Honor Among Thieves

“There are more pressing matters for the Council to consider.” He waved a hand as if he were swatting an irritating fly.

Two soldiers stepped forward and removed Al Obaydi from his sight.

“That was a whole lot easier than I expected,” said Cohen, once they had passed through the Iraqi checkpoint.

“A little too easy perhaps,” said Kratz.

“It’s good to know we’ve got one optimist and one pessimist on this trip,” said Scott.

Once Cohen was on the highway he remained cautious of pushing the vehicle beyond fifty miles per hour. The trucks that passed in the opposite direction on their way to Jordan rarely had more than two of their four headlights working, which sometimes made them appear like motorcycles in the distance, so overtaking became hazardous. But his eyes needed to be at their most alert for those trucks in front of him: for them, one red taillight was a luxury.

Kratz had always thought the three-hundred-mile journey from the border to Baghdad would be too long to consider covering in one stretch, so he had decided they should have a rest about forty miles outside the Iraqi capital. Scott asked Cohen what time he thought they might reach their rest point.

“Assuming

I don’t drive straight into a parked truck that’s been abandoned in the middle of the road, or disappear down a pothole, I’d imagine we’ll get there around four, five at the latest.”

“I don’t like the sight of all these army vehicles on the road. What do you think they’re up to?” asked Kratz, who hadn’t slept a wink since they crossed the border.

“A battalion on the move, I’d say, sir. Doesn’t look that unusual to me, and I don’t think we’d need to worry about them unless they were going in the same direction as us.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Kratz.

“You wouldn’t give them a second thought if you’d crossed the border legally,” said Scott.

“Possibly. But Sergeant,” said Kratz, turning his attention back to Cohen, “let me know the moment you spot anything you consider unusual.”

“You mean, like a woman worth a second glance?”

Kratz made no comment. He turned to ask Scott a question, only to find he had dozed off again. He envied Scott’s ability to sleep anywhere at any time, especially under such pressure.

Sergeant Cohen drove on through the night, not always in a straight line, as he circumvented the occasional burned-out tank or large crater left over from the war. On and on they traveled, through small towns and seemingly uninhabited sleeping villages, until a few minutes past four, when Cohen swung off the highway and up a track that could have only considered one-way traffic. He drove for another twenty minutes, finally coming to a halt only when the road ended at an overhanging ledge.

“Even a vulture wouldn’t find us here,” said Cohen as he turned off the engine. “Permission to have a smoke and a bit of shut-eye, Colonel?”

Kratz nodded and watched Cohen jump out of the cab and offer Aziz a cigarette before disappearing behind a palm tree. He checked the surrounding countryside carefully, and decided Cohen was right. When he returned to the truck, he found Aziz and the Sergeant were already asleep while Scott was sitting on the ledge watching the sun come up over Baghdad.

“What a peaceful sight,” he said as Kratz sat down beside him, almost as though he had been talking to someone else. “Only God could make a sunrise as beautiful as that.”

“Something isn’t right,” muttered Kratz under his breath.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Saddam nodded to the Prosecutor. “Now we have dealt with the traitor, let us move on to the terrorists. What is the latest position, General?”

General Hamil, known as the Barber of Baghdad, opened the file in front of him. He kept a file on everybody, including those sitting around the table. Hamil had been educated at Sandhurst and returned to Iraq to receive the King’s Commission, only to find there was no King to serve. So he switched his loyalty to the new President, Abdul Karim Qasim. Then a young captain changed sides in the 1963 coup and the Ba’ath party took power. Once again Hamil switched his loyalty, and was rewarded with an appointment to the personal staff of the new Vice-President, Saddam Hussein. Since that day he had risen rapidly through the ranks. He was now Saddam’s favorite General, and Commander of the Presidential Guard. He had the distinction of being the only man, with the exception of the President’s bodyguards, allowed to wear a side-arm in Saddam’s presence. He was Saddam’s executioner. His favorite hobby was to shave his victims’ heads before they were hanged, with a blunt razor that he never bothered to sharpen. Some of them disappointed him by dying before he could get the rope around their necks.

Hamil studied his file for a few moments before offering an opinion. “The terrorists,” he began, “crossed the border at 21:26 last night. Four passports were presented to the immigration officer for stamping. Three were of Swedish origin, and one was from Iraq.”

“I’ll skin that one personally,” said Saddam.

“The four men are traveling in a truck that appears to be quite old, but since we’re unable to risk taking too close a look, I cannot be sure if we are dealing with a Trojan horse or not. The safe that you ordered, Mr. President, is undoubtedly on the back of the truck.

“The truck has driven nonstop through the night at a steady pace of around forty miles per hour in the direction of Baghdad, but at 4:09 this morning it turned off into the desert, and we ceased to monitor its movements, as that particular path leads nowhere. We believe they have simply come off the road to rest before traveling on to the capital later this morning.”

“How many miles are they from Baghdad at this moment?” asked the Minister of the Interior.

“Forty, perhaps fifty—an hour to an hour and a half at the most.”