“She’ll never get anywhere near him,” said Leigh.
“I wish I believed that,” said Scott quietly.
“She is a bold, imaginative and resourceful young woman,” said Kratz. “And, worse, she has the assassin’s greatest weapon.”
“Namely?” said Christopher.
“She no longer cares about her own survival.”
“Can this get any worse?” asked Christopher.
“Yes, sir. She knows nothing about the disappearance of the Declaration, and we have no way of contacting her to let her know.”
The Secretary of State paused for a moment, as if he was coming to a decision. “Colonel Kratz, I want to put something to you which is likely to stretch your personal loyalty.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” said Kratz.
“This plan to assassinate Saddam. How long have you been working on it?”
“Nine months to a year,” replied Kratz.
“And it obviously entailed your getting a person or persons into Saddam’s palace or bunker?”
Kratz hesitated.
“Yes or no will suffice,” said Christopher.
“Yes, sir.”
“My question is extremely simple, Colonel. May we therefore take advantage of the year’s preparation you’ve already carried out and — dare I suggest — steal your plan?”
“I would have to take advice from my government before I could consider...”
Christopher took an envelope from his pocket. “I will be happy to let you see Mr. Rabin’s letter to me on this subject, but first allow me to read it to you.”
The Secretary opened the envelope and extracted the letter. He placed his glasses on the end of his nose and unfolded the single sheet.
From the Prime Minister
Dear Mr. Secretary,
You are correct in thinking that the Prime Minister of the State of Israel is Chief Minister and Minister of Defense while at the same time having overall responsibility for Mossad.
However, I confess that when it comes to any ideas we may be considering for future relations with Saddam, I have only been kept in touch with the outline proposals. I have not yet been fully briefed on the finer details.
If you believe on balance that such information as we possess may make the difference between success or failure with your present difficulties, I will instruct Colonel Kratz to brief you fully and without reservation.
Yours,
Christopher turned the letter around and pushed it across the table.
“Colonel Kratz, let me assure you on behalf of the United States Government that I believe such information as you have in your possession may make the difference between success and failure.”
Part II
“Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our British Brethren.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Declaration of Independence was nailed to the wall behind him.
Saddam continued puffing on his cigar as he lounged back in his chair. All of them seated around the table waited for him to speak. He glanced to his right.
“My brother, we are proud of you. You have served our country and the Ba’ath Party with distinction, and when the moment comes for my people to be informed of your heroic deeds, your name will be written in the history of our nation as one of its great heroes.”
Al Obaydi sat at the other end of the table, listening to the words of his leader. His fists, hidden under the table, were clenched to stop himself shaking. Several times on the journey back to Baghdad he had been aware that he was being followed. They had searched his luggage at almost every stop, but they had found nothing, because there was nothing to find. Saddam’s half brother had seen to that. Once the Declaration had reached the safety of their mission in Geneva he hadn’t even been allowed to pass it over to the Ambassador in person. Its guaranteed route in the diplomatic pouch made it impossible to intercept even with the combined efforts of the Americans and the Israelis.
Saddam’s half brother now sat on the President’s right-hand side, basking in his leader’s eulogy.
Saddam swung himself slowly back around and stared down at the other end of the table.
“And I also acknowledge,” he continued, “the role played by Hamid Al Obaydi, whom I have appointed to be our Ambassador in Paris. His name must not, however, be associated with this enterprise, lest it harm his chances of representing us on foreign soil.”
And thus it had been decreed. Saddam’s half brother was to be acknowledged as the architect of this triumph, while Al Obaydi was to be a footnote on a page, quickly turned. Had Al Obaydi failed, Saddam’s half brother would have been ignorant of even the original idea, and Al Obaydi’s bones would even now be rotting in an unmarked grave. Since Saddam had spoken no one around that table, except for the State Prosecutor, had given Al Obaydi a second look. All other eyes, and smiles, rested on Saddam’s half brother.
It was at that moment, in the midst of the meeting of the Revolutionary Command Council, that Al Obaydi came to his decision.
Dollar Bill sat slouched on a stool leaning on the bar in unhappy hour, happily sipping his favorite liquid. He was the establishment’s only customer, unless you counted the slip of a woman in a Laura Ashley dress who sat silently in the corner. The barman assumed she was drunk, as she hadn’t moved a muscle for the past hour.
Dollar Bill wasn’t at first aware of the man who stumbled through the swing doors, and wouldn’t have given him a second look had he not sat himself on the stool next to his. The intruder ordered a gin and tonic. Dollar Bill had a natural aversion to any man who drank gin and tonic, especially if they occupied the seat next to his when the rest of the bar was empty. He considered moving but decided on balance that he didn’t need the exercise.
“So how are you, old-timer?” the voice next to him asked. Dollar Bill didn’t care to think of himself as an “old-timer,” and refused to grace the intruder with a reply.
“What’s the matter, not got a tongue in your head?” the man asked, slurring his words. The barman turned to face them when he heard the raised voice, and then returned to drying the glasses left over from the lunchtime rush.
“I have, sir, and it’s a civil one,” replied Dollar Bill, still not so much as glancing at his interrogator.
“Irish. I should have known it all along. A nation of stupid, ignorant drunks.”
“Let me remind you, sir,” said Dollar Bill, “that Ireland is the land of Yeats, Shaw, Wilde, O’Casey and Joyce.” He raised his glass in their memory.
“I’ve never heard of any of them. Drinking partners of yours, I suppose?” This time the young barman put his cloth down and began to pay closer attention.
“I never had that honor,” replied Dollar Bill, “but, my friend, the fact that you have not heard of them, let alone read their works, is your loss, not mine.”
“Are you accusing me of being ignorant?” said the intruder, placing a rough hand on Dollar Bill’s shoulder.
Dollar Bill turned to face him, but even at that close range he couldn’t focus clearly through the haze of alcohol he had consumed during the past two weeks. He did, however, observe that, although he appeared to be part of the same alcoholic haze, the intruder was somewhat larger than he. Such a consideration had never worried Dollar Bill in the past.
“No, sir, it was not necessary to accuse you of ignorance. For you have been condemned by your own utterances.”
“I won’t take that from anyone, you Irish drunk,” said the intruder. Keeping his hand on Dollar Bill’s shoulder, he swung at him and landed a blow on the side of his jaw. Dollar Bill staggered back off his high stool, falling to the floor in a heap.