Did they even know where it was at that moment? Had Kratz been informed? Had Mossad been called in to advise the Americans on the operation they had themselves been planning for the past year? Were they now trying to get in touch with her? What would Simon have expected her to do?
She stopped at a cigarette kiosk and purchased three postcards of Saddam Hussein addressing the Revolutionary Command Council.
Later, in the safety of her bedroom, she wrote the same message to Ethel Rubin, David Kratz and the professor of Arabic studies at London University. She hoped one of them would work out the significance of the date in the top right-hand corner and the little square full of stars she had drawn with a felt-tip pen on the wall by the side of Saddam’s head.
“What time is the flight for Stockholm expected to depart?” he asked.
“It shouldn’t be long now,” said the girl behind the SAS desk at Charles de Gaulle. “I’m afraid it’s only just landed on its inward journey, so it’s difficult for me to be more precise.”
Another opportunity to turn back, thought Al Obaydi. But following his meeting with the Head of State Security and, the next morning, with the Deputy Foreign Minister, he felt confident that they had both considered what he had told them no more than routine. Al Obaydi had dropped into the conversation the fact that he was due for some leave before taking up his new appointment in Paris.
After Al Obaydi had collected his luggage from the carousel, he deposited all the large cases in storage, retaining only one bulky briefcase. He then took a seat in the corner of the departure lounge and thought about his actions during the past few days.
The Head of State Security hadn’t had a lot to offer. The truth — not that he was going to admit it — was that he had enough problems at home without worrying about what was going on abroad. He had supplied Al Obaydi with an out-of-date instruction book on what precautions any Iraqi citizen should take when in Europe, including not to shop at Marks and Spencers or to mix socially with foreigners, and an out-of-date collection of photographs of known Mossad and CIA agents active on the Continent. After looking through the photographs, Al Obaydi wouldn’t have been surprised to find that most of them had long retired, and that some had even died peacefully in their beds.
The following day, the Deputy Foreign Minister had been courteous without being friendly. He had given him some useful tips about how to conduct himself in Paris, including which embassies would be happy to deal with him despite their official position, and which would not. When it came to the Jordanian Embassy itself and the Iraqi annex, he gave Al Obaydi a quick briefing on the resident staff. He had left Miss Ahmed there to guarantee some sort of continuity. He described her as willing and conscientious, the cook as awful but friendly, and the driver as stupid but brave. His only guarded warning was to be wary of Abdul Kanuk, the Chief Administrator, a wonderful title which did not describe his true position, his only qualification being that he was a distant cousin of the President. The Deputy Foreign Minister was careful not to voice a personal opinion, but his eyes told Al Obaydi everything he needed to know. As he left, the Minister’s secretary, Miss Saib, had presented him with another file. This one turned out to be full of useful information about how to get by in Paris without many friends. Places where he would be made welcome and others he should avoid.
Perhaps Miss Saib should have listed Sweden as somewhere to avoid.
Al Obaydi felt little apprehension about the trip, as he had no intention of remaining in Sweden for more than a few hours. He had already contacted the chief engineer of Svenhalte AC, who assured him he had made no mention of his earlier call to Mr. Riffat when he returned that afternoon. He was also able to confirm that Madame Bertha, as he kept calling the safe, was definitely on her way to Baghdad.
“Would passengers traveling to Stockholm...” Al Obaydi made his way through the departure lounge to the exit gate and, after his boarding pass had been checked, was shown to a window seat in economy. This section of the journey would not be presented as a claim against expenses.
On the flight across northern Europe, Al Obaydi’s mind drifted from his work in Baghdad back to the weekend, which he had spent with his mother and sister. It was they who had helped him make the final decision. His mother had no interest in leaving their comfortable little home on the outskirts of Baghdad, and even less in moving to Paris. So now Al Obaydi accepted that he could never hope to escape: his only future rested in trying to secure a position of power within the Foreign Ministry. He didn’t doubt that he could now perform a service for the President that would make him indispensable in Saddam’s eyes; it might even present him with the chance of becoming the next Foreign Minister. After all, the Deputy was due for retirement in a couple of years, and sudden promotion never surprised anyone in Baghdad.
When the plane landed at Stockholm, Al Obaydi disembarked, using the diplomatic channel to escape quickly.
The journey to Kalmar by taxi took just over three hours, and the newly appointed Ambassador spent most of the time gazing aimlessly out of the grubby window, pondering the unfamiliar sight of green hills and gray skies. When the taxi finally came to a halt outside the works entrance of Svenhalte AC, Al Obaydi was greeted by the sight of a man in a long brown coat who looked as if he had been standing there for some time.
Al Obaydi noticed that the man had a worried expression on his face. But it turned to a smile the moment the Ambassador stepped out of the car.
“How agreeable to meet you, Mr. Al Obaydi,” said the chief engineer in English, the tongue he felt they would both feel most comfortable in. “My name is Pedersson. Won’t you please come to my office?”
After Pedersson had ordered coffee — how nice to taste cappuccino again, Al Obaydi thought — his first question proved just how anxious he was.
“I hope we did not do wrong?”
“No, no,” said Al Obaydi, who had himself been put at ease by the chief engineer’s gushing words and obvious anxiety. “I assure you this is only a routine check.”
“Mr. Riffat was in possession of all the correct documents, both from the UN and from your government.”
Al Obaydi was becoming painfully aware that he was dealing with a group of highly trained professionals.
“You say they left here on Wednesday afternoon?” Al Obaydi asked, trying to sound casual.
“Yes, that is correct.”
“How long do you imagine it will take them to reach Baghdad?”
“At least a week, perhaps ten days in that old truck, if they make it at all.”
Al Obaydi looked puzzled. “An old truck?”
“Yes, they came to pick up Madame Bertha in an old army truck. Though, I must confess, the engine had a good sound to it. I took a picture for my album. Would you like to see it?”
“A picture of the truck?” said Al Obaydi.
“Yes, from my window, with Mr. Riffat standing by the safe. They didn’t notice.”
Pedersson opened the drawer of his desk and took out several pictures. He pushed them across his desk with the same pride that another man might have displayed when showing a stranger snapshots of his family.
Al Obaydi studied the photographs carefully. Several of them showed Madame Bertha being lowered onto the truck.
“There is a problem?” asked Pedersson.
“No, no,” said Al Obaydi, and added, “Would it be possible to have copies of these photographs?”
“Oh yes, please keep them, I have many,” said the chief engineer, pointing to the open drawer.
Al Obaydi picked up his briefcase, opened it and placed the pictures in a flap at the front before removing some photographs of his own.