Honor Among Thieves

As they passed the bombed-out remains of the Mukhbarat headquarters, Scott noticed an unmanned ambulance parked outside the Iraqi intelligence center. It was strategically placed for the CNN television cameras rather than for any practical purpose, he suspected.

When Aziz saw the Ministry of Industry building looming up ahead of him, he pointed it out to Scott, who remembered the façade from the mass of photographs supplied by Kratz. But Scott’s eyes had moved up to the gun turrets on top of the Foreign Ministry, a mere stone’s throw away.

Aziz brought the truck to a halt a hundred yards beyond the entrance to the Ministry. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” Scott said as he jumped out of the cab and headed back towards the building.

As he climbed the steps to the Ministry, he did not see a man in a window of the building opposite who was speaking on the telephone to General Hamil.

“The truck has stopped about a hundred yards beyond the Ministry. A tall, fair-haired man who was in the front of the vehicle is now entering the building, but the other three, including Kratz, have remained with the safe.”

Scott pushed through the swing doors and strolled past two guards who looked as if they didn’t move more than a few feet every day. He walked over to the information desk and joined the shortest of three lines. The one-handed clock above the desk indicated that it was approximately 9:30.

It took another fifteen minutes before Scott reached the counter. He explained to the girl that his name was Bernstrom and that he needed to see Mr. Kajami.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“No,” said Scott. “We called from Jordan to warn him that a safe the government had ordered was on its way to Baghdad. He asked us to inform him the moment it arrived.”

“I will see if he’s in,” said the receptionist. Scott waited, staring up at a massive portrait of Saddam Hussein in uniform holding a Kalashnikov. It dominated the otherwise blank gray walls of the reception area.

The girl listened carefully to whoever it was on the other end of the phone before saying, “Someone will be down to see you in a few minutes.” She turned her attention to the next person in the line.

Scott hung around for another thirty minutes before a tall, thin man wearing a smart Western suit stepped out of the elevator and walked over to him.

“Mr. Bernstrom?”

“Yes,” said Scott, as he swung around to face the man.

“Good morning,” he said confidently in English. “I am Mr. Ibrahim, Mr. Kajami’s personal assistant. How can I help you?”

“I have brought a safe from Sweden,” said Scott. “It was ordered by the Ministry some years ago, but, due to the UN sanctions, could not be delivered any earlier. We were told that when we reached Baghdad we should report to Mr. Kajami.”

“Do you have any papers to verify your claim?”

Scott removed a file from his bag and showed Mr. Ibrahim its contents.

The man read through each document slowly until he came to the letter signed by the President. He read no further. Looking up, he asked, “May I see this safe, Mr. Bernstrom?”

“Certainly,” said Scott. “Please follow me.” He led the official out onto the street and took him over to the truck.

Cohen stared down at them. When Kratz gave the order, he whipped the tarpaulin off the safe so that the civil servant could inspect Madame Bertha for himself.

Scott was fascinated by the fact that those passing in the street didn’t give the safe a second look. If anything, they quickened their pace. Fear manifested itself among these people by their lack of curiosity.

“Please return with me, Mr. Bernstrom,” said Ibrahim. Scott accompanied him back to the reception area, where he left without another word.

Scott waited for another thirty minutes before Ibrahim came back.

“You are to take the safe to Victory Square, where you will see a barrier with a tank in front of a large white building. They are expecting you.”

Scott was about to ask where Victory Square was when Ibrahim turned and walked away. He went back to the truck, and joined Kratz and Aziz in the front before passing on the news. Aziz didn’t need to be told the way.

“No special treatment there, I’m glad to see,” said Kratz.

Scott nodded his agreement as Aziz eased the truck back into the road. The traffic was much heavier now. Trucks and cars were honking their horns, managing to move only a few inches at a time.

“It must be an accident,” said Scott, until they turned the corner and saw the three bodies hanging from a makeshift gallows: a man wearing an expensive designer suit, a woman perhaps a little younger and another, much older, woman. It was hard to be certain, with their heads shaven.

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