“It seems that at two o’clock this morning the Americans launched several Tomahawk missiles at Mukhbarat headquarters in the center of the city.”
“And what was the result?” Al Obaydi asked anxiously.
“A few civilians were killed,” replied the Chief Administrator matter-of-factly, “but you’ll be glad to know that our beloved leader was not in the city at the time.”
“That is indeed good news,” said Al Obaydi. “But it makes it even more imperative that I return to Baghdad immediately.”
“I have already confirmed your flight reservations, Excellency.”
“Thank you,” said Al Obaydi, staring out of the window.
Kanuk bowed low. “I will see that you are met at the airport when you return, Excellency, and that this time everything is fully prepared for your arrival. Meanwhile, I’ll go and fetch your passport. If you’ll excuse me.”
Al Obaydi sat down behind his desk. He wondered how long he would be merely Head of Interest Section in Paris once Saddam learned who had saved his life.
Tony dialed the number on his private line.
The phone was picked up by the Deputy Warden, who confirmed in answer to Cavalli’s first question that he was alone. He listened to Cavalli’s second question carefully before he responded.
“If Dollar Bill’s anywhere to be found in this jailhouse, then he’s better hidden than Leona Helmsley’s tax returns.”
“But the county court files show him as being registered with you on the night of June 16th.”
“He may have been registered with us, but he sure never showed up,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “And it doesn’t take eight days to get from San Francisco County Court to here, unless they’ve gone back to chaining cons up and making them walk the whole way. Perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” he added with a nervous laugh.
Cavalli didn’t laugh. “Just be sure you keep your mouth shut and your ears open, and let me know the moment you hear anything,” was all he said before putting the phone back down.
Cavalli remained at his desk for an hour after his secretary had left, working out what needed to be done next.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The second emergency meeting between the Foreign Minister and his Deputy took place on Tuesday morning, again at short notice. This time it was an unexpected direct call from the President that had both Ministers rushing off to the palace.
All Hannah had been able to piece together from the several phone calls that had gone back and forth that morning was that at some point Saddam’s half brother had called from Geneva, and from that moment the Deputy Foreign Minister appeared to forget the report he was preparing on the American bombing of Mukhbarat headquarters. He fled from the room in a panic, leaving secret papers strewn all over his desk.
Hannah remained at her desk in the hope that she might pick up some more information as the day progressed. While both Ministers were at the palace, she continued to check through old files, aware that she now had enough material to fill several cabinets at Mossad headquarters, but no one to pass her findings on to.
The two Ministers returned from the palace in the late afternoon, and the Deputy Foreign Minister seemed relieved to find Miss Saib was still at her desk.
“I need to make a written report on what was agreed at the meeting this morning with the President,” he said, “and I cannot overstress the importance of confidentiality in this matter. It would not be an exaggeration to suggest that if anything I am about to tell you became public knowledge, we could both end up in jail, or worse.”
“I hope, Minister,” said Hannah as she put her glasses back on, “that I have never given you cause for concern in the past.”
The Minister stared across at her, and then began dictating at a rapid pace.
“The President invited the Foreign Minister and myself to a confidential meeting at the palace this morning—date this memo today. Barazan Al-Tikriti, our trusted Ambassador in Geneva, contacted the President during the night to warn him that, after weeks of diligent surveillance, he has uncovered a plot by a group of Zionists to steal a safe from Sweden and use it as a means of illegally entering Iraq. The safe was due for delivery to Baghdad following the lifting of an embargo under UN Security Council Resolution 661. The President has ordered that General Hamil be given the responsibility for dealing with the terrorists”—Hannah thought she saw the Deputy Foreign Minister shudder—“while the Foreign Ministry has been asked to look into the role played in this particular conspiracy by one of its own staff, Hamid Al Obaydi.
“Our Ambassador in Geneva has discovered that Al Obaydi visited the engineering firm of Svenhalte AC in Kalmar, Sweden, on Monday, June 28th, without being directed to do so by any of his superiors. During that visit he was informed of the theft of the safe and the fact that it was being transported to Baghdad. Following his trip to Kalmar, Al Obaydi stayed overnight at our Interest Section in Paris, when he would have had every opportunity to inform Geneva or Baghdad of the Zionist plot, but he made no attempt to do so.
“Al Obaydi left Paris the following morning and, although we know he boarded a flight to Jordan, he has not yet shown up at the border. The President has ordered that if Al Obaydi crosses any of our national frontiers, he should be arrested and taken directly to General Hamil at the headquarters of the Revolutionary Command Council.”
Hannah’s pencil flew across the pages of her shorthand notebook as she tried to keep up with the Minister.
“The safe,” continued the Deputy Foreign Minister, “is currently being transported aboard an army truck, and is expected to arrive at the border with Jordan some time during the next forty-eight hours.
“All customs officers have received a directive to the effect that the safe is the personal property of the President, and therefore when it reaches the border it must be given priority to continue its journey on to Baghdad.
“Our Ambassador in Geneva, having had a long conversation with a Mr.—” the Minister checked his notes “—Pedersson, is convinced that the group accompanying the safe are agents of the CIA, Mossad or possibly even the British SAS. Like the President, the Ambassador feels the infiltrators’ sole interest is in recovering the Declaration of Independence. The President has given orders that the document should not be moved from its place on the wall of the Council Chamber, as this could alert any internal agent to warn the terrorist group not to enter the country.
“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.”
“Then they’d better keep well out of sight,” said Scott, “because after the bombing last Sunday, I suspect death might prove the least of their problems.”
Kratz offered no opinion as Sergeant Cohen eased the massive vehicle slowly out of the yard and onto the street; this time the roads became wider with each turn he took.
“Are we keeping to the plan that was agreed in Stockholm?” asked Scott.
“With two refinements,” said Kratz. “I spent yesterday morning phoning Baghdad. After seven attempts, I got through to someone at the Ministry of Industry who knew about the safe, but it’s the age-old problem with the Arabs: if they don’t see the damn thing in front of
their eyes, they don’t believe it exists.”
“So our first stop will have to be the Ministry?” said Scott.
“Looks like it,” replied Kratz. “But at least we know we’ve got something they want. Which reminds me, have you brought the one thing they don’t want?”
Scott unzipped his bag and pulled out the cardboard tube.
“Doesn’t look a lot to be risking your life for,” said Kratz as Scott slipped it back into his bag.
“And the second refinement?” asked Scott.
Kratz removed a postcard from his inside pocket and passed it over to Scott. A picture of Saddam Hussein addressing the Revolutionary Command Council stared back at him. A little Biro’d square full of stars had been drawn in by the side of his head. Scott turned the card over and studied her unmistakable handwriting: “Wish you were here.”
Scott didn’t speak for several moments.
“Notice the date, did you?”
Scott looked at the top right-hand corner: 7/4/93.
“So, now we know where it is, and she’s also confirmed exactly when Saddam intends to let the rest of the world in on his secret.”
“Who’s Ethel Rubin?” asked Scott, “and how did you get your hands on the card?”
“The lady Hannah stayed with in London. Her husband is Mossad’s legal representative in England. He took the card straight to the embassy the moment it arrived and they sent it overnight in the diplomatic pouch. It reached our embassy in Amman this morning.”
Once they had reached the outskirts of the town, Scott began to study the barren terrain as the truck continued its progress along the oil-covered, potholed roads.
“Sorry to be going so slowly, Professor,” said Cohen, “but if I throw my brakes on with the road in this condition, Madame Bertha might travel another hundred yards before the wheels even have a chance to lock.”
Kratz went over every contingency he could think of as Cohen drove silently towards the border. The Mossad leader ended up by describing the layout of the Ba’ath headquarters once again.
Honor Among Thieves Page 28