Bad Company (7 page)

“No, there you’re wrong. There would be no need for anything unusual to happen. I have access to unlimited cash funds.”

Kate was astonished. “In that amount? But from where?”

“Oh, Swiss banks. I’m what is known as cash-rich. There’ll be no wheeler-dealing on the stock exchanges, no haggling for loans or investments in the financial markets. Just healthy injections of cash into Rashid Investments, as you choose.”

They looked at each other. Kate was excited and clutched at her brother’s arm. “Paul, we’ll never have such a chance again. We can confound them all.”

“I know, little sister.” Rashid turned to von Berger. “And in return?”

“In return, I would expect to be made a silent partner in Rashid Investments.”

“On what terms?”

“Nothing onerous, nothing unreasonable. We can work it out together, here, and I’ll step back. In fact, we shouldn’t even meet socially, not ever again.” He turned to Kate. “Which will be a great deprivation.”

Paul Rashid sat brooding. After a while, he said, “Those international oil cartels, they’d love to drill anywhere they damn well pleased in the Dhofar and walk all over the Bedu in the process. Rape the desert.”

“And you would do it differently?”

“It can be done differently, Max, no one knows that better than you. You are right, by the way. We can’t be seen together in the future.”

“So, we have a deal?”

“Subject to our agreement on the partnership, yes. I’ll arrange all the necessary documentation and you will arrange the funding.”

“By Friday.”

“We have an ancient Bedu custom, more binding than any contract.” Rashid took a small razor-sharp knife from his belt. “Your thumb, Baron, the left hand.” Von Berger held out the hand, Rashid touched the end of the thumb and drew a spot of blood. He did the same to his own, then touched it to von Berger’s, their blood mingling.

Kate held out her left hand. “Me too. It is my right. I brought him.”

He smiled. “And you did well, little sister.” He pricked her thumb also and she touched his and then von Berger’s. Paul Rashid leaned forward and put an arm around both of them. “This bond that will last for life itself.”

“I swear it on my honor,” von Berger said.

Kate smiled and something glowed in her eyes. “What a pity, Max, that we can’t meet again, but Paul is right.”

“No more Piano Bar.” He spread his hands. “I’m desolate.”

Little did he know, but some two years later, he was to meet her again and under the most dramatic of circumstances.

January 2000, to be precise. Von Berger was approached through his Berlin offices by Iraqi government sources. They wanted exploratory talks regarding arms supplies. Von Berger wasn’t surprised. Arms dealers all over the world had been approached. There wasn’t much chance of keeping quiet about it with the Israeli Mossad so closely allied to American and British intelligence.

He wasn’t certain why he went to Iraq at all. He didn’t approve of Saddam Hussein or his regime. The lift that Kate Rashid had given to his life had been only temporary. Since the meeting in Hazar, he had not had any overt contact with the Rashids. The business dealings in the Dhofar, in which he had invested so much, had prospered hugely. The truth was that he was seventy-eight years old, and the only people he had cared about were dead and gone. He had accomplished so much and there was nothing left that was worth doing. He was also bored, so he went to Baghdad.

The city seemed immense, ancient and yet modern, hot and dusty, crowded with humanity. He flew into the airport in a Gulfstream and was received with extreme courtesy by a young intelligence major called Aroun, immaculate in a khaki uniform that looked as if it had been tailored in London’s Savile Row. Sporting medals and the wings of a paratrooper, he was handsome, intelligent and spoke good English. He eased von Berger through the usual formalities and escorted him out to a limousine, a Lincoln. He joined him in the rear seat.

“Do you smoke, Baron?” He offered his cigarette case.

“Why, thank you.” Von Berger accepted a light and leaned back, peering out at the crowded streets. “Fascinating.”

“Yes, well, I think it will rain later.”

“Is that good?”

“In this city, yes. The smell can be overpowering, and Baghdad was not created to fit in with the invention of the motor car. I’m taking you to the Al Bustan, Baron, a five-star modern hotel.”

“And my meeting?”

“He can’t see you today. I’ll let you know.”

“Of course.”

Already, von Berger was wondering whether he should have come in the first place.

Later that evening, he stood on the terrace of his suite, smoking a cigarette and drinking Irish whiskey. It was a strange thing to find in his suite and he wondered who had known enough about him to supply it. There was a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder and rain started to pour down. He looked to the crowded streets, the slow-moving traffic, but already the air smelled fresher. It was as if a weight had been lifted. He finished his whiskey, and the mobile phone in his breast pocket, an international model, rang.

“Who is this?” he inquired.

“How about a drink in the Piano Bar?” said a woman’s voice. “Oh – sorry, that’s not possible. You’re at the Al Bustan in downtown Baghdad.”

He was astonished. “Kate, it’s you. Where are you?”

“Never mind.”

“And how on earth did you know I was here?”

“Oh, I know most things. That you’re brokering some sort of arms deal with Saddam, for instance. When are you seeing him, or are you?”

“It was supposed to be today, but it’s been delayed.”

“Who said so?”

“The young man who received me at the airport. A Major Aroun.”

“A major? They should be doing better than that for you. It all smells a little like old fish to me.”

“Well, dictators can be like that. I was raised on Hitler, remember.”

“All right, but listen, take care. I’ll check back to see how you are. You’ll be pleased to know we’re making a fortune, partner.” The line went dead and he switched off.

He languished for three days, and had definitely decided to go back home when the hotel phone finally rang. It was Aroun. “He’ll see you tonight at nine-thirty. I’ll pick you up at nine and deliver you to the Presidential Palace.”

“How kind,” von Berger said. “I was about to leave.”

“Please, Baron, his sense of humor is limited. In any case, you wouldn’t have made the airport. I would suggest you be ready on time.”

Max von Berger laughed. “My dear boy, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

When von Berger went down to the hotel foyer in response to Aroun’s phone call, he found the major standing by a Mercedes sedan. He wasn’t in uniform and wore a black leather bomber jacket and jeans, as did the driver. Von Berger wore a black suit, white shirt and dark tie.

“I feel overdressed.”

“I was ordered to make this as low-key as possible. Get in.”

The Baron did, sitting in the rear, Aroun in front beside the driver. As they drove away, the thunder rumbled again and rain erupted, deluging the slow-moving traffic, a scene of chaos, horns honking, the sidewalks crowded with people, most of them seemingly oblivious to the rain.

“This is the main throughfare through the old town. Al Rashid Street. It’s not too far to the palace.”

Al Rashid Street.
It made von Berger think of Kate. She hadn’t rung back. The car braked behind a truck close to the curb, where several young men were sheltered under the awning of a cafe, smoking cigarettes and talking. As the Mercedes paused, they noticed it and stared, very much aware of von Berger’s Western clothes. They began talking excitedly in Arabic, youths of a kind to be found in any great city in the world and intent on mischief. Suddenly, they approached the car, and someone wrenched open the rear door of the Mercedes.

“American, eh? We don’t like Americans.”

“No, I’m German.”

“You lie – American.” Hands reached in for him.

Aroun got out on the other side and pulled a pistol, but three men jumped on him from behind, wrestled him to the ground and started kicking him. His driver was pulled out and received the same treatment. Von Berger thought his last hour had come, as many hands grabbed at him, pulling him into the middle of the crowd. A tall, young, bearded man, incongruously in a baseball cap and T-shirt, seemed to be the leader. He brandished Aroun’s pistol and shouted to the crowd, then advanced on von Berger as they held him.

“Americans we kill,” the man said.

But just then came a squeal of brakes as two Land Rovers came to a halt, the sound of a shot fired into the air, and a woman calling in Arabic. The men turned, pulling von Berger with them, and he saw Kate Rashid standing by one of the Land Rovers in headcloth, khaki bush shirt and slacks. She was holding a Browning Hi-Power and the six Bedu guards with her had AK47s at the ready.

“Let him go,” she said in English to the man in the baseball cap.

“He is American and Americans we kill,” he shouted. “And who are you, woman, to tell us what do?”

He grabbed von Berger by the hair and rammed the muzzle of his pistol against the Baron’s skull. “I say he dies.”

Her hand swung up, and she fired, shooting him through the mouth, the back of his skull fragmenting, blood and bone spraying over the crowd. He dropped the pistol and fell, and the crowd scattered and ran. The Baron had fallen to the ground and two of the Bedu picked him up.

“Kate,” he said, dumbfounded.

She smiled and turned to Aroun, who had picked himself up and leaned on the Mercedes. “Major Aroun, I think you know who I am.”

“Yes, Lady Kate.”

“I don’t know what’s been going on here. No uniforms, no military escort?”

“He said it had to be low-profile.”

“Really? Well, you’d better see to the scum on the pavement, then clean yourself up and I’ll take the Baron to the Presidential Palace.” She turned to von Berger. “Come on, get in and tidy yourself up. Your hair is all over the place.”

Sitting in the back of one of the Land Rovers as they drove away, he said, “Where in the hell did you spring from?”

“Oh, I was in the region and heard a whisper relating to your meeting with the great man. For various reasons, I wasn’t happy. Saddam can do strange things. He’s a man of uncertainties. He sends a junior officer to greet you, leaves you kicking your heels for three days, a man as important as you? That means he’s in another manic phase.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I know him well. He’s a good friend of mine. No, that’s not quite right. He
thinks
he’s a good friend of mine.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I think he’s a madman who’d be better off dead. Achieving that would be difficult, however.”

They paused at the gates of the Presidential Palace, were checked through instantly when the guards saw Kate, and drove inside, stopping at the bottom of the huge steps leading up to the entrance.

Kate turned and said calmly, “Well, here we go, Max. This should be interesting.”

An army colonel, who had presumably been waiting to greet the Baron, rushed forward to kiss Kate’s hand and spoke to her in English.

“Lady Kate, I’ve heard what happened. It shames us all. Are you all right?”

It was so strange how English the Iraqi military sounded, the Baron thought. This was another one who’d probably gone to Sandhurst Military Academy.

“The only problem is the man I had to leave on the pavement, Colonel.”

“He was a dog who deserved to die for his insult to you. Pavements, Lady Kate, are easily cleaned.”

“Is he aware of what happened?”

“His rage was terrible. He has ordered instant police reprisals in Al Rashid Street. Please follow me.”

There was a sudden wailing of sirens outside, and the lights dimmed at once. The colonel waved a hand and a soldier ran forward with a large hand lamp.

“It’s an air-raid practice only,” the colonel said. “Our American friends are not giving us much trouble at the moment. This way.”

They followed him along corridors of marbled splendor. It was an eerie feeling, the darkness closing in, statues on each side seemingly floating out of the gloom, the pool of light from the lamp, the echo of their feet on the marble.

“Are you all right?” Kate whispered.

Von Berger said, “I think you might say it’s one of the more remarkable experiences I’ve ever had – and considering I’m the only man you know who was in the Führer Bunker, that’s quite a statement.”

She laughed. “Oh, I like you, Max. If only-”

“I was fifty years younger,” he cut in. “But I’m not, so behave yourself.”

They halted at an ornate door, sentries on either side. The colonel opened it and went in. They waited and a voice rumbled. The colonel was back in a moment.

“He will see you now.”

Saddam Hussein was seated alone in uniform at a large desk, the only light a shaded lamp. He was signing documents, but looked up and put down his pen, got up and came round the desk to embrace Kate, kissed her on each cheek.

She said in English, “Baron von Berger doesn’t speak Arabic.”

Saddam never advertised the fact that he spoke English well, but he turned now. “Baron, I’m outraged that you should be treated in such a fashion.”

“It was an unfortunate misunderstanding. They thought me an American. I think I was wearing the wrong clothes.”

Saddam roared with laughter. “I like that. I can understand that.” It was strange how volatile he was, for just as suddenly he frowned and looked down at Kate. “But the insult to you. That is unforgivable. I’ve ordered reprisals. The military police will teach the scum on Al Rashid Street a lesson.”