Honor Among Thieves Read online

  “I would be fascinated to know, Sayedi, if you felt able to confide in such an unworthy soul.”

  Twelve members of the Council looked towards the President to gauge his reaction to the Deputy Ambassador’s comment. Al Obaydi felt immediately that he had gone too far. He sat, terrified, during what felt like the longest silence in his life.

  “Then I shall let you share my secret, Hamid,” said Saddam, his black eyes boring into the Deputy Ambassador. “When I captured the Nineteenth Province for my beloved people, I found myself at war not with the traitors we had invaded, but the combined strength of the Western world—and that despite an agreement previously reached with the American Ambassador. Why? I had to ask, when everyone knew that Kuwait was run by a few corrupt families who had little interest in the welfare of their own people. I’ll tell you why. In one word, oil. Had it been coffee beans that the Nineteenth Province was exporting, you would never have seen as much as an American rowboat armed with a catapult enter the Gulf.”

  The Foreign Minister smiled and nodded.

  “And who were the leaders who ganged up against me? Thatcher, Gorbachev and Bush. That was less than three years ago. And what has happened to them since? Thatcher was removed by a coup carried out by her own supporters; Gorbachev was deposed by a man he himself had sacked only a year before and whose own position now looks unstable; Bush suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of the American people. While I remain the Supreme Leader and President of my country.”

  There followed a burst of applause which died instantly when Saddam began speaking again.

  “That, of course, would be ample reward for most people. But not me, Hamid. Because Bush’s place has been taken by this man Clinton, who has learned nothing from his predecessor’s mistakes, and who now also wishes to challenge my supremacy. But this time it is my intention to humiliate him along with the American infidels long before they are given the opportunity to do so. And I shall go about this in such a way that will make it impossible for Clinton to recover any credibility in his lifetime. I intend to make Clinton and the American people the laughingstock of the world.”

  The heads continued nodding.

  “You have already witnessed my ability to turn the greed of their own people into a willingness to steal the most cherished document in their nation’s history. And you, Hamid, are the chosen instrument to ensure that my genius will be acknowledged.” Al Obaydi lowered his head.

  “Once I am in possession of the Declaration I shall wait patiently until the Fourth of July, when the whole of America will be spending a peaceful Sunday celebrating Independence Day.” No one in the room uttered a word while the President paused.

  “I shall also celebrate Independence Day, not in Washington or New York, but in Tahrir Square, surrounded by my beloved people. When I, Saddam Hussein, President of Iraq, will in front of the entire world’s media burn to a cinder the American Declaration of Independence.”

  Hannah lay awake in her barracks-room bed, feeling not unlike the child she had been some fifteen years before when she had spent her first night at boarding school.

  She had collected Karima Saib’s cases from the carousel at Charles de Gaulle Airport, dreading what she might find inside them.

  A driver had picked her up as promised, but as he had been unwilling to make any attempt at conversation she had no idea what to expect when they pulled up outside the Jordanian Embassy. Hannah was surprised by its size.

  The beautiful old house which was set back from the boulevard Maurice Barrès was formerly the home of the late Aga Khan. The Iraqi annex had been allocated two complete floors, tangible proof that the Jordanians did not wish to get on the wrong side of Saddam.

  On entering the annex to the embassy, the first person she met was Abdul Kanuk, the Chief Administrator. He certainly didn’t look like a diplomat, and when he opened his mouth she realized he wasn’t. Kanuk informed her that the Ambassador and his senior secretary, Muna Ahmed, were tied up in meetings and that she was to unpack and then wait in her room until called for.

  The cramped accommodation was just about large enough for a bed and two suitcases, and might, she thought, have been a storeroom before the Iraqi delegation moved in. When she eventually forced open one of Karima Saib’s suitcases she quickly discovered that the only things that fitted from her wardrobe were her shoes. Hannah didn’t know whether to be relieved, because of Saib’s taste, or anxious about how little of her own she had to wear.

  Muna Ahmed, the senior secretary, joined her in the kitchen for supper later that evening. It seemed that secretaries in the embassy were treated on the same level as servants. Hannah managed to convince Muna that it was better than she had expected, especially as they were only able to use the annex to the Jordanian Embassy. Muna explained that as far as the Corps Diplomatique of France was concerned, the Iraqi Ambassador was to be treated only as a Head of Interest Section, although they were to address him at all times as “Your Excellency” or “Ambassador.”

  During the first few days in her new job, Hannah sat in the room next to the Ambassador’s on the other side of Muna’s desk. She spent most of her time twiddling her fingers. Hannah quickly discovered that no one took much interest in her as long as she completed any work the Ambassador had left for her on his dictating machine. In fact that soon became Hannah’s biggest problem, since she had to slow down in order to make Muna look more efficient. The only thing Hannah ever forgot was to keep wearing her nonprescription glasses.

  In the evenings, over supper in the kitchen, Hannah learned from Muna everything that was expected of an Iraqi woman abroad, including how to avoid the advances of Abdul Kanuk. By the second week, her learning curve had already slowed down, and increasingly Hannah found the Ambassador was relying on her skills. She tried not to show too much initiative.

  Once they had finished their work, Hannah and Muna were expected to remain indoors, and were not allowed to leave the building at night unless accompanied by the Chief Administrator, a prospect that didn’t tempt either of them. As Muna had no interest in music, the theater or even going to cafés, she was happy to pass the time in her room reading the speeches of Saddam Hussein.

  As the days slowly passed Hannah began to hope that the Mossad agent in Paris would contact her so that she could be pulled out and sent back to Israel to prepare for her mission—not that she had any clue who the Mossad agent was. She wondered if they had one in the embassy. Alone in her room, she often speculated. The driver? Too slow. The gardener? Too dumb. The cook? Certainly possible—the food was bad enough to believe it was her second job. Abdul Kanuk, the Chief Administrator? Hardly, since, as he pointed out at least three times a day, he was a cousin of Barazan Al-Tikriti, Saddam Hussein’s half brother and the UN Ambassador in Geneva. Kanuk was also the biggest gossip in the embassy, and supplied Hannah with more information about Saddam Hussein and his entourage in one night than the Ambassador managed in a week. In truth, the Ambassador rarely spoke of Sayedi in her presence, and when he did he was always guarded and respectful.

  It was during the second week that Hannah was introduced to the Ambassador’s wife. Hannah quickly discovered that she was fiercely independent, partly because she was half Turkish, and didn’t consider that it was necessarily her duty always to stay inside the embassy compound. She did things that were thought extreme by Iraqi standards, like accompanying her husband to cocktail parties, and she had even been known to pour herself a drink without waiting to be asked. She also went—which was more important for Hannah—twice a week to swim at the nearby public baths in the boulevard Lannes. The Ambassador agreed, after a little persuasion, that it would be acceptable for the new secretary to accompany his wife.

  Scott arrived in Paris on a Sunday. He had been given a key to a small flat on the avenue de Messine, and they had opened an account for him at the Société Générale on boulevard Haussmann in the name of Simon Rosenthal.

  He was to telephone or fax Langley only after he had