“The bible itself is 108 pages in length, but simple enough to understand if you’re an engineer with a first-class honors degree.” He laughed again. “We Swedish are a thorough race.”
Neither of the men felt able to disagree with him.
“Will you require anyone to accompany Madame Bertha on her journey?” Pedersson asked, his eyes expressing hope.
“No, thank you,” came back the immediate reply. “I think we can handle the problem of transport.”
“Then I have only one more question for you,” Pedersson said, as he entered his office. “When do you plan to take her away?”
“We hoped to collect the safe this afternoon. We understood from the fax you sent to the United Nations that your company has a crane that can lift the safe, and a dolly on which it can be moved from place to place.”
“You are right in thinking we have a suitable crane, and a dolly that has been specially designed to carry Madame Bertha on short journeys. I am also confident I can have everything ready for you this afternoon. But that doesn’t cover the problem of transport.”
“We already have our own vehicle standing by in Stockholm.”
“Excellent, then it is settled,” said Mr. Pedersson. “All I need to do in your absence is to program out my hand and voice so that it can accept whoever you select to take my place.” Pedersson looked forlorn for a second time. “I look forward to seeing you again this afternoon, gentlemen.”
“I’ll be coming back on my own,” said Riffat. “Mr. Bernstrom will be returning to America.”
Pedersson nodded and watched the two men climb into their car before he walked slowly back to his office. The phone on his desk was ringing.
He picked it up, said, “Bertil Pedersson speaking,” and listened to the caller’s request. He placed the receiver on his desk and ran to the window, but the car was already out of sight. He returned to the phone. “I am so sorry, Mr. Al Obaydi,” said Pedersson, “the two gentlemen who came to see the safe have just this moment left, but Mr. Riffat will be returning this afternoon to take her away. Shall I let him know you called?”
Al Obaydi put the phone down in Baghdad, and began to consider the implications of what had started out as a routine call.
As Deputy Ambassador to the UN, it was his responsibility to keep the sanctions list up-to-date. He had hoped to pass on the file within a week to his as-yet-unappointed successor.
In the past two days, despite phones that didn’t connect and civil servants who were never at their desks — and even when they were, were too terrified to answer the most basic questions — he was almost in a position to complete the first draft of his report.
The problem areas had been: agricultural machinery, half of which the UN Sanctions Committee took for granted was military equipment under another name; hospital supplies, including pharmaceuticals, on which the UN accepted most of their request; and food, which they were allowed to purchase — although most of the produce that came across the border seemed to disappear on the black market long before it reached the Baghdad housewife.
A fourth list was headed “miscellaneous items,” and included among these was a massive safe which, when Al Obaydi checked its measurements, turned out to be almost the size of the room he was presently working in. The safe, an internal report confirmed, had been ordered before the planned liberation of the Nineteenth Province, and was now sitting in a warehouse in Kalmar, waiting to be collected. Al Obaydi’s boss at the UN had confessed privately that he was surprised that the Sanctions Committee had lifted the embargo on the safe, but this did not deter him from assuring the Foreign Minister that they had only done so as a result of his painstaking negotiating skills.
Al Obaydi sat at his laden desk for some time, considering what his next move should be. He wrote a short list of headings on the notepad in front of him:
1. M.o.l.
2. State Security
3. Deputy Foreign Minister
4. Kalmar
Al Obaydi glanced at the first heading, M.o.l. He had remained in contact with a fellow student from London University days who had risen to Permanent Secretary status at the Ministry of Industry. Al Obaydi felt his old friend would be able to supply the information he required without suspecting his real motive.
He dialed the Permanent Secretary’s private number, and was delighted to find that someone was at his desk.
“Nadhim, it’s Hamid Al Obaydi.”
“Hamid, I heard you were back from New York. The rumor is that you’ve got what remains of our embassy in Paris. But one can never be sure about rumors in this city.”
“For once, they’re accurate,” Al Obaydi told his friend.
“Congratulations. So, what can I do for you, Your Excellency?”
Al Obaydi was amused that Nadhim was the first person to address him by his new title, even if he was being sarcastic.
“UN sanctions.”
“And you claim you’re my friend?”
“No, it’s just a routine check. I’ve got to tie up any loose ends for my successor. Everything’s in order as far as I can tell, except I’m unable to find out much about a gigantic safe that was made for us in Sweden. I know we’ve paid for it, but I can’t discover what is happening about its delivery.”
“Not this department, Hamid. The responsibility was taken out of our hands about a year ago after the file was marked ‘High Command,’ which usually means for the President’s personal use.”
“But someone must be responsible for a movement order from Kalmar to Baghdad,” said Al Obaydi.
“All I know is that I was instructed to pass the file on to our UN office in Geneva as we don’t have an embassy in Oslo. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Hamid. More your department than mine, I would have thought.”
“Then I’ll have to get in touch with Geneva and find out what they’re doing about it,” said Al Obaydi, not adding that New York and Geneva rarely informed each other of anything they were up to. “Thanks for your help, Nadhim.”
“Any time. Good luck in Paris, Hamid. I’m told the women are fabulous, and despite what you hear, they like Arabs.”
Al Obaydi put the phone down and stared at the list on his pad. He took even longer deciding if he should make the second call.
The correct course of action with the information he now possessed would be to contact Geneva, alert the Ambassador of his suspicions and let Saddam’s half brother once again take the praise for something he himself had done the work on. He checked his watch. It was midday in Switzerland. He asked his secretary to get Barazan Al-Tikriti on the phone, knowing she would log every call. He waited for several minutes before a voice came on the line.
“Can I speak to the Ambassador?” he asked politely.
“He’s in a meeting, sir,” came back the inevitable reply. “Shall I disturb him?”
“No, no, don’t bother. But would you let him know that Hamid Al Obaydi called from Baghdad, and ask him if he would be kind enough to return my call.”
“Yes, sir,” said the voice, and Al Obaydi replaced the phone. He had carried out the correct procedure.
He opened the sanctions file on his desk and scribbled on the bottom of his report: “The Ministry of Industry has sent the file concerning this item direct to Geneva. I phoned our Ambassador there but was unable to make contact with him. Therefore, I cannot make any progress from this end until he returns my call. Hamid Al Obaydi.”
Al Obaydi considered his next move extremely carefully. If he decided to do anything, his actions must once again appear on the surface to be routine, and well within his accepted brief. Any slight deviation from the norm in a city that fed on rumor and paranoia, and it would be him who would end up dangling from a rope, not Saddam’s half brother.