Honour Among Thieves (40 page)

‘Not
bad,’ said Cohen. ‘What do you do for an encore?’

‘Use
you as a guinea-pig,’ said Scott. ‘Why don’t you try and close the safe,
Sergeant?’

Cohen
took a step forward and with both hands shoved the door closed. The three bulbs
immediately began flashing red.

‘Easy,
once you get the hang of it,’ he said.

Scott
smiled and pulled the door back open with his little finger. Cohen stared
open-mouthed as the lights returned to green.

‘The
lights might flash red,’ said Scott, ‘but Bertha can only handle one man at a
time. No one else can open or close the safe now except me.’

‘And
I was hoping it was because he was a Jew,’ said Aziz.

Scott
smiled as he pushed the door of the safe closed, swivelled the dials and waited
until all three bulbs turned red.

‘Let’s
go,’ said Kratz, who Scott felt sounded a little irritated – or was it just the
first sign of tension? Aziz threw the tarpaulin back over Madame Bertha while
his colleagues jumped over the side and returned to the cab.

No
one spoke as they continued their journey to the border until Cohen let out a
string of expletives when he spotted the queue of lorries ahead of them. ‘We’re
going to be here all night,’ he said.

‘And
most of tomorrow morning, I expect,’ said Kratz. ‘So we’d better get used to
it.’ They came to a halt behind the last lorry in the queue.

‘Why
don’t I just drive on up front and try to bluff my way through?’ said Cohen. ‘A
few extra dollars ought to.. .’

‘No,’
said Kratz. ‘We don’t want to attract undue attention at any time between now
and when we cross back over that border.’

During
the next hour, while the truck moved forward only a couple of hundred yards,
Kratz went over his plans yet again, covering any situation he thought might
arise once they reached Baghdad.

Another
hour passed, and Scott was thankful for the evening breeze that helped him doze
off, although he realised that he would soon have to wind the window up if he
wished to avoid freezing. He began to drift into a light sleep, his mind
switching between Hannah and the Declaration, and which, given the choice, he
would rather bring home. He realised that Kratz was in no doubt why he had
volunteered to join the team when the chances of survival were so slim.

‘What’s
this joker up to then?’ said Cohen in a stage whisper. Scott snapped awake and
quickly focused on a uniformed official talking to the driver of the lorry in
front of them.

‘It’s
a customs official,’ said Kratz. ‘He’s only checking to see that drivers have
the right papers to cross the border.’

‘Most
of this lot will only have two little bits of red paper about five inches by
three,’ said Cohen.

‘Here
he comes,’ said Kratz. ‘Try and look as bored as he does.’

The
officer strolled up to the cab and didn’t even give Cohen a first look as he
thrust a hand through the open window.

Cohen
passed over the papers that the experts at Langley had provided. The official
studied them and then walked slowly round the lorry. When he returned to the
driver’s side, he barked an order at Cohen that none of them understood.

Cohen
looked towards Kratz, but a voice from behind rescued them.

‘He
says we’re to go to the front of the queue.’

‘Why?’
asked Kratz suspiciously. Aziz repeated the question to the official.

‘We’re
being given priority because of the letter signed by Saddam.’

‘And
who do we thank for that?’ asked Kratz, still not fully convinced.

‘Bill
O’Reilly,’ said Scott, ‘who was only too sorry he couldn’t join us on the trip.
But he’s been given to understand that it’s quite impossible to get draught
Guinness anywhere in Iraq.’

Kratz
nodded, and Sergeant Cohen obeyed the official’s instructions, allowing himself
to be directed into the lane of oncoming traffic as he began an unsteady
two-mile journey to the front of the queue. Vehicles legally progressing
towards Amman on the other side of the road found they had to swerve onto the
loose rubble of the hard shoulder if they didn’t want a head-on collision with
Madame Bertha.

As
Cohen completed the last few yards to the border post, an angry official came
running out of the customs shed waving a fist. Once again it was Aziz who came
to their rescue, by recommending that Kratz show him the letter.

After
one look at the signature, the fist was quickly exchanged for a salute.

‘Passport,’
was the only other word he uttered.

Kratz
passed over three Swedish and one Iraqi passport with two red notes attached to
the first page of each document. ‘Never pay above the expected tariff,’ he had
warned his team. ‘It only makes them suspicious.’

The
four passports were taken to a little cubicle, studied, stamped and returned by
the official, who even offered them the suggestion of a smile. The barrier on
the Jordanian side was raised, and the lorry began its mile-long journey
towards the Iraqi checkpoint.

H
AMID AL OBAYDI
was dragged into the Council Chamber by two of the Presidential Guards and then
dumped in a chair several yards away from the long table.

He
raised his head and looked around at the twelve men who made up the
Revolutionary Command Council. None of their eyes came into contact with his,
with the exception of the State Prosecutor.

What
had he done that these people had decided to arrest him at the border, handcuff
him, throw him in jail, leave him to sleep on the stone floor and not even
offer him the chance to use a lavatory?

Still
dressed in the suit he had crossed the border in, he was now sitting in his own
excrement.

Saddam
raised a hand, and the State Prosecutor smiled.

But
Al Obaydi did not fear Nakir Farrar. Not only was he innocent of any trumped-up
charge, but he also had information they needed. The State Prosecutor rose
slowly from his place.

‘Your
name is Hamid Al Obaydi?’

‘Yes,’
replied Al Obaydi, looking directly at the State Prosecutor.

‘You
are charged with treason and the theft of state property. How do you plead?’

‘I
am innocent, and Allah will be my witness.’

‘If
Allah is to be your witness, I’m sure he won’t mind me asking you some simple
questions.’

‘I
will be most happy to answer anything.’

‘When
you returned from New York earlier this month, you carried on with your work in
the Foreign Ministry. Is that correct?’

‘It
is.’

‘And
was one of your responsibilities checking the government’s latest position with
reference to UN sanctions?’

‘Yes.
That was part of my job as Deputy Ambassador to the UN.’

‘Quite
so. And when you carried out these checks, you came across certain items on
which embargoes had been lifted. Am I right?’

‘Yes,
you are,’ said Al Obaydi confidently.

‘Was
one of those items a safe?’

‘It
was,’ said Al Obaydi.

‘When
you realised this, what did you do about it?’

‘I
telephoned the Swedish company who had built the safe to ascertain what the
latest position was, so that I could enter the facts in my report.’

‘And
what did you discover?’

Al
Obaydi hesitated, not sure how much the Prosecutor knew.

‘What
did you discover?’ insisted Farrar.

‘That
the safe had been collected that day by a Mr Riffat.’

‘Did
you know this Mr Riffat?’

‘No,
I did not.’

‘So
what did you do next?’

‘I
rang the Ministry of Industry, as I was under the impression that they were
responsible for the safe.’

‘And
what did they tell you?’

‘That
the responsibility had been taken out of their hands.’

‘Did
they also tell you into whose hands the responsibility had been entrusted?’
asked the Prosecutor.

‘I
don’t remember exactly.’

‘Well,
let me try and refresh your memory – or shall I call the Permanent Secretary to
whom you spoke on the phone that morning?’

‘I
think he may have said that it was no longer in their hands,’ said Al Obaydi.

‘Did
he tell you whose hands it was in?’ repeated the Prosecutor.

‘I
think he said something about the file being sent to Geneva.’

‘It
may interest you to know that the official has submitted written evidence to
confirm just that.’

Al
Obaydi lowered his head.

‘So,
once you knew that the file had been passed on to Geneva, what did you do
next?’

‘I
phoned Geneva and was told the Ambassador was not available. I left a message
to say that I had called,’ said Al Obaydi confidently, ‘and asked if he would
call back.’

‘Did
you really expect him to call back?’

‘I
assumed he would.’

‘You
assumed he would. So what did you write in your report, in the sanctions file?’

‘The
file?’ asked Al Obaydi.

‘Yes.
You were making a report for your successor. What information did you pass on
to him?’

‘I
don’t remember,’ said Al Obaydi.

‘Then
allow me to remind you once again,’ said the Prosecutor, lifting a slim brown
file from the table. “The Ministry of Industry have sent the file concerning
this item direct to Geneva. I phoned our Ambassador there, but was unable to
make contact with him. Therefore, I cannot make any progress from this end
until he returns my call. Hamid Al Obaydi.” Did you write that?’

‘I
can’t remember.’

‘You
can’t remember what the Permanent Secretary said to you; you can’t remember
what you wrote in your own report when property of the state might have been
stolen, or worse... But I shall come to that later. Perhaps you would like to
check your own handwriting?’ said the Prosecutor as he walked from the table
and thrust the relevant sheet in front of Al Obaydi’s face. ‘Is that your
writing?’

‘Yes,
it is. But I can explain.’

‘And
is that your signature at the bottom of the page?’

Al
Obaydi leaned forward, studied the signature and nodded.

‘Yes
or no?’ barked the Prosecutor.

‘Yes,’
said Al Obaydi quietly.

‘Did
you, that same afternoon, visit General Al-Hassan, the Head of State Security?’

‘No.
He visited me.’

‘Ah,
I have made a mistake. It was he who visited you.’

‘Yes,’
said Al Obaydi.

‘Did
you alert him to the fact that an enemy agent might be heading towards Iraq,
having found a way of crossing the border with the intention of perhaps
assassinating our leader?’

‘I
couldn’t have known that.’

‘But
you must have suspected something unusual was going on?’

‘I
wasn’t certain at that time.’

‘Did
you let General Al-Hassan know of your uncertainty?’

‘No.
I did not.’

‘Was
it because you didn’t trust him?’

‘I
didn’t know him. It was the first time we had met.

The
previous...’ Al Obaydi regretted the words the moment he had said them.

‘You
were about to say?’ said the Prosecutor.

‘Nothing.’

‘I
see. So, let us move on to the following day, when you paid a visit – because I
feel confident that he didn’t visit you – to the Deputy Foreign Minister.’ This
induced some smiles around the table, but Al Obaydi did not see them.

‘Yes,
a routine call to discuss my appointment to Paris. He was, after all, the
former Ambassador.’

‘Quite.
But is he not also your immediate superior?’

‘Yes,
he is,’ said Al Obaydi.

‘So,
did you tell him of your suspicions?’

‘I
wasn’t sure there was anything to tell him.’

‘Did
you tell him of your suspicions?’ asked the Prosecutor, raising his voice.

‘No,
I did not.’

‘Was
he not to be trusted either? Or didn’t you know him well enough?’

‘I
wasn’t sure. I wanted more proof.’

‘I
see. You wanted more proof. So what did you do next?’

‘I
travelled to Paris,’ said Al Obaydi.

‘On
the next day?’ asked the State Prosecutor.

‘No,’
said Al Obaydi, hesitating.

‘On
the day after, perhaps? Or the day after that?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Meanwhile,
the safe was on its way to Baghdad. Is that right?’

‘Yes,
but...’