Honor Among Thieves

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.