Honor Among Thieves Read online

  “And the alarm system?” asked Scott when he had come to an end.

  “All you have to remember is that the red buttons by the light switches activate the alarm, but at the same time close all the exits.”

  Scott nodded, but it was some time before he asked his next question. “And Hannah?”

  “Nothing’s changed. My first task is to get you in and then back out with the original document. She still remains an unlikely bonus, although she obviously knows what’s going on.”

  Neither of them spoke again until Sergeant Cohen pulled off the highway into a large gravel rest area packed with trucks. He parked the vehicle at an angle so that only the most inquisitive could observe what they were up to, then jumped out of the cab, pulled himself over the tailgate and grinned at the Kurd who was lounging against the safe. Between them they removed the tarpaulin that covered the massive structure as Scott and Kratz climbed up to join them in the back of the truck.

  “What do you think, Professor?” asked Aziz.

  “She hasn’t lost any weight, that’s for sure,” said Scott, as he tried to remember the nightly homework he had done in preparation for this single exam.

  He stretched his fingers and smiled. All three bulbs above the white square were red. He first turned all three dials to a code that only he and a man in Sweden were aware of. He then placed his right hand on the white square, and left it there for several seconds. He leaned forward, put his lips up against the square and spoke softly. “My name is Andreas Bernstrom. When you hear this voice, and only this voice, you will unlock the door.” Scott waited as the other three looked on in bemused silence. He then swiveled the dials. All three bulbs remained red.

  “Now we discover if I understood the instructions,” said Scott. He bit his lip and advanced again. Once more he twiddled the dials, but this time to the numbers selected by Saddam, ending with zero-seven-zero-four-nine-three. The first light went from red to green. Aziz smiled. Scott placed the palm of his hand in the white square and left it there for several seconds. The second light switched to green.

  Scott heard Kratz sigh audibly as he stepped forward again. He put his lips to the white square so they just touched the thin wire mesh. “My name is Andreas Bernstrom. It’s now time for the safe to—” The third light turned green even before he had completed the sentence. Cohen offered up a suppressed cheer.

  Scott grasped the handle and pulled. The ton of steel eased open.

  “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, swiveled 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 line of trucks 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 truck in the line.

  “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 realized that he would soon have to roll 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 realized 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 truck 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 around the truck. 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 line.”

  “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 draft 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 line. 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 truck began its mile-long journey toward the Iraqi checkpoint.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Hamid 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’s.

  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 toilet?