Honor Among Thieves Read online

  “I’ll come to your trip to Jordan in a moment, if I may. But what I should like to know now is why, when you were back at our embassy in Paris, you didn’t immediately call our Ambassador in Geneva to inform him of what you had discovered? Not only was the Ambassador in residence, but he took a call from another member of the embassy staff after you had gone to bed.”

  Al Obaydi suddenly realized how Farrar knew everything. He tried to collect his thoughts.

  “My only interest was getting back to Baghdad to let the Foreign Minister know the danger our leader might be facing.”

  “Like the imminent danger of the Americans dropping bombs on Mukhbarat headquarters,” suggested the State Prosecutor.

  “I could not have known what the Americans were planning,” shouted Al Obaydi.

  “I see,” said Farrar. “It was no more than a happy coincidence that you were safely tucked up in bed in Paris while Tomahawk missiles were showering down on Baghdad.”

  “But I returned to Baghdad immediately after I learned of the bombing,” insisted Al Obaydi.

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t have been in quite such a hurry to return if the Americans had succeeded in assassinating our leader.”

  “But my report would have proved…”

  “And where is that report?”

  “I intended to write it on the journey from Jordan to Baghdad.”

  “How convenient. And did you advise your trustworthy friend Mr. Riffat to ring the Minister of Industry to find out if he was expected?”

  “No, I did not,” said Al Obaydi. “If any of this were true,” he added, “why would I have worked so hard to see that our great leader secured the Declaration?”

  “I’m glad you mentioned the Declaration,” said the State Prosecutor softly, “because I’m also puzzled by the role you played in that particular exercise. But first, let me ask you, did you trust our Ambassador in Geneva to see that the Declaration was delivered to Baghdad?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “And did it reach Baghdad safely?” asked the Prosecutor, glancing at the battered parchment still nailed to the wall behind Saddam.

  “Yes. It did.”

  “Then why not entrust the knowledge you had acquired about the safe to the same man, remembering that it was his responsibility?”

  “This was different.”

  “It certainly was, and I shall show the Council just how different. How was the Declaration paid for?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Al Obaydi.

  “Then let me make it easier for you. How was each payment dealt with?”

  “Ten million dollars was paid once the contract had been agreed, and a further forty million was paid when the Declaration was handed over.”

  “And how much of that money—the state’s money—did you keep for yourself?”

  “Not one cent.”

  “Well, let us see if that is totally accurate, shall we? Where did the meetings take place for the exchange of these vast sums of money?”

  “The first payment was made at a bank in New Jersey, and the second to Dummond et cie, one of our banks in Switzerland.”

  “And the first payment of ten million dollars, if I understand you correctly, you insisted should be in cash?”

  “That is not correct,” said Al Obaydi. “The other side insisted that it should be in cash.”

  “How convenient. But then, once again, we only have your word for that, because our Ambassador in New York has stated it was you who insisted the first payment had to be in cash. Perhaps he misunderstood you as well. But let us move on to the second payment, and do correct me if I have misunderstood you.” He paused. “That was paid directly into Franchard et cie?”

  “That is correct,” said Al Obaydi.

  “And did you receive, I think the word is a ‘kickback,’ after either of these payments?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Well, what is certain is that, as the first payment was made in cash, it would be hard for anyone to prove otherwise. But as for the second payment…” The Prosecutor paused to let the significance of his words sink in.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snapped Al Obaydi.

  “Then you must be having another lapse of memory, because during your absence, when you were rushing back from Paris to warn the President of the imminent danger to his life, you received a communication from Franchard et cie which, because the letter was addressed to our Ambassador in Paris, ended up on the desk of the Deputy Foreign Minister.”

  “I’ve had no communication with Franchard et cie.”

  “I’m not suggesting you did,” said the Prosecutor, as he strode forward to within a foot of Al Obaydi. “I’m suggesting they communicated with you. Because they sent you your latest bank statement in the name of Hamid Al Obaydi, dated June 25th, 1993, showing that your account was credited with one million dollars on February 18th, 1993.”

  “It’s not possible,” said Al Obaydi defiantly.

  “It’s not possible?” said the Prosecutor, thrusting a copy of the statement in front of Al Obaydi.

  “This is easy to explain. The Cavalli family is trying to get revenge because we didn’t pay the full amount of one hundred million as originally promised.”

  “Revenge, you claim. The money isn’t real? It doesn’t exist? This is just a piece of paper? A figment of our imagination?”

  “Yes,” said Al Obaydi. “That is the truth.”

  “So perhaps you can explain why one hundred thousand dollars was withdrawn from this account on the day after you had visited Franchard et cie?”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Another impossibility? Another figment of the imagination? Then you have not seen this withdrawal order for one hundred thousand dollars, sent to you by the bank a few days later? The signature of which bears a remarkable resemblance to the one on the sanctions report which you accepted earlier as authentic.”

  The Prosecutor held both documents in front of Al Obaydi so they touched the tip of his nose. He looked at the two signatures and realized what Cavalli must have done. The Prosecutor proceeded to sign his death warrant, even before Al Obaydi had been given the chance to explain.

  “And now, you are no doubt going to ask the Council to believe that it was Cavalli who also forged your signature?”

  A little laughter trickled around the table, and Al Obaydi suspected that the Prosecutor knew that he had only spoken the truth.

  “I have had enough of this,” said the one person in the room who would have dared to interrupt the State Prosecutor.

  Al Obaydi looked up in a last attempt to catch the attention of the President, but with the exception of the State Prosecutor the Council was looking towards the top of the table and nodding their agreement.

  “There are more pressing matters for the Council to consider.” He waved a hand as if he were swatting an irritating fly.

  Two soldiers stepped forward and removed Al Obaydi from his sight.

  “That was a whole lot easier than I expected,” said Cohen, once they had passed through the Iraqi checkpoint.

  “A little too easy perhaps,” said Kratz.

  “It’s good to know we’ve got one optimist and one pessimist on this trip,” said Scott.

  Once Cohen was on the highway he remained cautious of pushing the vehicle beyond fifty miles per hour. The trucks that passed in the opposite direction on their way to Jordan rarely had more than two of their four headlights working, which sometimes made them appear like motorcycles in the distance, so overtaking became hazardous. But his eyes needed to be at their most alert for those trucks in front of him: for them, one red taillight was a luxury.

  Kratz had always thought the three-hundred-mile journey from the border to Baghdad would be too long to consider covering in one stretch, so he had decided they should have a rest about forty miles outside the Iraqi capital. Scott asked Cohen what time he thought they might reach their rest point.

  “Assuming