasures 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 square full of stars she had drawn with a felt-tip pen 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 annex, 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 traveling to Stockholm…” Al Obaydi made his way through the departure lounge to the exit gate and, after his boarding pass 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 didn’t 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.

  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 Ambassador spent most of the time gazing aimlessly out of the grubby window, pondering the unfamiliar sight of green hills and gray skies. 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 Ambassador 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 gushing words and obvious anxiety. “I assure you this is only a routine check.”

  “Mr. Riffat was in possession of all the correct documents, 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 a picture for my album. Would you like to see it?”

  “A picture 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 gray. 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 Ambassador 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 snatching 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 basement 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 document 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 glass of water.

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

  “A light beer if you have it,” Scott replied before introducing himself to Dollar Bill.

  “Are you here, Professor, out of choice, or were you simply 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 constitutional law,” Scott replied, “but I specialize 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 light beer 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 occasion in Irish history when any of my countrymen have ever relied on logic.”

  “So what did you study?” asked Scott.

  “A lot of Fleming, a little of Joyce, with a few rare moments devoted to Plato and Aristotle, but I fear not enough to engage the attention of any member of the board of examiners.”

  “And how is the Declaration coming on?” asked Dexter, as if he hadn’t been following the conversation.

  “A stickler for the work ethic is our Mr. Hutchins, Professor,” said Dollar Bill as a bowl of soup was placed in front of him. “Mind you, he is a man who would rely on logic to see him through. However, since there is no such thing in life as a free meal, I will attempt to answer my jailer’s question. Today I completed the text as originally written by Timothy Matlock, Assistant to the Secretary of Congress. It took him seventeen hours, you know. I fear it has taken me rather longer.”

  “And how long do you think it will take you to finish the names?” pressed Dexter.

  “You are worse than Pope Julius II, forever demanding of Michelangelo how long it would take him to finish the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,” said Dollar Bill as the butler removed the soup bowls.

  “The names,” demanded Dexter. “The names.”

  “Oh, impatient and unsubtle man.”

  “Shaw,” said Scott.

  “I grow to like you more by the minute,” said Dollar Bill.

  “The names,” repeated Dexter as Charles placed an Irish stew on the table. Dollar Bill immediately helped himself.

  “Now I see why you are the Deputy Director,” said Dollar Bill. “Do you not realize, man, that there are fifty-six names on the original document, each one of them a work of art in itself? Let me demonstrate to you, if I may. Paper, please, Charles. I require paper.”

  The butler took a pad that lay next to the telephone and placed it by O’Reilly’s side. Dollar Bill removed a pen from his inside pocket and began to scribble.

  He showed his two dinner companions what he had written: “Mr. O’Reilly may have the unrestricted use of the company helicopter whenever he wishes.”

  “What does that prove?” asked Dexter.

  “Patience, Mr. Hutchins, patience,” said Dollar Bill, as he retrieved the piece of paper and signed it first with the signature of Dexter Hutchins, and then, changing his pen, wrote “Scott Bradley.”

  Once again he allowed them to study his efforts.<
br />
  “But how…?” said Scott.

  “In your case, Professor, it was easy. All I needed was the visitors’ book.”

  “But I didn’t sign the visitors’ book,” said Dexter.

  “I confess it would be a strange thing for you to do when you are the Deputy Director,” said Dollar Bill, “but in your case nothing would surprise me. However, Mr. Hutchins, you do have the infuriating habit of signing and dating the inside cover of any book you have purchased recently. I suspect in the case of first editions it will be the nearest you get to posterity.” He paused. “But enough of this idle banter. You can both see for yourselves the task I face.” Without warning, Dollar Bill folded his napkin, rose from the table leaving his half-finished stew and walked out of the room. His companions jumped up and quickly followed him across to the West Wing without another word being spoken. After they had climbed a small flight of stone steps they entered Dollar Bill’s makeshift study.

  On an architect’s drafting board below a bright light rested the parchment. Both men walked across the room, stood over the board and studied the completed script. It had been inscribed above a large empty space covered in tiny pencil crosses that awaited the fifty-six signatures.

  Scott stared in admiration at the work.

  “But why didn’t you…”

  “Take up a proper occupation?” asked Dollar Bill, anticipating the question. “And have ended up as a schoolmaster in Wexford, or perhaps have climbed to the dizzy heights of being a councillor in Dublin? No, sir, I would prefer the odd stint in jail rather than be considered by my fellow men as mediocre.”

  “How many days before you have to leave us, young man?” Dexter Hutchins asked Scott.

  “Kratz phoned this afternoon,” Scott replied, turning to face the Deputy Director. “He says they caught the Trelleborg-Sassnitz ferry last night. They’re now heading south, hoping to cross the Bosphorus by Monday morning.”

  “Which means they should be at the border with Iraq by next Wednesday.”