“I still need some queries answered,” said Scott, “and a few other things explained.”
The Israeli Councillor for Cultural Affairs to the Court of St. James nodded.
“Are you certain that they plan to put the safe in the Ba’ath Party headquarters?”
“Certain, no. Confident, yes,” said Kratz. “A Dutch company completed some building work in the basement of the headquarters nearly three years ago, and among their final drawings was a brick construction, the dimensions of which would house the safe perfectly.”
“And is this safe still in Kalmar?”
“It was three weeks ago,” replied Kratz, “when one of my agents carried out a routine check.”
“And does it belong to the Iraqi Government?” asked Dexter Hutchins.
“Yes, it has been fully paid for, and is now legally the property of the Iraqis.”
“Legally that may be the position, but since the Gulf War the UN has imposed a new category of sanctions,” Scott reminded him.
“How can a safe be considered a piece of military equipment?” asked Dexter.
“Exactly the Iraqis’ argument,” replied Kratz. “But, unfortunately for them, when they placed the original order with the Swedes, among the explicit specifications was the requirement that the safe, ‘must be able to withstand a nuclear attack.’ The word ‘nuclear’ was all that was needed to start the bells ringing at the UN.”
“So how do you plan to get around that problem?” asked Scott.
“Whenever the Iraqi Government submits a new list of items that they consider do not break UN Security Council Resolution 661, the safe is always included. If the Americans, the British and the French didn’t raise any objection, it could slip through.”
“And the Israeli Government?”
“We would protest vociferously in front of the Iraqi delegation, but not behind closed doors to our friends.”
“So let us imagine for one moment that we’re in possession of a giant safe that can withstand a nuclear attack. What good does that do us?” asked Scott.
“Someone has to be responsible for getting that safe from Sweden to Baghdad. Someone has to install it when they get there, and someone has to explain to Saddam’s people how to operate it,” said Kratz.
“And you have someone who is six feet tall, a karate expert and speaks fluent Arabic?”
“We did have, but she was only five foot ten.” The two men stared at each other. Scott remained silent.
“And how were you proposing to assassinate Saddam?” asked Dexter quickly. “Lock him up in the safe and hope he would suffocate?”
Kratz realized the comment had been made to take Scott’s mind off Hannah, so he responded in kind. “No, we discovered that was the CIA’s plan, and dismissed it. We had something more subtle in mind.”
“Namely?” asked Scott.
“A tiny nuclear device was to be planted inside the safe.”
“And the safe would be in the passage next to where the Revolutionary Command Council meets. Not bad,” said Dexter.
“And the device was to be set off by a five-foot-ten, dark-haired girl?” asked Scott.
Kratz nodded.
“Thirty days? What did I do to deserve thirty days, that’s what I want to know.” But no one was listening as Dollar Bill was hustled out of the courtroom, along the corridor and then out through a door at the rear of the building, before being pushed into the back seat of an unmarked car. Three men with military-style haircuts, Ray-Bans and small earplugs connected to wires running down the backs of their collars accompanied him.
“Why wasn’t I given bail? And what about my appeal? I have the right to a lawyer, damn it. And by the way, where are you taking me?” However many questions he asked, Dollar Bill received no answers.
Although he was unable to see anything out of the smoked-glass side windows, Dollar Bill could tell by looking over the driver’s shoulder when they reached the Golden Gate Bridge. As they proceeded along Route 101, the speedometer touched fifty-five for the first time, but the driver never once exceeded the speed limit.
When twenty minutes later the car swung off the highway at the Belvedere exit, Dollar Bill had no idea where he was. The driver continued up a small, winding road, until the car slowed down as a massive set of wrought-iron gates loomed up in front of them.
The driver flashed his lights twice and the gates swung open to allow the car to continue its journey down a long, straight gravel drive. It was another three or four minutes before they came to a halt in front of a large country house which reminded Dollar Bill of his youth in County Kerry, when his mother had been a scullery maid up at the manor house.
One of Dollar Bill’s escorts leaped out of the car and opened the door for him. Another ran ahead of them up the steps and pressed a bell, as the car sped away across the gravel.
The massive oak door opened to reveal a butler in a long black coat and a white bow tie.
“Good evening, Mr. O’Reilly,” he declared in a pronounced English accent even before Dollar Bill had reached the top step. “My name is Charles. Your room is already prepared. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to accompany me, sir.” Dollar Bill followed him into the house and up the wide staircase without uttering a word. He would have tried some of his questions on Charles, but since he was English, Dollar Bill knew he couldn’t expect an honest reply. The butler guided him into a small, well-furnished bedroom on the first floor.
“I do hope you will find that the clothes are the correct size, sir,” said Charles, “and that everything else is to your liking. Dinner will be served in half an hour.”
Dollar Bill bowed and spent the next few minutes looking around the suite. He checked the bathroom. French soap, safety razors and fluffy white towels; even a toothbrush and his favorite toothpaste. He returned to the bedroom and tested the double bed. He couldn’t remember when he had last slept on anything so comfortable. He then checked the wardrobe and found three pairs of trousers and three jackets, not unlike the ones he had purchased a few days after returning from Washington. How did they know?
He looked in the drawers: six shirts, six pairs of underpants and six pairs of socks. They had thought of everything, even if he didn’t care that much for their choice of ties.
Dollar Bill decided to join in the game. He took a bath, shaved and changed into the clothes provided. They were, as Charles had promised, the correct size.
He heard a gong sound downstairs, which he took as a clear signal that he had been summoned. He opened the door, stepped into the corridor and proceeded down the wide staircase to find the butler standing in the hall.
“Mr. Hutchins is expecting you. You’ll find him in the drawing room, sir.”
“Yes, of course I will,” said Dollar Bill, and followed Charles into a large room where a tall, burly man was standing by the fireplace, the stub of a cigar in the corner of his mouth.
“Good evening, Mr. O’Reilly,” he said. “My name is Dexter Hutchins. We’ve never met before, but I’ve long been an admirer of your work.”
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Hutchins, but I don’t have the same advantage of knowing what you do to pass the unrelenting hour.”
“I do apologize. I am the Deputy Director of the CIA.”
“After all these years, I get to have dinner in a large country house with the Deputy Director of the CIA simply because I was involved in a barroom brawl. I’m tempted to ask, what do you lay on for mass murderers?”
“I must confess, Mr. O’Reilly, that it was one of my men who threw the first punch. But before we go any further, what would you like to drink?”