Honor Among Thieves

“Twenty of the President’s special guards are already on their way to the border with Jordan,” continued the Minister. “They will be responsible for monitoring the progress of the safe, and will report directly to General Hamil.

“Once the agents of the West have been apprehended and thrown in jail, the world’s press will be informed that their purpose was to assassinate the President. The President will immediately appear in public and on television, and will make a speech denouncing the American and Zionist warmongers. Sayedi believes that neither the Americans nor the Israelis will ever admit to the real purpose of their raid, but that they will be unable to deny the President’s claim. Sayedi feels this whole episode can be turned into a public relations triumph, because if the assassination attempt is announced on the same day that the President publicly burns the Declaration of Independence, it will make it even harder for the Americans to retaliate.

“Starting tomorrow, the President requires a situation update every morning at nine and every evening at six. Both the Foreign Minister and I are to report to him directly. If Al Obaydi is picked up, the President is to be informed immediately, whatever the time, night or day.”

Hannah’s pencil hadn’t stopped scribbling across her note pad for nearly twenty minutes. When the Deputy Minister finally came to an end, she tried to take in the full significance of the information she now possessed.

“I need one copy of this report drafted as quickly as possible, no further copies to be made, nothing put on tape and all your shorthand notes must be shredd

ed once the memo has been handed to me.” Hannah nodded as the Deputy Foreign Minister picked up the phone and dialed the internal number of his superior.

Hannah returned to her room and began typing up the dictation slowly, at the same time trying to commit the salient points to memory. Forty-five minutes later she placed a single copy of the report on the Minister’s desk.

He read the script carefully, adding the occasional note in his own hand. When he was satisfied that the memo fully covered the meeting that had taken place that morning, he set off down the corridor to rejoin the Foreign Minister.

Hannah returned to her desk, aware that the team bringing the safe from Sweden was moving inexorably towards Saddam’s trap. And if they had received her postcard…

When Al Obaydi landed in Jordan, he could not help feeling a sense of triumph.

Once he had passed through customs at Queen Alia Airport and was out on the road, he selected the most modern taxi he could find. The old seventies Chevy had no air conditioning and showed 187,000 miles on the odometer. He asked the driver to take him to the Iraqi border as quickly as possible.

The car never left the slow lane on its six-hour journey to the border, and because of the state of the roads Al Obaydi was unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. When the driver eventually reached the highway, he still couldn’t go much faster because of the oil that had been spilled from trucks carrying loads they had illegally picked up in Basra, to sell at four times the price in Amman. Loads that Al Obaydi had assured the United Nations General Assembly time and again were a figment of the Western world’s imagination. He also became aware of trucks traveling in the opposite direction that were full of food that he knew would be sold to black-marketeers, long before any of it reached Baghdad.

Al Obaydi checked his watch. If the driver kept going at this speed he wouldn’t reach the border before the customs post closed at midnight.

When Scott landed at Queen Alia Airport later that day and stepped onto the tarmac, the first thing that hit him was a temperature of ninety-five degrees. Even dressed in an open-neck shirt, jeans and sneakers, he felt roasted before he had reached the airport terminal. Once he’d entered the building, he was relieved to find it was air conditioned, and his one bag came up on the carousel just as quickly as it would have in the States. He checked his watch and changed it to Central Eastern time.

The immigration officer hadn’t seen many Swedish passports before, but as his father had been an engineer, he wished Mr. Bernstrom a successful trip.

As Scott strolled through the green channel, he was stopped by a customs official who was chewing something. He instructed the foreigner to open his bulky canvas bag. After rummaging around inside, the only thing the officer showed any interest in was a long, thin cardboard tube that had been wedged along the bottom of the bag. Scott removed the cap on the end of the tube, pulled out the contents and unrolled a large poster, which was greeted by the official with such puzzled amazement that he even stopped chewing for a moment. He waved Scott through.

Once Scott had reached the main concourse, he walked out onto the road in search of a taxi. He studied the motley selection of cars that were parked by the side of the pavement. They made New York Yellow Cabs look like luxury limousines.

He instructed the driver parked at the front of the line to take him to the Roman theater in the center of the city. The eleven-mile journey into Amman took forty minutes, and when Scott was dropped outside the third-century theater he handed the driver two ten-dinar notes—enough, the experts at Langley had told him, to cover the cost of the trip. The driver pocketed the notes but did not smile.

Scott checked his watch. He was still well in time for the planned reunion. He walked straight past the ancient monument that was, according to his guidebook, well worth a visit. As instructed by Kratz, he then proceeded west for three blocks, occasionally having to step off the sidewalk into the road to avoid the bustling crowds. When he reached a Shell gas station he turned right, leaving the noisy shoppers behind him. He then took the second turning on the left, and after that another to the right. The roads became less crowded with locals and more full of potholes with each stride he took. Another left, followed by another right, and he found himself entering the promised cul-de-sac. At the end of the road, when he could go no further, he came to a halt outside a scrapyard. He smiled at the sight that greeted him.

By the time Al Obaydi reached the border, it was already pitch dark. All three lanes leading to the customs post were bumper to bumper with waiting trucks, covered with tarpaulins for the night. The taxi driver came to a halt at the barrier and explained to his passenger that he would have to hire an Iraqi cab once he was on the other side. Al Obaydi thanked the driver and gave him a handsome tip before going to the front of the line outside the customs shed. A tired official gave him a languid look and told him the border was closed for the night. Al Obaydi presented his diplomatic passport and the official quickly stamped his visa and ushered him through, aware that there would be no little red notes accompanying such a document. Al Obaydi felt exhilarated as he strolled the mile between the two customs posts. He walked to the front of another line, produced his passport once again and received another smile from the customs officer.

“There is a car waiting for you, Ambassador,” was all the official said, pointing to a large limousine that was parked near the highway. A smiling chauffeur stood waiting. He touched the peak of his cap and opened the back door.

Al Obaydi smiled. The Chief Administrator must have warned them that he would be coming over the border late that night. He thanked the customs official, walked over to the highway and slipped into the back of the limousine. Someone else was already there, who also appeared to be waiting for him. Al Obaydi again began to smile, when suddenly an arm shot across his throat and threw him to the floor. His hands were pinned behind his back, and a pair of handcuffs clicked into place.

“How dare you?” shouted Al Obaydi. “I am an Ambassador!” he screamed as he was hurled back up onto the seat. “Don’t you realize who I am?”

“Yes, I do,” came back the reply. “And you’re under arrest for treason.”

Scott had to admit that the HEMTT carrying Madame Bertha looked quite at home among the colorful collection of old American cars and trucks piled high on three sides of the scrapyard. He ran across to the truck and jumped up into the cab on the passenger side. He shook hands with Kratz, who appeared relieved to see him. When Scott saw who was seated behind the wheel, he said, “Good to see you again, Sergeant Cohen. Am I to assume you play a mean game of backgammon?”

“Two doubles inside the board clinched it for me in the final game, Professor, though God knows how the Kurd even reached the semi-final,” Cohen said as he switched on the engine. “And because he’s a mate of mine, the others are all claiming I fixed the dice.”

“So where’s Aziz now?” asked Scott.

“On the back with Madame Bertha,” said the Sergeant. “Best place for him. Mind you, he knows the back streets of Baghdad like I know the pubs in Brixton, so he may turn out to be useful.”

“And the rest of the team?” asked Scott.

“Feldman and the others slipped over the border during the night,” said Kratz. “They’re probably in Baghdad waiting for us by now.”