Honor Among Thieves

“Earlier today, Ambassador Al Obaydi paid a visit to Stockholm, according to the stamp on his passport, but he returned to Paris the same evening. Not my idea of a vacation.”

“Stockholm…Stockholm…Stockholm…” repeated the voice on the other end of the line, as if trying to register its significance. A pause, and then, “The safe. Of course. He must have gone on to Kalmar to check on Sayedi’s safe. What has he found out that he thought worth hiding from me, and does Baghdad know what he’s up to?”

“I have no idea, Excellency,” said the Administrator. “But I do know he’s flying back to Baghdad tomorrow.”

“But if he’s on vacation, why would he return to Baghdad so quickly?”

“Perhaps being the Head of Interest Section in Paris is not reward enough for him, Excellency. Could he have his eyes on some greater prize?”

There was a long pause before the voice in Geneva said, “You did well, Abdul. You were right to wake me. I’ll have to phone Kalmar first thing in the morning. First thing,” he repeated.

“You did promise, Excellency, should I once again manage to bring to your attention…”

Tony Cavalli waited until Martin had poured them both a drink.

“Arrested in a barroom brawl,” said his father after he had listened to his son’s report.

“Yes,” said Cavalli, placing a file on the table by his side, “and what’s more, he was sentenced to thirty days.”

“Thirty days?” said his father in disbelief. The old man paused before he added, “What instructions have you given Laura?”

“I’ve put her on hold until July 15th, when Dollar Bill will be released,” Tony replied.

“So where have they locked him up this time? The county jail?”

“No. According to the records at the district court in Fairmont, they’ve thrown him back into the state pen.”

“For being involved in a barroom brawl,” said the older man. “It doesn’t make sense.” He stared up at the Declaration of Independence on the wall behind his desk and didn’t speak again for some moments.

“Who have we got on the inside?”

Cavalli opened the file on the table by his side and extracted a single sheet of paper. “One senior officer and six inmates,” he said, passing his research across, pleased to have anticipated his father’s question.

The old man studied the list of names for some time before he began licking his lips. “Eduardo Bellatti must be our best bet,” he said, looking up at his son. “If I remember correctly, he was sentenced to ninety-nine years for blowing away a judge who once got in our way.”

“Correct, and what’s more, he’s always been happy to kill anyone for a pack of cigarettes,” said Tony. “So, if he takes care of Dollar Bill before July 15th, it would als

o save us a quarter of a million dollars.”

“Something isn’t quite right,” said his father as he toyed with a whisky, which he hadn’t touched. “Perhaps it’s time to dig a little deeper,” he added, almost as if he were talking to himself.

He checked down the list of names once again.

* * *

Al Obaydi woke early the following morning, restless to be on his way to Baghdad so that he could brief the Foreign Minister on everything he’d learned. Once he was back on Iraqi soil he would prepare a full, written report. He went over the outline again and again in his mind.

He would first explain to the Foreign Minister that, while he was carrying out a routine sanctions check, he had learned that the safe that had been ordered by the President was already on its way to Baghdad. On discovering this, he had become suspicious that an enemy of the state might be involved in an assassination attempt on the life of the President. Not altogether certain who could be trusted, he had used his initiative, and even his own time and money, to discover who was behind the plot. Within moments of his reporting the details to the Foreign Minister, Saddam was sure to find out whose responsibility the safe was, and, more important, who had failed to take care of the President’s well-being.

A tap on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Come in,” he called, and a maid entered carrying a breakfast tray of two pieces of burned toast and a cup of thick Turkish coffee. Once she had closed the door behind her, Al Obaydi rose, had a cold shower—not by choice—and dressed quickly. He then poured the coffee down the sink and ignored the toast.

The Ambassador left his room and walked down one flight of stairs to his office, where he found the Chief Administrator standing behind his desk. Had he been sitting in his chair a moment before?

“Good morning, Excellency,” he said. “I hope you had a comfortable night.” Al Obaydi was about to lose his temper, but Kanuk’s next question took him by surprise.

“Have you been briefed on the bombings in Baghdad, Excellency?”

“What bombings?” asked Al Obaydi, not pleased to be wrong-footed.