“Now I understand your profound wisdom, Sayedi.”
Saddam waved a hand and turned his attention to the Minister of Industry.
“Have my orders been carried out?” he asked.
“To the letter, Excellency. When the terrorists arrive at the Ministry, they will be made to wait, and will be treated curtly, until they produce the documentation that claims to come from your office.”
“They presented such a letter at the border,” interrupted General Hamil, still looking down at his file.
“The moment such a letter is presented to my office,” continued the Minister of Industry, “a crane will be supplied so that the safe can be transferred into this building. I fear that we will have to remove the doors on the front of the building, but only—”
“I am not interested in the doors,” said Saddam. “When do you anticipate the safe will arrive outside the building?”
“Around midday,” said General Hamil. “I shall personally take over the entire operation once the safe is inside the building, Mr. President.”
“Good. And make sure the terrorists see the Declaration before they are arrested.”
“What if they were to try to destroy the document, Excellency?” asked the Minister of the Interior, attempting to recover some lost ground.
“Never,” said Saddam. “They have come to Baghdad to steal the document, not to destroy their pathetic piece of history.” Two or three people around the table nodded their agreement. “None of you except General Hamil and his immediate staff will come anywhere near this building for the next twenty-four hours. The fewer people who know what’s really happening, the better. Don’t even brief the officer of the day. I want the security to appear lax. That way they will fall right into our trap.”
General Hamil nodded.
“Prosecutor,” said Saddam, turning his attention to the other end of the table, “what will the international community say when they learn I have arrested the Zionist pigs?”
“They are terrorists, Excellency, and for terrorists, there can be only one sentence. Especially after the Americans launched their missiles on innocent civilians only days before.”
Saddam smiled. “Any other questions?”
“Just one, Your Excellency,” said the Deputy Foreign Minister. “What do you want to do about the girl?”
“Ah, yes,” said Saddam, smiling for the first time. “Now that she has served her purpose, I must think of a suitable way to end her life. Where is she at the moment?”
As the truck began its slow journey back along the tiny desert path, with Aziz taking his turn behind the wheel and Cohen in the back with Madame Bertha, Scott felt the atmosphere inside the cab had changed. When they pulled off the highway to rest, he still believed they were in no real danger. But the grim silence of morning made him suddenly aware of the task they had set themselves.
They had Kratz to thank for the original idea, and mixed with his particular cocktail of imagination, discipline, courage and the assumption that no one knew what they were up to, Scott felt they had a better than even chance of getting away with it, especially now that they knew exactly where the Declaration was situated.
When they reached the main road, Aziz jokingly asked, “Right or left?”
Scott said “Left,” but Aziz turned dutifully right.
As they traveled along the highway towards Baghdad the sun shone from a cloudless sky that would have delighted any tourist board, although the burned-out tanks and the craters in the road might not have been considered obvious attractions. No one spoke as the miles sped by: there was no need for them to go over the plans another time. That would be like an Olympian training on the morning of a race — either too late, or no longer of any value.
For the last ten miles, they joined an expressway that was equal to anything they might have found in Germany. As they crossed a newly reconstructed bridge over the Euphrates, Scott began to wonder how close he was to Hannah, and whether he could get himself into the Foreign Ministry without alerting Kratz, let alone the Iraqis.
When they reached the outskirts of Baghdad, with its glistening skyscrapers and modern buildings, they could have been entering any major city in the world — until they saw the people. There were lines of cars at gas pumps in a land where the main asset was oil, but their length was dwarfed only by the lines for food. All four of them could see that sanctions were biting, however much Saddam denied it.
They drove nearer to the city center, along the road that passed under the Al-Naser, the massive archway of two crossed swords gripped by casts of Saddam’s hands. There was no need to direct Aziz to the Ministry of Industry. He wished he still lived in Baghdad, but he hadn’t entered the city since his father had been executed for his part in the failed coup of 1987. Looking out of the window at his countrymen, he could still smell their fear in his nostrils.
As they passed the bombed-out remains of the Mukhbarat headquarters, Scott noticed an unmanned ambulance parked outside the Iraqi intelligence center. It was strategically placed for the CNN television cameras rather than for any practical purpose, he suspected.
When Aziz saw the Ministry of Industry building looming up ahead of him, he pointed it out to Scott, who remembered the façade from the mass of photographs supplied by Kratz. But Scott’s eyes had moved up to the gun turrets on top of the Foreign Ministry, a mere stone’s throw away.
Aziz brought the truck to a halt a hundred yards beyond the entrance to the Ministry. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” Scott said as he jumped out of the cab and headed back towards the building.
As he climbed the steps to the Ministry, he did not see a man in a window of the building opposite who was speaking on the telephone to General Hamil.
“The truck has stopped about a hundred yards beyond the Ministry. A tall, fair-haired man who was in the front of the vehicle is now entering the building, but the other three, including Kratz, have remained with the safe.”
Scott pushed through the swing doors and strolled past two guards who looked as if they didn’t move more than a few feet every day. He walked over to the information desk and joined the shortest of three lines. The one-handed clock above the desk indicated that it was approximately 9:30.
It took another fifteen minutes before Scott reached the counter. He explained to the girl that his name was Bernstrom and that he needed to see Mr. Kajami.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“No,” said Scott. “We called from Jordan to warn him that a safe the government had ordered was on its way to Baghdad. He asked us to inform him the moment it arrived.”
“I will see if he’s in,” said the receptionist. Scott waited, staring up at a massive portrait of Saddam Hussein in uniform holding a Kalashnikov. It dominated the otherwise blank gray walls of the reception area.
The girl listened carefully to whoever it was on the other end of the phone before saying, “Someone will be down to see you in a few minutes.” She turned her attention to the next person in the line.
Scott hung around for another thirty minutes before a tall, thin man wearing a smart Western suit stepped out of the elevator and walked over to him.
“Mr. Bernstrom?”
“Yes,” said Scott, as he swung around to face the man.
“Good morning,” he said confidently in English. “I am Mr. Ibrahim, Mr. Kajami’s personal assistant. How can I help you?”
“I have brought a safe from Sweden,” said Scott. “It was ordered by the Ministry some years ago, but, due to the UN sanctions, could not be delivered any earlier. We were told that when we reached Baghdad we should report to Mr. Kajami.”
“Do you have any papers to verify your claim?”