The threat was implicit, but at that moment, the phone on his desk rang. He answered, listened, and the change on his face was plain.
“Of course, Excellency,” he said in Arabic and put down the phone. “That was Saddam. He wishes to see you both at once.”
“And do we go?” Belov asked, curiously gentle.
“I don’t seem to have any choice.”
“I’m sure Moscow will agree when you inform them. You will excuse us, then?” He nodded to Ashimov and led the way out.
At the presidential palace, they were met by Farouk, who was ecstatic. “What you did was heroic, incredible, Colonel.”
“You know who they were?”
“Oh, yes. Two of them were still alive and soon talked. Shiite rebels, naturally. They never stop trying. He’s waiting for you eagerly.”
When Farouk ushered them in, Saddam was behind his desk in full uniform. He got to his feet, came around and embraced Belov, then turned to Ashimov, examined the scar covered by gauze that ran from his eye to his mouth.
“How bad?”
“Sixteen stitches. An interesting memento, Excellency.”
“I like that.” Saddam laughed. “Every morning you look in the mirror to have a shave, you’ll be reminded of me. Now sit down, the both of you. I have things to say.
“I felt anger last night, but mainly impotence. I’m hedged in by the Americans and the British, even the United Nations are hardly my friends. The Shiites rebel, also the Kurds. I deal with them and people compare me to Hitler.”
“Excellency, what can I say?”
“I have only one great weapon. Money. Many billions deposited in safe havens around the world, and money on that level is power.”
There was a heavy pause. Belov, for want of anything better, said, “I wouldn’t argue with that.”
“Which brings me to the point. I owe you two my life. In my religion, this leaves me with a debt that must be repaid in some way. A sacred duty.” He turned to Ashimov. “You were obeying the Colonel’s instructions last night, am I right?”
“Absolutely, Excellency.”
“A fine soldier doing his duty. You have my eternal gratitude. As to your future, I leave that to your colonel here – in safe hands, I think, when you hear what I have to say.”
He went back behind his desk and sat, speaking directly to Belov.
“These are strange times in Russia, so many State-owned enterprises going on offer to the open market, and at such reasonable prices.”
“True, Excellency.”
“All my billions languish all over the world, from Geneva to Singapore, and I can’t invest because of the attitude of the Americans and the United Nations. It would amuse me to outfox them.”
“In what way?” Belov said carefully.
“By discharging my debt to you, Colonel, for saving my life. I understand that at the moment there are a number of oil fields up for grabs in Siberia, for sale by a government very short of the almighty dollar.”
“That’s true, Excellency.”
“How far would one billion dollars take you?”
Belov glanced at Ashimov, who looked awestruck, took a deep breath and turned back to Saddam. “A very long way, Excellency. There could be difficulties, but difficulties are meant to be overcome. If I can serve you in any way, it would be an honor.”
Saddam shook his head impatiently. “Not for me, my friend, for yourself. Don’t you think my life is worth a billion dollars?”
For a moment, Belov was speechless as the enormity of it sank in, but finally managed to say, “I’m overwhelmed.”
Saddam roared with laughter. “One billion? A drop in the ocean, but think what you could do. Give the damned Americans a run for their money. Now, that I would like to see. That would please me.”
“But, Excellency, what can I do for you?”
“Who knows? Be my friend in bad times? A man in the shadows when needed?” There was a briefcase on the desk, and he pushed it across. “I’ve had my people prepare these documents in here carefully. There are code words and passwords in here that will give you access to one billion dollars.”
He stood up, and Belov and Ashimov got up hurriedly. Saddam gestured at the briefcase. “Take it, Colonel.” And he laughed harshly. “My debt is paid.”
In the month that followed that extraordinary meeting, Belov found an excuse to visit Geneva, a certain caution in him, a refusal to believe it could be true. He took Ashimov with him, and it certainly was true, for the bankers jumped to attention.
So he returned to Moscow and resigned from the service, together with Ashimov, whom he took on as his personal aide. With all the expertise gained from so many years in intelligence, he compiled a list of the sort of people he needed to know, not only businessmen but also crooked politicians on the take, and if any such people wouldn’t play ball or tried to cause trouble, there was always Yuri Ashimov of the scarred face to take care of them.
In Siberia, government contracts were readily available, especially for someone with an apparently unlimited supply of dollars. After those early deals, he never really looked back, and in the Russia of those days, no one queried them.
Within five years, the original billion had become six, and when his old KGB friend Putin became President, it was just the icing on the cake. People didn’t want democracy; they wanted strength and power and got exactly that from Putin, which suited Belov perfectly, and on his end his economic miracle suited the government perfectly, so everyone was happy.
The emergence of Al Qa’eda and the growth of the terror movement were unfortunate, for one way or another, it led to the second Gulf War and the demise of Saddam, but the prospect of the Iraqi oil fields becoming available danced enticingly in front of him, and so he was content.
The postwar turmoil in Iraq was understandable. Although the capture of Saddam by American troops seemed to herald the prospect of a more stable future, at least for Iraq, Belov had never bought the idea that the fall of Saddam would have much effect on the Arab world anyway. Muslim militants such as Al Qa’eda would still pursue what they saw as a holy war with America and the Western world, pursue that war by what they saw as the only means available to them – terror.
So Belov was pro-Arab, but only because it suited him. There was no doubt he was anti-American, but for obvious business reasons. The Brits were all right, because the Brits were the Brits and he had a weakness for London, but his old philosophy held true and was like a devil in him. To create chaos, fear and uncertainty in the Western world and in pursuit of those aims, it made sense to aid the cause of Muslim militants. But that side of things he left to Yuri Ashimov. It was not that he didn’t want to know – it was just that he didn’t want to know too much.
The money, of course, made all the difference. There were charitable trusts, educational trusts for young people, in reality fronts for those like Wrath of Allah, the Party of God and others, who were particularly dedicated to such enterprises as, for example, recruiting young British-born Muslims to take them to training camps in the Middle East. He had been informed of the Morgan affair in Manhattan, the intended attempt on the American President’s life, an enterprise so simple it might well have succeeded if it hadn’t been for the activities of Charles Ferguson and his people.
But he was separate from all that. When the Berger empire crashed, he had taken over its oil interests in southern Arabia. There was nothing America could do about that. It made him one of the most powerful businessmen in the world, highly approved of by the Russian Federation.
He had the old Rashid house in South Audley Street in London; he’d bought Drumore Place, his castle on the cliffs of Drumore in the Irish Republic, and put Dermot Kelly in charge, ostensibly as estate manager, and the money continued to roll in.
He was Josef Belov, man of mystery, unbelievably wealthy, and always at his side was Yuri Ashimov.