Honor Among Thieves

Al Obaydi stood and waited, like a prisoner in the dock hoping to be told by the judge that he might at least be allowed to sit. He remained standing, well aware that no one ever shook hands with the President unless invited to do so. He stared around at the twelve-man council, noticing that only two, the Prime Minister, Tariq Aziz, and the State Prosecutor, Nakir Farrar, were wearing suits. The other ten members were dressed in full military uniforms but did not wear sidearms. The only handgun, other than those worn by General Hamil, the Commander of the Presidential Guard, and the two armed soldiers directly behind Saddam, was on the table in front of the President, placed where other heads of state would have had a memo pad.

Al Obaydi became painfully aware that the President’s eyes had never left him from the moment he had entered the room. Saddam waved his Coheba cigar at the Deputy Ambassador to indicate that he should take the vacant seat at the opposite end of the table.

The Foreign Minister looked towards the President, who nodded. He then turned his attention to the man who sat nervously in the far chair.

“This, Mr. President, as you know, is Hamid Al Obaydi, our Deputy Ambassador at the United Nations, whom you honored with the responsibility of carrying out your orders to steal the Declaration of Independence from the American infidels. On your instructions, he has returned to Baghdad to inform you, in person, of what progress he has made. I have not had an opportunity to speak to him, Mr. President, so you will forgive me if I appear, like yourself, to be a seeker after information.”

Saddam waved his cigar again to let the Foreign Minister know that he should get on with it.

“Perhaps I could start, Deputy Ambassador”—Al Obaydi was surprised by such a formal address, since their two families had known each other for generations, but he accepted that to show friendship of any kind in front of Saddam was tantamount to an admission of conspiracy—“by asking you to bring us all up-to-date on the President’s imaginative scheme.”

“Thank you, Foreign Minister,” replied Al Obaydi, as if he had never met the man before. Al Obaydi turned back to face Saddam, whose black eyes remained fixed on him.

“May I begin, Mr. President, by saying what an honor it has been to be entrusted with this task, especially remembering the idea had emanated from Your Excellency personally.” Every member of the Council was now concentrating his attention on the Deputy Ambassador, but Al Obaydi noticed that from time to time each of them would glance in Saddam’s direction to see how he was reacting.

“I am happy to be able to report that the team led by Mr. Antonio Cavalli…”

Saddam raised a hand and looked towards the State Prosecutor, who opened a thick file in front of him.

Nakir Farrar was feared second only to Saddam in the Iraqi regime. Everyone knew of his reputation. A first-class honors degree in jurisprudence at Oxford. President of the Union, and a bencher at Lincoln’s Inn. That was where Al Obaydi had first come across him. Not that Farrar had ever acknowledged his existence. He had been tipped to be the first Queen’s Counsel Iraq had ever produced. But then came the invasion of the Nineteenth Province and the British expelled the high-flyer, despite several appeals from people in high places. Farrar returned to a city he had deserted at the age of eleven, and immediately offered his remarkable talent for Saddam Hussein’s personal use. Within a year Saddam had appointed him State Prosecutor. A title, it was rumored, he had selected himself. He stared down at the open file.

“Cavalli is a New York criminal, Mr. President, who, because he has a law degree and heads a private legal practice, creates a legitimate front for such an operation.” Saddam nodded and turned his attention back to Al Obaydi.

“Mr. Cavalli has completed the preparation stage and his team is now ready to carry out the President’s orders.”

“Do we have a date yet?” asked Farrar.

“Yes, State Prosecutor. May 25th. Clinton has a full day’s schedule at the White House, with his speechwriters in the morning, and his wife’s health-policy task unit in the afternoon, and he”—the Iraqi Ambassador to the UN had warned Al Obaydi never to refer to Clinton as “the President”—“will therefore not be involved in any public engagements that day which would have made our task impossible.”

“And tell me, Deputy Ambassador,” said the State Prosecutor, “did Mr. Cavalli’s lawyer succeed in getting a permit to close down the road between the White House and the National Archives during the time when Clinton will be involved in these internal meetings?”

“No, State Prosecutor, he did not,” came back Al Obaydi’s reply. “The Mayor’s Office did, however, grant a permit for filming to take place on Pennsylvania Avenue from 13th Street east. But the road can only be closed for forty-five minutes. It seems this Mayor was not as easy to convince as her predecessor.”

A few members of the Council looked puzzled. “Not as easy to convince?” asked the Foreign Minister.

“Perhaps ‘persuade’ would be a better word.”

“And what form did this persuasion take?” asked General Hamil, who sat on the right of the President and knew only one form of persuasion.

“A $250,000 contribution to her reelection fund.”

Saddam began to laugh, so the others around the table followed suit.

“And the Archivist, is he still convinced it’s Clinton who will be visiting him?” asked the State Prosecutor.

“Yes, he is,” said Al Obaydi. “Just before I flew out Cavalli had taken eight of his own men over the building posing as a Secret Service preliminary reconnaissance team, carrying out a site survey. The Archivist could not have been more cooperative, and Cavalli was given enough time to check out everything. That exercise should make the switching of the Declaration on May 25th far easier for him.”

“But if, and I say only if, they succeed in getting the original out, have they made arrangements for passing the document over to you?” asked the State Prosecutor.

“Yes,” replied Al Obaydi confidently. “I understand that the President wants the document to be delivered to Barazan Al-Tikriti, our venerated Ambassador to the United Nations in Geneva. When he has received the parchment, and not before, I will authorize the final payment.”

The President nodded his approval. After all, the venerated Ambassador in Geneva was his half brother. The State Prosecutor continued his questioning.

“But how can we be sure that what is handed to us will be the original, and not just a first-class copy?” he demanded. “What’s to prevent Cavalli from making a show of walking in and out of the National Archives, but not actually switching the documents?”

A smile appeared on Al Obaydi’s lips for the first time. “I took the precaution, State Prosecutor, of demanding such proof,” he replied. “When the fake replaces the original, it will continue to be displayed for the general public to view. You can be assured that I shall be among the general public.”

“But you have not answered my question,” said the State Prosecutor sharply. “How will you know ours is the original?”