Honor Among Thieves

“In my hands. Of course.”

“He wants to see the Declaration of Independence.”

“The Declaration of Independence. That’s easy enough.”

“That is not the request,” said Butterworth.

“Not the request?”

“No. The President wishes to see the Declaration, but not as he saw it when he was a freshman at Georgetown, under a thick pane of glass. He wishes the frame to be removed so he can study the parchment itself. He hopes you will grant this request, if only for a few moments.”

This time the Archivist did not immediately say “Of course.” Instead he said, “Most unusual,” and added, “hopes I would grant him this request, if only for a few moments.” There was a long pause before he said, “I’m sure that will be possible, of course.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Butterworth, trying not to sound too relieved. “I know the President will be most appreciative. And, if I could impress on you again, not a word until we’ve been able to confirm the date.”

Butterworth rose and glanced at the long-case clock at the far end of the room. The meeting had taken twenty-two minutes. He would still be able to escape from the conference room before he was thrown out by the officious woman from scheduling.

The Special Assistant to the President guided his guest towards the door.

“The President wondered if you would like to see the Oval Office while you’re here?”

“The Oval Office. Of course, of course.”

Chapter Twelve

Hamid Al Obaydi was left alone in the center of the room. After two of the four guards had stripped him naked, the other two had expertly checked every stitch of his clothing for anything that might endanger the life of their President.

On a nod from the man who appeared to be the chief guard, a side door opened and a doctor entered the room, followed by an orderly who carried a chair in one hand and a rubber glove in the other. The chair was placed behind Al Obaydi, and he was invited to sit. He did so. The doctor first checked his nails and ears before instructing him to open his mouth wide while he tapped every tooth with a spatula. He then placed a clamp in his jaw so that it opened even wider, which allowed him slowly to look into every crevice. Satisfied, he removed the clamp. He then asked Al Obaydi to stand up, turn around and place his legs straight and wide while bending over until his hands touched the seat of the chair. Al Obaydi heard the rubber glove being placed on the doctor’s hand and felt a sudden burst of pain as two fingers were thrust up his rectum. He cried out and the guards facing him began to laugh. The fingers were extracted just as abruptly, repeating the jab of pain a second time.

“Thank you, Deputy Ambassador,” said the doctor, as if he had just checked Al Obaydi’s temperature for a mild dose of flu. “You can get dressed now.” Al Obaydi knelt down and picked up his pants as the doctor and the orderly left the room.

As he dressed, Al Obaydi couldn’t help wondering if each member of the Security Council went through the same humiliation every time Saddam called a meeting of the Revolutionary Command Council.

The order to return to Baghdad to give Sayedi an update on the latest position, as the Ambassador to the UN had described the summons, filled Al Obaydi with considerable apprehension, despite the fact that following his most recent meeting with Cavalli he felt he had the answers to any questions the President might put to him.

Once Al Obaydi had reached Baghdad after a seemingly endless journey through Jordan—direct flights having been suspended as part of the UN sanctions—he hadn’t been allowed to rest or even given the chance to change his clothes. He’d been driven direct to Ba’ath headquarters in a black Mercedes.

When Al Obaydi had finished dressing, he checked himself in a small mirror on the wall. His apparel was, on this occasion, modest compared with the outfits he’d left in his apartment in New York: Saks Fifth Avenue suits, Valentino sweaters, Church’s shoes and a solid gold Cartier watch. All this had been rejected in favor of the one set of cheap Arab clothing he retained in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe in Manhattan.

When Al Obaydi turned away from the mirror, one of the guards beckoned him to follow as the door at the end of the room opened for the first time. The contrast to the bare, almost barracks-room surroundings of the examination room took him by surprise. A thickly carpeted, ornately painted corridor was well lit by chandeliers that hung every few paces.

The Deputy Ambassador followed the guard down the corridor, becoming more aware with each step of the massive gold-painted door that loomed up ahead of him. But when he was only a few paces away, the guard opened a side door and ushered him into an anteroom that echoed the opulence of the corridor.

Al Obaydi was left alone in the room, but no sooner had he taken a seat on the large sofa than the door opened again. Al Obaydi jumped to his feet only to see a girl enter carrying a tray, in the center of which was a small cup of Turkish coffee.

She placed the coffee on a table beside the sofa, bowed and left as silently as she had come. Al Obaydi toyed with the cup, aware that he had fallen into the Western habit of preferring cappuccino. He drank the muddy black liquid simply out of a nervous desire to be doing something.

An hour passed slowly: he became increasingly nervous, with nothing in the room to read and only a massive portrait of Saddam Hussein to stare at. Al Obaydi spent the time going over every detail of what Cavalli had told him, wishing he could refer to the file in his small attaché case, which the guards h

ad whisked away long before he’d reached the examination room.

During the second hour, his confidence began to drain away. During the third, he started to wonder if he would ever get out of the building alive.

Then suddenly the door swung open and Al Obaydi recognized the red-and-yellow flash of the uniform of one of Saddam’s Presidential Guards: the Hemaya.

“The President will see you now,” was all the young officer said, and Al Obaydi rose and followed him quickly down the corridor towards the gold-painted door.

The officer knocked, opened the massive door and stood to one side to allow the Deputy Ambassador to join a full meeting of the Revolutionary Command Council.