Al Obaydi looked down at the second heading on his notepad. He buzzed his secretary and asked her to get General Saba’awi Al-Hassan, Head of State Security, on the line. The post was one that had been held by three different people in the last seven months. The General was available immediately, there being more Generals than Ambassadors in the Iraqi regime.
“Ambassador, good morning. I’ve been meaning to call you. We ought to have a talk before you take up your new appointment in Paris.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Al Obaydi. “I have no idea who we still have representing us in Europe. It’s been a long time since I served in that part of the world.”
“We’re a bit thin on the ground, to be honest. Most of our best people have been expelled, including the so-called students whom we’ve always been able to rely on in the past. Still, not a subject to be discussed over the phone. When would you like me to come and see you?”
“Are you free between four and five this afternoon?”
There was a pause before the General said, “I could be with you around four, but would have to be back in my office by five. Do you think that will give us enough time?”
“I feel sure you’ll be able to brief me fully in that period, General.” Al Obaydi put the phone down on another routine call.
He stared at the third name on the list, who he feared might prove a little harder to bluff.
He spent the next few minutes rehearsing his questions before dialing an internal number. A Miss Saib answered the phone.
“Is there a particular subject you wish to raise with the Deputy Foreign Minister?” she asked.
“No,” replied Al Obaydi, “I’m phoning at his specific request. I’m due for a little leave at the end of the week and the Deputy Foreign Minister made it clear he wished to brief me before I take up my new post in Paris.”
“I’ll come back to you with a time as soon as I’ve had a chance to discuss your request with the Minister,” Miss Saib promised.
Al Obaydi replaced the phone. Nothing to raise any suspicions there. He looked back at his pad and added a question mark, two arrows and another word to his list.
Some time in the next forty-eight hours he was going to have to decide which direction he should take.
The first question Kratz put to Scott on the journey from Kalmar to Stockholm was the significance of the numbers zero-seven-zero-four-nine-three. Scott snapped out of a daydream where he was rescuing Hannah on a white charger, and returned to the real world, which looked a lot less promising.
“The Fourth of July,” he responded. “What better day could Saddam select to humiliate the American people, not to mention a new President.”
“So now at least we know when our deadline is,” said Kratz.
“Yes, but we’ve only been left with eleven days,” replied Scott. “One way or the other.”
“Still, we’ve got Madame Bertha,” said Kratz, trying to lighten the mood.
“True,” said Scott. “And where do you intend to take her on her first date?”
“All the way,” said Kratz. “That is to say, Jordan, which is where I’m expecting you to join up with us again. In fact, my full team is already in Stockholm waiting to pick her up before they begin the journey to Baghdad. All the paperwork has been sorted out for us by Langley, so there should be no holdups on the way. Our first problem will be crossing the Jordanian border, but as we have all the requisite documents demanded by the UN, a few extra dollars supplied to the right customs official should ensure that his stamping hand lands firmly on the correct page of all our passports.”
“How much time have you allocated for the journey to Jordan?” Scott asked, remembering his own tight schedule.
“Six or seven days, eight at the outside. I’ve got a six-man team, all with considerable field experience. None of them will have to drive for more than four hours at a time without then getting sixteen hours’ rest. That way there will be no need to stop at any point, other than to fill up with gas.” They passed a sign indicating ten kilometers to Stockholm.
“So I’ve got a week,” said Scott.
“Yes, and we must hope that that’s enough time for Bill O’Reilly to complete a perfect new copy of the Declaration,” said Kratz.
“It ought to be a lot easier for him a second time,” said Scott. “Especially since every one of his requests was dealt with within hours of his asking. They even flew over nine shades of black ink from London on the Concorde the following morning.”
“I wish we could put Madame Bertha on the Concorde.”
Scott laughed. “Tell me more about your back-up team.”
“The best I’ve ever had,” said Kratz. “Five Israelis and one Kurd. All of them have had front-line experience in several official and unofficial wars.”
Kratz noticed that Scott had raised an eyebrow at the mention of the Kurdish member of the team.
“Few people realize,” he continued, “that Mossad has an Arab section, not large in numbers, but once we’ve trained them, only the Gurkhas make better killers. The test will be if you can spot which one he is.”
“How many are coming over the border with us?”
“Only two. We can’t afford to make it look like an army. One engineer and a driver. At least, that’s how they’ll be described on the manifest, but they only have one job description as far as I’m concerned, and that’s to get you into Baghdad and back out with the Declaration in the shortest possible time.”
Scott looked straight ahead of him. “And Hannah?” he said simply.
“That would be a bonus if we got lucky, but it’s not part of my brief. I consider the chances of your even seeing her are remote,” he said as they passed a “Welcome to Stockholm” sign.
Scott began thumping Bertha’s bible up and down on his knees. “Careful with that,” said Kratz. “It still needs to be translated, otherwise you won’t know how to go about a proper introduction to the lady. After all, it will only be your palm and your voice she’ll be opening her heart to.”
Scott glanced down at the 108-page book and wondered how long it would take him to master its secrets, even after it had been translated into English.
Kratz suddenly swung right without warning and drove down a deserted street that ran parallel to a disused railway line. All Scott could see ahead of him was a tunnel that looked as if it led nowhere.
When he was a hundred yards from the entrance, Kratz checked in his rearview mirror to see if anyone was following them. Satisfied they were alone, he flashed his headlights three times. A second later, from what appeared to be the other end of a black hole, he received the same response. He slowed down and drove into the tunnel without his lights on. All Scott could now see was a flashlight indicating where they should pull up.
Kratz followed the light and came to a halt in front of what appeared to be an old army truck. It was stationed just inside the far end of the tunnel.
He jumped out of the car and Scott quickly followed, trying to accustom himself to the half light. Then he saw three men standing on each side of the vehicle. The man nearest them came to attention and saluted. “Good morning, Colonel,” he said.
“Put your men at ease, Feldman, and come and meet Professor Bradley,” said Kratz. Scott almost laughed at the use of his academic title among these men, but there were no smiles on the faces of the six soldiers who came forward to meet him.