“Spell yourself, my good man,” Paddington told him expansively, “after you supply me with a martini, of course.”
The bartender nodded. “And you, sir?” he asked Wong.
“My American friend doesn’t drink when he’s working,” said Paddington. “And as he is always working, he doesn’t drink.”
“A slight exaggeration,” said Wong. “But I do not wish a drink.”
The bartender mixed a martini, very light on vermouth, two olives, a sliver of lemon, then removed himself through a door somewhat disguised as a panel at the side of the room.
“So what brings the world expert on Russian weapons system to the notorious Club Habanas Saudi?” Paddington asked after the waiter had left.
“I need to confirm a theory,” said Wong.
“About Saddam, I suppose.”
“Perhaps,” said Wong cautiously. “We’re dealing with code-word material.”
“Naturally.” Paddington sniffed the air, as if the dampness had suddenly run out.
“Speculative code-word material,” added Wong.
“Quite.”
Wong knew that the MI-5 intelligence expert had all of the necessary clearances to receive Pentagon and CentCom briefings on every aspect of the war. He was also well aware that mentioning that the material was classified would insult Paddington somewhat, as it vaguely called into question his ability to keep a secret. But that was his point. In Wong’s experience, Sir Peter worked at his peak only when insulted.
The summary Wong proceeded with left out many details — including the existence of Fort Apache, the behind-the-lines support base recently abandoned by U.S. special operations troops. He was also vague about the exact location of Al Kajuk, the village in Iraq where he had been just a few hours below, noting only that it was near the Euphrates and within “a fifty mile parabola” west of Baghdad.
“You still like those big words,” said Paddington. “Why can’t you say, ‘circle’?”
“That would not be precise,” said Wong. “I was referring to the intersection of…”
“Yes, quite. I remember my grammar school geometry.” He swept his hand contemptuously. “You want to know if it’s within the area he uses to hide? Of course it is.”
Wong nodded and told him about the Iraqis he had come across outside the village. The men had been Christians and seemingly related — they looked like cousins if not brothers. The commander had been carrying documents that indicated someone or something named Straw would be at the site at midnight January 26.
At the word “Straw,” Paddington put down his drink. “I see. Yes.”
“I thought it was one of their code words.”
“I didn’t say it was,” noted Paddington.
“Of course not,” said Wong.
“This couldn’t have been a very elite unit if you escaped, eh, Bristol?” Sir Peter laughed and put down his martini glass on the bar. “Christians. Well, they are undoubtedly one of the small special groups Saddam uses, beyond doubt. Yes. You have unit identification?”
“They had sanitized uniforms.”
“Oh, quite interesting. Yes. But their purpose could be one of several. Not least of which would be guarding the Scuds which I presume you had actually be sent to investigate.”
“There was a regular unit and a Republican Guard attachment handling that,” said Wong.
“Eh,” said Paddington with a noncommittal swagger of his head. “The more the merrier, eh?”
“There’s been a marked pick up in coded radio transmissions from the area in the past twenty-four hours,” said Wong, who had checked before delivering his report to Knowlington. “And one with the word ‘straw’ in it.”
“Humph,” said Paddington.
“My question is this: If Saddam were planning on staying at the village, would an attack on the Scud missiles there deter him?”
“A reasonable question,” admitted Paddington. He stared at the wall, as if visualizing the Iraqi leader. Then he reached to the bar and took up his drink, draining it. “Let me tell you something about this area of Iraq.” Paddington frowned at the empty glass. “Saddam has had trouble ensuring the loyalty of some of his, shall we call them lesser government ministers? And so he taken to holding some of their families hostage. And in other cases, not bothering to hold them hostage. He has also had revolts among his Shiite brethren, and is treating them with even less delicacy.”
“I saw no signs of a slaughter,” said Wong.
“You wouldn’t, would you? Unless you knew what to look for. And in any event, I suspect you were occupied with other matters. He uses units from diverse areas, basically as far away and as uninvolved as possible. He is not, as you Americans would put it, a schmuck. That would be my first suspicion here. Though I admit the area, so close to Baghdad, makes me suspicious. Most of the Shiites are located elsewhere, and the ministers are in Baghdad and to the north. But, of course, generalities. From the intercept and these notes, yes, it is possible.”
“How likely?”
“Always looking for your percentages, eh?”
“You’re the one who calculates the odds.”
“Fifty-fifty. Perhaps higher in your favor. But I would say it is also possible that it is a decoy. He has several and the procedures are exactly the same.”
“What would you look for?”
“His Mercedes,” said Paddington. “And then, if you find it, I would look in exactly the opposite direction. He doesn’t use the official car outside the capital — except when he does. No schmuck, as I say.” Paddington got up and went over to the bar, where he opened a bottle of dry vermouth, set it down on the bar top, then carefully ran his overturned martini glass around the mouth of the bottle to catch the fumes. Satisfied, he plopped in two olives from a tray and filled the glass to the rim with gin. He waved a lemon peel over it and then held the glass to his lips.
“Cheers,” he told Wong.
“Your health.”
“Nothing like a martini,” Paddington said after a long sip. “I would look for a station wagon with a red crescent, international aid vehicle, inside a small military convoy. That will be where he is, ordinarily. No tanks, perhaps an armored car or two. Mostly he fears a single assassin or a demonstration, an attack that would be best handled by foot soldiers traveling in trucks. He has experience.” Paddington took a delicate sip from his glass, not quite finishing it. “He might travel with upwards of a company’s worth of men. He does not want to draw too much attention to himself, of course. On the other hand, there would be forces where he was going.”
“Would he avoid a place that had just been bombed?”
Paddington smiled. “The key question.”
“And the key answer?”
“You don’t mean that as a joke, do you Bristol?”
“No,” said Wong.
“Pity.” Sir Peter finished his martini. “My estimation is that Saddam would think that was just the place to be. He is very superstitious. And, I must say, the pattern of your bombing so far bears him out, except in Baghdad itself. The more you attack a place, the safer he feels it is. Logical, in a way.”
“What about the ambush of his advance people?”
“That is trickier.” Paddington stepped back to the bar. “The Iraqis seem to be aware that there are commandos operating in their territory, but their responses are a puzzle. Unfortunately, one of the consequences of bombing the C-3 network so efficiently is that there are fewer broadcasts to intercept. Human intelligence is worthless. I’m honestly not sure. He might think it a good sign, he might not. It would depend on whether the Iraqis felt it was related. If they thought it was part of an earlier attack, it might not change things.”