Honor Among Thieves Read online

  M.o.l.

  State Security

  Deputy Foreign Minister

  Kalmar

  Al Obaydi glanced at the first heading, M.o.l. He had remained in contact with a fellow student from London University days who had risen to Permanent Secretary status at the Ministry of Industry. Al Obaydi felt his old friend would be able to supply the information he required without suspecting his real motive.

  He dialed the Permanent Secretary’s private number, and was delighted to find that someone was at his desk.

  “Nadhim, it’s Hamid Al Obaydi.”

  “Hamid, I heard you were back from New York. The rumor is that you’ve got what remains of our embassy in Paris. But one can never be sure about rumors in this city.”

  “For once, they’re accurate,” Al Obaydi told his friend.

  “Congratulations. So, what can I do for you, Your Excellency?”

  Al Obaydi was amused that Nadhim was the first person to address him by his new title, even if he was being sarcastic.

  “UN sanctions.”

  “And you claim you’re my friend?”

  “No, it’s just a routine check. I’ve got to tie up any loose ends for my successor. Everything’s in order as far as I can tell, except I’m unable to find out much about a gigantic safe that was made for us in Sweden. I know we’ve paid for it, but I can’t discover what is happening about its delivery.”

  “Not this department, Hamid. The responsibility was taken out of our hands about a year ago after the file was marked ‘High Command,’ which usually means for the President’s personal use.”

  “But someone must be responsible for a movement order from Kalmar to Baghdad,” said Al Obaydi.

  “All I know is that I was instructed to pass the file on to our UN office in Geneva as we don’t have an embassy in Oslo. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Hamid. More your department than mine, I would have thought.”

  “Then I’ll have to get in touch with Geneva and find out what they’re doing about it,” said Al Obaydi, not adding that New York and Geneva rarely informed each other of anything they were up to. “Thanks for your help, Nadhim.”

  “Any time. Good luck in Paris, Hamid. I’m told the women are fabulous, and despite what you hear, they like Arabs.”

  Al Obaydi put the phone down and stared at the list on his pad. He took even longer deciding if he should make the second call.

  The correct course of action with the information he now possessed would be to contact Geneva, alert the Ambassador of his suspicions and let Saddam’s half brother once again take the praise for something he himself had done the work on. He checked his watch. It was midday in Switzerland. He asked his secretary to get Barazan Al-Tikriti on the phone, knowing she would log every call. He waited for several minutes before a voice came on the line.

  “Can I speak to the Ambassador?” he asked politely.

  “He’s in a meeting, sir,” came back the inevitable reply. “Shall I disturb him?”

  “No, no, don’t bother. But would you let him know that Hamid Al Obaydi called from Baghdad, and ask him if he would be kind enough to return my call.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the voice, and Al Obaydi replaced the phone. He had carried out the correct procedure.

  He opened the sanctions file on his desk and scribbled on the bottom of his report: “The Ministry of Industry has 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.”

  Al Obaydi considered his next move extremely carefully. If he decided to do anything, his actions must once again appear on the surface to be routine, and well within his accepted brief. Any slight deviation from the norm in a city that fed on rumor and paranoia, and it would be him who would end up dangling from a rope, not Saddam’s half brother.

  Al Obaydi looked down at the second heading on his notepad. He buzzed his secretary and asked her to get General Saba’awi Al-Hassan, Head of State Security, on the line. The post was one that had been held by three different people in the last seven months. The General was available immediately, there being more Generals than Ambassadors in the Iraqi regime.

  “Ambassador, good morning. I’ve been meaning to call you. We ought to have a talk before you take up your new appointment in Paris.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Al Obaydi. “I have no idea who we still have representing us in Europe. It’s been a long time since I served in that part of the world.”

  “We’re a bit thin on the ground, to be honest. Most of our best people have been expelled, including the so-called students whom we’ve always been able to rely on in the past. Still, not a subject to be discussed over the phone. When would you like me to come and see you?”

  “Are you free between four and five this afternoon?”

  There was a pause before the General said, “I could be with you around four, but would have to be back in my office by five. Do you think that will give us enough time?”

  “I feel sure you’ll be able to brief me fully in that period, General.” Al Obaydi put the phone down on another routine call.

  He stared at the third name on the list, who he feared might prove a little harder to bluff.

  He spent the next few minutes rehearsing his questions before dialing an internal number. A Miss Saib answered the phone.

  “Is there a particular subject you wish to raise with the Deputy Foreign Minister?” she asked.

  “No,” replied Al Obaydi, “I’m phoning at his specific request. I’m due for a little leave at the end of the week and the Deputy Foreign Minister made it clear he wished to brief me before I take up my new post in Paris.”

  “I’ll come back to you with a time as soon as I’ve had a chance to discuss your request with the Minister,” Miss Saib promised.

  Al Obaydi replaced the phone. Nothing to raise any suspicions there. He looked back at his pad and added a question mark, two arrows and another word to his list.

  Kalmar ← ? → Geneva

  Some time in the next forty-eight hours he was going to have to decide which direction he should take.

  The first question Kratz put to Scott on the journey from Kalmar to Stockholm was the significance of the numbers zero-seven-zero-four-nine-three. Scott snapped out of a daydream where he was rescuing Hannah on a white charger, and returned to the real world, which looked a lot less promising.

  “The Fourth of July,” he responded. “What better day could Saddam select to humiliate the American people, not to mention a new President.”

  “So now at least we know when our deadline is,” said Kratz.

  “Yes, but we’ve only been left with eleven days,” replied Scott. “One way or the other.”

  “Still, we’ve got Madame Bertha,” said Kratz, trying to lighten the mood.

  “True,” said Scott. “And where do you intend to take her on her first date?”

  “All the way,” said Kratz. “That is to say, Jordan, which is where I’m expecting you to join up with us again. In fact, my full team is already in Stockholm waiting to pick her up before they begin the journey to Baghdad. All the paperwork has been sorted out for us by Langley, so there should be no holdups on the way. Our first problem will be crossing the Jordanian border, but as we have all the requisite documents demanded by the UN, a few extra dollars supplied to the right customs official should ensure that his stamping hand lands firmly on the correct page of all our passports.”

  “How much time have you allocated for the journey to Jordan?” Scott asked, remembering his own tight schedule.

  “Six or seven days, eight at the outside. I’ve got a six-man team, all with considerable field experience. None of them will have to drive for more than four hours at a time without then getting sixteen hours’ rest. That way there will be no need to stop at any point, other than to fill up with gas.” They passed a sign indicating ten kilometers to St