It was getting dark. Graham switched the light on and drew the curtains. The editing suite — actually the back bedroom of their house in Edgbaston — was directly above the kitchen, and he could hear Joan moving about downstairs, putting the finishing touches to dinner.
‘The 3,000 metre runways,’ said his voice on the tape, ‘were built behind mounds of desert clay, making them invisible to all but the closest observers.’
April 1987
In the jeep taking them from Qalat Saleh to the test site, the Iraqi general had asked Mark for his opinion.
‘Not bad,’ said Mark. ‘Although the crew quarters seemed rather vulnerable.’
The general shrugged. ‘You can’t have everything. Men are easier to replace than machines.’
‘You think those blast doors are safe?’
‘We think so,’ said the general. He laughed and put his arm around Mark. ‘I know, you only wanted us to buy them from the British because they were more expensive.’
‘Far from it. I’m a patriot, that’s all.’
The general laughed again, louder than ever. Over the years he had come to appreciate Mark’s sense of humour. ‘You’re so old-fashioned,’ he teased. ‘We are living in an age of internationalism. These bases are a testament to that. Swiss airlocks, German generators, Italian doors, British communication systems, French hangars. What could be more cosmopolitan?’
Mark didn’t answer. His eyes were hidden behind mirror sunglasses which reflected nothing but desert.
‘A patriot!’ said the general, still chuckling over the joke.
The test was noisy but gratifying. They watched from a bunker dug deep into the sand as the target area, set up to resemble convoys of Iranian tanks, exploded with deafening blasts of fire from the 155mm GCTs positioned more than twenty kilometres away. The guns were performing more accurately than even Mark would have thought possible, and as he saw the general’s eyes light up with excitement, he knew that he was going to make an easy sale. They were both in excellent humour as the driver took them back to Baghdad.
‘You know, it’s not that our leader doesn’t admire your country,’ said the general, returning to the subject of Mark’s patriotism. ‘It’s just that you make it difficult for him to trust you. So it’s a sort of love-hate thing with him. Our armies are still using manuals prepared by your War College. We still send our men to be trained at your air bases, and draw upon the expertise of your SAS. There is nothing better than a British military education. I should know: I was at Sandhurst myself. If only your military genius were backed up by honourable intentions in the diplomatic field.’
Before returning to central Baghdad, they detoured to the Diyala Chemical Laboratory in Salman Pak, where a plant for the manufacture of nerve gas had been established under the guise of a university research facility. It was Mark’s third or fourth visit, but as they were waved through the heavily guarded entrance gates and escorted to one of the labs, he could not help being impressed, as before, by the scale and efficiency of the operation.
‘German engineering is the best in the world, there is no doubt about it,’ said the general. ‘And you know why? Because they are not just a nation of opportunists. There are people in Germany who really believe in what we are trying to achieve in Iraq. There’s something there that the British could learn from. You and I are not old enough to remember the days before ’58, when nearly all of our equipment used to come from Great Britain, but it’s possible to be nostalgic for such an arrangement. There can be no dignity when business has to be done clandestinely, behind closed doors. We want allies, you see. We want relationships. But all you are interested in is doing deals.’
As they continued their tour, the general explained why he had brought Mark back to the laboratory. Nervous of the side-effects of the highly volatile chemicals, they wanted to find a contractor who could install a new air cleaning plant.
‘I’m pleased to hear you’re so concerned about environmental protection,’ said Mark.
His friend seemed to like this joke even more than the one about patriotism.
‘Well, we must give our technicians the best possible working conditions,’ he said. ‘After all, they are making important researches in the field of veterinary science.’
As if to illustrate his point, he took Mark past the animal house on their way back to the vehicle. For a while their conversation was drowned out by the howling of the beagles which would be used to test the effectiveness of the nerve gas agents. A nearby garbage dump was piled high with the corpses of their predecessors.
May 1987
Mark did not have to look far to find his air cleaning plant. He went to a senior German industrialist who had already sent equipment over to the Salman Pak laboratory and had proved himself a reliable, prompt supplier. Mark always enjoyed visiting his country house in the Rhine valley, where the contracts would be signed in a magnificent study beneath a large, gold-framed portrait of Hitler, and tea would be served by his beautiful young daughter. And today, as a sign of special favour, he was offered some extra entertainment, when the industrialist unlocked a cabinet containing a reel-to-reel tape recorder, wired up to a speaker which had been mounted inside a radio console of 1930s vintage. When he started the tape a familiar voice could be heard, and for the next ten minutes the Führer himself, in full oratorical flight, roared out through the bay windows, across the summer lawns and down to the sparkling river’s very edge.
‘I can still remember where I was when I heard that speech,’ said the industrialist, when the tape was over. ‘Sitting in my mother’s kitchen. The windows open. The play of light on the table. The air filled with hope and energy. A fabulous time. Well — why shouldn’t an old man be allowed to get a little wistful about his youth now and again? Some people do it with a trite, romantic poem or sentimental song. For me it will always be that wonderful voice.’ He closed the cabinet door and locked it carefully. ‘Saddam Hussein is a good man,’ he said. ‘He makes me feel young again. It’s an honour to help him. But I don’t suppose you’d understand that: you were born into an age when principles have ceased to mean anything.’
‘If that concludes our business, Herr —’
‘You’re a puzzle to me, Mr Winshaw. To me, and to many others who are old enough to have served the Reich, and who were well acquainted with your family name long before you appeared on our doorsteps.’
Mark rose to his feet and picked up his briefcase. He appeared not to be interested.
‘I know exactly what Saddam Hussein is making at his so-called research facility. I also know that Israel will be his first target. This is why I support him, of course. He will resume a process of cleansing which we were never allowed to complete. Do you take my meaning, Mr Winshaw?’
‘I make a habit,’ said Mark, ‘of not inquiring into the uses—’
‘Come now, there’s no need to be modest. You’re a qualified engineer: a chemical engineer. I’m well aware that you’ve been instrumental in helping one of our largest firms to supply Iraq with quantities of Zyklon B, for instance. The cleansing process of which I spoke depends upon the free circulation of such commodities, and yet our own laws, placed under absurd international constraints, prohibit us from exporting them. And so, ironically, it’s left to men like you — bounty hunters — to keep our ideals alive.’ He watched for Mark’s response, but saw none. ‘You do know where Zyklon B is manufactured, don’t you?’