Honor Among Thieves

by Jeffrey Archer

  “I’ll come to your trip to Jordan in a moment, if I may. But what I should like to know now is why, when you were back at our embassy in Paris, you didn’t immediately call our Ambassador in Geneva to inform him of what you had discovered? Not only was the Ambassador in residence, but he took a call from another member of the embassy staff after you had gone to bed.”

  Al Obaydi suddenly realized how Farrar knew everything. He tried to collect his thoughts.

  “My only interest was getting back to Baghdad to let the Foreign Minister know the danger our leader might be facing.”

  “Like the imminent danger of the Americans dropping bombs on Mukhbarat headquarters,” suggested the State Prosecutor.

  “I could not have known what the Americans were planning,” shouted Al Obaydi.

  “I see,” said Farrar. “It was no more than a happy coincidence that you were safely tucked up in bed in Paris while Tomahawk missiles were showering down on Baghdad.”

  “But I returned to Baghdad immediately after I learned of the bombing,” insisted Al Obaydi.

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t have been in quite such a hurry to return if the Americans had succeeded in assassinating our leader.”

  “But my report would have proved…”

  “And where is that report?”

  “I intended to write it on the journey from Jordan to Baghdad.”

  “How convenient. And did you advise your trustworthy friend Mr. Riffat to ring the Minister of Industry to find out if he was expected?”

  “No, I did not,” said Al Obaydi. “If any of this were true,” he added, “why would I have worked so hard to see that our great leader secured the Declaration?”

  “I’m glad you mentioned the Declaration,” said the State Prosecutor softly, “because I’m also puzzled by the role you played in that particular exercise. But first, let me ask you, did you trust our Ambassador in Geneva to see that the Declaration was delivered to Baghdad?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “And did it reach Baghdad safely?” asked the Prosecutor, glancing at the battered parchment still nailed to the wall behind Saddam.

  “Yes. It did.”

  “Then why not entrust the knowledge you had acquired about the safe to the same man, remembering that it was his responsibility?”

  “This was different.”

  “It certainly was, and I shall show the Council just how different. How was the Declaration paid for?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Al Obaydi.

  “Then let me make it easier for you. How was each payment dealt with?”

  “Ten million dollars was paid once the contract had been agreed, and a further forty million was paid when the Declaration was handed over.”

  “And how much of that money—the state’s money—did you keep for yourself?”

  “Not one cent.”

  “Well, let us see if that is totally accurate, shall we? Where did the meetings take place for the exchange of these vast sums of money?”

  “The first payment was made at a bank in New Jersey, and the second to Dummond et cie, one of our banks in Switzerland.”

  “And the first payment of ten million dollars, if I understand you correctly, you insisted should be in cash?”

  “That is not correct,” said Al Obaydi. “The other side insisted that it should be in cash.”

  “How convenient. But then, once again, we only have your word for that, because our Ambassador in New York has stated it was you who insisted the first payment had to be in cash. Perhaps he misunderstood you as well. But let us move on to the second payment, and do correct me if I have misunderstood you.” He paused. “That was paid directly into Franchard et cie?”

  “That is correct,” said Al Obaydi.

  “And did you receive, I think the word is a ‘kickback,’ after either of these payments?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Well, what is certain is that, as the first payment was made in cash, it would be hard for anyone to prove otherwise. But as for the second payment…” The Prosecutor paused to let the significance of his words sink in.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snapped Al Obaydi.

  “Then you must be having another lapse of memory, because during your absence, when you were rushing back from Paris to warn the President of the imminent danger to his life, you received a communication from Franchard et cie which, because the letter was addressed to our Ambassador in Paris, ended up on the desk of the Deputy Foreign Minister.”

  “I’ve had no communication with Franchard et cie.”

  “I’m not suggesting you did,” said the Prosecutor, as he strode forward to within a foot of Al Obaydi. “I’m suggesting they communicated with you. Because they sent you your latest bank statement in the name of Hamid Al Obaydi, dated June 25th, 1993, showing that your account was credited with one million dollars on February 18th, 1993.”

  “It’s not possible,” said Al Obaydi defiantly.

  “It’s not possible?” said the Prosecutor, thrusting a copy of the statement in front of Al Obaydi.

  “This is easy to explain. The Cavalli family is trying to get revenge because we didn’t pay the full amount of one hundred million as originally promised.”

  “Revenge, you claim. The money isn’t real? It doesn’t exist? This is just a piece of paper? A figment of our imagination?”

  “Yes,” said Al Obaydi. “That is the truth.”

  “So perhaps you can explain why one hundred thousand dollars was withdrawn from this account on the day after you had visited Franchard et cie?”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Another impossibility? Another figment of the imagination? Then you have not seen this withdrawal order for one hundred thousand dollars, sent to you by the bank a few days later? The signature of which bears a remarkable resemblance to the one on the sanctions report which you accepted earlier as authentic.”

  The Prosecutor held both documents in front of Al Obaydi so they touched the tip of his nose. He looked at the two signatures and realized what Cavalli must have done. The Prosecutor proceeded to sign his death warrant, even before Al Obaydi had been given the chance to explain.

  “And now, you are no doubt going to ask the Council to believe that it was Cavalli who also forged your signature?”

  A little laughter trickled around the table, and Al Obaydi suspected that the Prosecutor knew that he had only spoken the truth.

  “I have had enough of this,” said the one person in the room who would have dared to interrupt the State Prosecutor.

  Al Obaydi looked up in a last attempt to catch the attention of the President, but with the exception of the State Prosecutor the Council was looking towards the top of the table and nodding their agreement.

  “There are more pressing matters for the Council to consider.” He waved a hand as if he were swatting an irritating fly.

  Two soldiers stepped forward and removed Al Obaydi from his sight.

  “That was a whole lot easier than I expected,” said Cohen, once they had passed through the Iraqi checkpoint.

  “A little too easy perhaps,” said Kratz.

  “It’s good to know we’ve got one optimist and one pessimist on this trip,” said Scott.

  Once Cohen was on the highway he remained cautious of pushing the vehicle beyond fifty miles per hour. The trucks that passed in the opposite direction on their way to Jordan rarely had more than two of their four headlights working, which sometimes made them appear like motorcycles in the distance, so overtaking became hazardous. But his eyes needed to be at their most alert for those trucks in front of him: for them, one red taillight was a luxury.

  Kratz had always thought the three-hundred-mile journey from the border to Baghdad would be too long to consider covering in one stretch, so he had decided they should have a rest about forty miles outside the Iraqi capital. Scott asked Cohen what time he thought they might reach their rest point.

  “Assuming
I don’t drive straight into a parked truck that’s been abandoned in the middle of the road, or disappear down a pothole, I’d imagine we’ll get there around four, five at the latest.”

  “I don’t like the sight of all these army vehicles on the road. What do you think they’re up to?” asked Kratz, who hadn’t slept a wink since they crossed the border.

  “A battalion on the move, I’d say, sir. Doesn’t look that unusual to me, and I don’t think we’d need to worry about them unless they were going in the same direction as us.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Kratz.

  “You wouldn’t give them a second thought if you’d crossed the border legally,” said Scott.

  “Possibly. But Sergeant,” said Kratz, turning his attention back to Cohen, “let me know the moment you spot anything you consider unusual.”

  “You mean, like a woman worth a second glance?”

  Kratz made no comment. He turned to ask Scott a question, only to find he had dozed off again. He envied Scott’s ability to sleep anywhere at any time, especially under such pressure.

  Sergeant Cohen drove on through the night, not always in a straight line, as he circumvented the occasional burned-out tank or large crater left over from the war. On and on they traveled, through small towns and seemingly uninhabited sleeping villages, until a few minutes past four, when Cohen swung off the highway and up a track that could have only considered one-way traffic. He drove for another twenty minutes, finally coming to a halt only when the road ended at an overhanging ledge.

  “Even a vulture wouldn’t find us here,” said Cohen as he turned off the engine. “Permission to have a smoke and a bit of shut-eye, Colonel?”

  Kratz nodded and watched Cohen jump out of the cab and offer Aziz a cigarette before disappearing behind a palm tree. He checked the surrounding countryside carefully, and decided Cohen was right. When he returned to the truck, he found Aziz and the Sergeant were already asleep while Scott was sitting on the ledge watching the sun come up over Baghdad.

  “What a peaceful sight,” he said as Kratz sat down beside him, almost as though he had been talking to someone else. “Only God could make a sunrise as beautiful as that.”

  “Something isn’t right,” muttered Kratz under his breath.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Saddam nodded to the Prosecutor. “Now we have dealt with the traitor, let us move on to the terrorists. What is the latest position, General?”

  General Hamil, known as the Barber of Baghdad, opened the file in front of him. He kept a file on everybody, including those sitting around the table. Hamil had been educated at Sandhurst and returned to Iraq to receive the King’s Commission, only to find there was no King to serve. So he switched his loyalty to the new President, Abdul Karim Qasim. Then a young captain changed sides in the 1963 coup and the Ba’ath party took power. Once again Hamil switched his loyalty, and was rewarded with an appointment to the personal staff of the new Vice-President, Saddam Hussein. Since that day he had risen rapidly through the ranks. He was now Saddam’s favorite General, and Commander of the Presidential Guard. He had the distinction of being the only man, with the exception of the President’s bodyguards, allowed to wear a side-arm in Saddam’s presence. He was Saddam’s executioner. His favorite hobby was to shave his victims’ heads before they were hanged, with a blunt razor that he never bothered to sharpen. Some of them disappointed him by dying before he could get the rope around their necks.

  Hamil studied his file for a few moments before offering an opinion. “The terrorists,” he began, “crossed the border at 21:26 last night. Four passports were presented to the immigration officer for stamping. Three were of Swedish origin, and one was from Iraq.”

  “I’ll skin that one personally,” said Saddam.

  “The four men are traveling in a truck that appears to be quite old, but since we’re unable to risk taking too close a look, I cannot be sure if we are dealing with a Trojan horse or not. The safe that you ordered, Mr. President, is undoubtedly on the back of the truck.

  “The truck has driven nonstop through the night at a steady pace of around forty miles per hour in the direction of Baghdad, but at 4:09 this morning it turned off into the desert, and we ceased to monitor its movements, as that particular path leads nowhere. We believe they have simply come off the road to rest before traveling on to the capital later this morning.”

  “How many miles are they from Baghdad at this moment?” asked the Minister of the Interior.

  “Forty, perhaps fifty—an hour to an hour and a half at the most.”

  “So, if we now have them trapped in the desert, General, why don’t we just send troops in and cut them off?”

  “While they’re still bringing the safe to Baghdad?” interrupted Saddam. “No. That way lies our only danger.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, Sayedi,” said the Minister of the Interior, turning to face his leader.

  “Then I will explain, Minister,” Saddam said, exaggerating the final word cruelly. “If we arrest them in the desert, who will believe us when we tell the world they are terrorists? The Western press will even claim that we planted their passports on them. No, I want them arrested right here in the Council Chamber, when it will be impossible for Mossad to deny their involvement and, more important, we will have exposed their plot and made fools of them in the eyes of the Zionist people.”

  “Now I understand your profound wisdom, Sayedi.”

  Saddam waved a hand and turned his attention to the Minister of Industry.

  “Have my orders been carried out?” he asked.

  “To the letter, Excellency. When the terrorists arrive at the Ministry, they will be made to wait, and will be treated curtly, until they produce the documentation that claims to come from your office.”

  “They presented such a letter at the border,” interrupted General Hamil, still looking down at his file.

  “The moment such a letter is presented to my office,” continued the Minister of Industry, “a crane will be supplied so that the safe can be transferred into this building. I fear that we will have to remove the doors on the front of the building, but only—”

  “I am not interested in the doors,” said Saddam. “When do you anticipate the safe will arrive outside the building?”

  “Around midday,” said General Hamil. “I shall personally take over the entire operation once the safe is inside the building, Mr. President.”

  “Good. And make sure the terrorists see the Declaration before they are arrested.”

  “What if they were to try to destroy the document, Excellency?” asked the Minister of the Interior, attempting to recover some lost ground.

  “Never,” said Saddam. “They have come to Baghdad to steal the document, not to destroy their pathetic piece of history.” Two or three people around the table nodded their agreement. “None of you except General Hamil and his immediate staff will come anywhere near this building for the next twenty-four hours. The fewer people who know what’s really happening, the better. Don’t even brief the officer of the day. I want the security to appear lax. That way they will fall right into our trap.”

  General Hamil nodded.

  “Prosecutor,” said Saddam, turning his attention to the other end of the table, “what will the international community say when they learn I have arrested the Zionist pigs?”

  “They are terrorists, Excellency, and for terrorists, there can be only one sentence. Especially after the Americans launched their missiles on innocent civilians only days before.”

  Saddam smiled. “Any other questions?”

  “Just one, Your Excellency,” said the Deputy Foreign Minister. “What do you want to do about the girl?”

  “Ah, yes,” said Saddam, smiling for the first time. “Now that she has served her purpose, I must think of a suitable way to end her life. Where is she at the moment?”

  As the truck began its slow journey back along the tiny desert path, with Aziz taking his turn b
ehind the wheel and Cohen in the back with Madame Bertha, Scott felt the atmosphere inside the cab had changed. When they pulled off the highway to rest, he still believed they were in no real danger. But the grim silence of morning made him suddenly aware of the task they had set themselves.

  They had Kratz to thank for the original idea, and mixed with his particular cocktail of imagination, discipline, courage and the assumption that no one knew what they were up to, Scott felt they had a better than even chance of getting away with it, especially now that they knew exactly where the Declaration was situated.

  When they reached the main road, Aziz jokingly asked, “Right or left?”

  Scott said “Left,” but Aziz turned dutifully right.

  As they traveled along the highway towards Baghdad the sun shone from a cloudless sky that would have delighted any tourist board, although the burned-out tanks and the craters in the road might not have been considered obvious attractions. No one spoke as the miles sped by: there was no need for them to go over the plans another time. That would be like an Olympian training on the morning of a race—either too late, or no longer of any value.

  For the last ten miles, they joined an expressway that was equal to anything they might have found in Germany. As they crossed a newly reconstructed bridge over the Euphrates, Scott began to wonder how close he was to Hannah, and whether he could get himself into the Foreign Ministry without alerting Kratz, let alone the Iraqis.

  When they reached the outskirts of Baghdad, with its glistening skyscrapers and modern buildings, they could have been entering any major city in the world—until they saw the people. There were lines of cars at gas pumps in a land where the main asset was oil, but their length was dwarfed only by the lines for food. All four of them could see that sanctions were biting, however much Saddam denied it.

  They drove nearer to the city center, along the road that passed under the Al-Naser, the massive archway of two crossed swords gripped by casts of Saddam’s hands. There was no need to direct Aziz to the Ministry of Industry. He wished he still lived in Baghdad, but he hadn’t entered the city since his father had been executed for his part in the failed coup of 1987. Looking out of the window at his countrymen, he could still smell their fear in his nostrils.