Al Obaydi admired the way his superior could always make the term “my master” sound both deferential and insolent at the same time.
“I must send a message to Baghdad to acquaint the Foreign Minister with the details of your triumph,” added the Ambassador with a smile.
Al Obaydi would also have smiled, but he realized the Ambassador would not admit to any personal involvement with the project while it was still in its formative stage. As long as he distanced himself from his younger colleague for the time being, the Ambassador could continue his undisturbed existence in New York until his retirement fell due in three years’ time. By following such a course he had survived almost fourteen years of Saddam Hussein’s reign while many of his colleagues had conspicuously failed to become eligible for their state pension. To his knowledge one had been shot in front of his family, two hanged and several others posted as “missing,” whatever that meant.
The Iraqi Ambassador smiled as his British counterpart walked past him, but he received no response for his trouble.
“Stuck-up snob,” the Arab muttered under his breath.
The Ambassador pulled his earpiece back over his ear to indicate that he had heard quite enough from his number two. He continued to listen to the problems of trying to preserve the rain forests of Brazil, coupled with a request for a further grant from the UN of a hundred million dollars.
Not something he felt Sayedi would be interested in.
Hannah would have knocked on the front door of the little terraced house, but it was opened even before she had closed the broken gate at the end of the pathway. A dark-haired, slightly overweight lady, heavily made-up and with a beaming smile, came bustling out to greet her. Hannah supposed she was about the same age as her mother would have been, had Mama still been alive.
“Welcome to England, my dear. I’m Ethel Rubin,” she announced in gushing tones. “I’m only sorry my husband’s not here to meet you, but I don’t expect him back from his chambers for another hour.” Hannah was about to speak when Ethel added, “But first let me show you your room, and then you can tell me all your plans.” She picked up one of Hannah’s bags and led her inside. “It must be such fun seeing London for the first time,” she said as they climbed the stairs, “and there will be so many exciting things for you to do during the next six months.”
As each sentence poured out Hannah became aware that Ethel Rubin had no idea why she was in London.
After she had unpacked and taken a shower Hannah joined her hostess in the sitting room. Mrs. Rubin chatted on, barely listening to Hannah’s intermittent replies.
“Do you know where the nearest gym is?” Hannah had asked.
“My husband should be back at any moment,” Mrs. Rubin replied. But before she could get the next sentence out the front door swung open and a man of about five foot three with dark, wiry hair and even darker eyes almost ran into the room. Once Peter Rubin had introduced himself and asked how her flight had been he didn’t waste any words suggesting that Hannah might have come to London to enjoy the social life of the metropolis. Hannah quickly learned that Peter Rubin didn’t ask any questions he realized she couldn’t answer truthfully. Although Hannah felt sure Mr. Rubin knew no details of her mission, he was obviously aware that she hadn’t come to London on a package vacation.
Mrs. Rubin, however, didn’t allow Hannah to get to bed until well after midnight, by which time she was exhausted. Once her head had touched the pillow she slept soundly, unaware of Peter Rubin explaining to his wife in the kitchen that in the future their guest must be left in peace.
Chapter Three
The Deputy Ambassador’s chauffeur slipped out of the UN’s private garage and headed west through the Lincoln Tunnel under the Hudson in the direction of New Jersey. Neither Al Obaydi nor he spoke for several minutes while the driver continually checked his rearview mirror. Once they were on the New Jersey Turnpike he confirmed that no one was following them.
“Good,” was all Al Obaydi offered. He began to relax for the first time that day, and started to fantasize about what he might do if the ten million dollars were suddenly his. When they had passed a branch of the Midlantic National Bank earlier, he had asked himself for the thousandth time why he didn’t just stop the car and deposit the money in a false name. He could be halfway across the globe by the following morning. That would certainly make his Ambassador sweat. And, with an ounce of luck, Saddam would be dead long before they caught up with him. And then who would care?
After all, Al Obaydi didn’t believe, not even for one moment, that the great leader’s outrageous plan was feasible. He had been hoping to report back to Baghdad after a reasonable period of time that no one reliable or efficient enough could be found to carry out such a bold coup. And then the Lebanese gentleman had flown into New York.
There were two reasons why Al Obaydi knew he could not touch one dollar of the money stuffed into the golf bag that rested on the seat beside him. First, there were his mother and younger sister, who resided in Baghdad in relative comfort and who, if the money suddenly disappeared, would be arrested, raped, tortured and hanged — the only explanation being that they had collaborated with a traitor. Not that Saddam ever needed an excuse to kill anyone, especially someone he suspected might have betrayed him.
Secondly, Al Obaydi — who fell on his knees five times daily, faced east and prayed that Saddam would eventually die a traitor’s death — could not help observing that Gorbachev, Thatcher and Bush had found it considerably more difficult than the great Sayedi to cling to power.
Al Obaydi had accepted from the moment he had been handed this assignment by the Ambassador that Saddam would undoubtedly die peacefully in his bed while his own chances of survival — the Ambassador’s favorite word — were slim. And once the money had been paid over, if Antonio Cavalli failed to carry out his side of the bargain, it would be Al Obaydi who was called back to Baghdad on some diplomatic pretext, arrested, summarily tried and found guilty. Then all those fine words his law professor at London University had uttered would turn out to be so much sand in the desert.
The driver swung off the turnpike and headed for the center of Newark as Al Obaydi’s thoughts returned to what the money was being used for. The idea had all the hallmarks of his President. It was original, required daring, raw courage and a fair degree of luck. Al Obaydi still gave the plan no more than a one percent chance of even reaching the starting blocks, let alone the finishing tape. But then, some people in the State Department had only given Saddam a one percent chance of surviving Operation Desert Storm. And if the great Sayedi could pull this off, the United States would become a laughingstock and Saddam would have guaranteed himself a place in Arab history alongside Saladin.
Although Al Obaydi had already checked the exact location of the building, he instructed the driver to stop two blocks west of his final destination. An Iraqi getting out of a large black limousine right in front of the bank would be enough of an excuse for Cavalli to pocket the money and cancel the deal. Once the car had stopped, Al Obaydi climbed over the golf bag and out onto the pavement on the curb side. Although he only had to cover a couple of hundred yards to the bank, this was the one part of the journey that he considered was a calculated risk. He checked up and down the street. Satisfied, he dragged the golf bag out onto the pavement and humped it up onto his shoulder.
The Deputy Ambassador felt he must have looked an incongruous sight as he marched down Martin Luther King Drive in a Saks Fifth Avenue suit with a golf bag slung over his shoulder.