‘You look a little distraught Rashid. I can’t take you back home until you’ve had a chance to recover; it would give your mother a fright. Let’s go and get a drink.’ He called out an address to his driver and the car set off. Rashid stared out of the window as the street scene passed by, trying to come to terms with his reprieve. Already the experience seemed to be some kind of unreal dream. The car stopped outside a well-known expensive coffee shop much frequented by the well-connected of Baghdad. Mansour lead him inside and waved casually to the proprietor who saluted him respectfully, and then showed them through to a small private room at the back.
The room had four armchairs and little tables with ashtrays. Mansour brought out a pack of Marlboro Lights and offered one to Rashid, who shook his head. The door opened and the proprietor came in with four cans of Heineken beer and two glasses. ‘I thought you could do with a real drink after that experience,’ said Mansour pouring out beer for the two of them. ‘How are you feeling now?’
Rashid drank deeply, savouring the familiar drink. ‘Better now, thank you.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know why they thought I knew anything.’
‘Well you had already told me you didn’t.’ Hakim Mansour paused. ‘You’re absolutely sure about that, are you? Nothing has jogged your memory at all? Anything that the American Colonel White might have said?’
‘No. Nothing at all,’ Rashid insisted.
‘Ok.’ Mansour slapped his pockets and pulled out a phone. ‘Excuse me a minute. A quick call.’
He left the room and dialled a number. ‘Hello Rukan. I was listening in the whole time, but tell me what you thought of his replies?’
‘He told his story without any hesitations, he answered repeated questions the same but with slight differences so there was no hint of any coaching. I think you can trust in what he says.’
‘Very good, he clearly doesn’t know anything, but thanks for trying.’
‘Perhaps you can explain what it’s all about to me one day,’ Khalifa suggested.
‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ Mansour replied. ‘Until then don’t ask any more questions, eh. Thank you. Goodbye.’
Mansour broke the connection and frowned. Rukan Khalifa was too damned inquisitive. Perhaps it had been a mistake to involve him. Maybe he could be silenced somehow. He went back into the room and smiled at Rashid. ‘Ok. Let’s finish these beers and then I’ll take you home.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Ali Hamsin, would you do me the pleasure of visiting me at my house after you have finished your work this evening?’
Ali looked up and saw Hakim Mansour in his office doorway. He nodded. ‘Of course sir.’
‘Good! I’ll see you later, six o’clock.’ Mansour smiled and closed the door.
Hamsin wondered why Hakim Mansour wanted to see him, but perhaps a visit to his home at least suggested that he was in favour. He was sorry that none of his colleagues were there to witness the invitation, especially one bestowed in person, for in the uncertain world of office politics it was just as well for everyone to know that you were well regarded. Damn! He had invited Professor Khordi for the evening; he would have to postpone his visit until tomorrow. After an apologetic telephone call to his friend he walked quickly through the dark streets and at precisely 6pm he rang the bell on Mansour’s outside gate. He was amazed when his host answered the door himself.
‘It’s the servants’ day off,’ Mansour explained. ‘They all have the same day this week; someone’s engagement party or something. Come in and have a beer.’
He ushered Ali through to his office and sat him down in one of his armchairs. They talked about the weather for a while, and Mansour asked Ali about his family and all his relatives in Baghdad.
‘Now this document your son brought across the border. As you may have guessed it’s the culmination of my discussions with Bruckner and Fielding in Frankfurt.’
‘Yes of course, but I wish Rashid had not been involved,’ Ali replied.
‘I’m sure, but I needed someone I could trust, someone unconnected with the government and he seemed an obvious choice. Do you remember when all this began? When that odious man Rumsfeld came over in 1983, which was when we first met Bruckner. I was a young man of about thirty-five, just promoted to a deputy in the Interior Ministry. You must have been about twenty-five years old then, and Rashid had just been born?’
‘That’s right sir.’ Ali felt a small prickle of anxiety creeping up his spine as he remembered driving Mansour’s limousine to a quiet street and then translating their conversation.
‘Over the years you’ve proved to me that you’re someone who I can trust not to betray a secret; I appreciate that quality in a man.’
‘Thank you,’ Ali replied, trying not to think about the reprisals that would follow a betrayal.
Mansour opened his safe and drew out a document case made of thick leather-like material. There was a zip fastener covered by a flap with a series of holes. Through the holes ran two lengths of multi-stranded wire joined at each end and each join was crimped together and covered by a lump of red wax with a palm tree symbol stamped in it.
‘Although I was responsible for drawing up the agreement, I want to check the contents of the package and have a read through it before handing it over to the boss tomorrow, just to make sure there are no mistakes or surprises. Also it might prove useful in the future if I have my own personal copy.’ He gazed at Ali. ‘Unfortunately I’m under strict instructions not too read it before handing it over.’
Ali stared at the case, fearful of what Mansour was about to do. ‘Surely it is much safer if you follow orders. You’re not going to open it are you? I don’t want to be involved!’
‘Ali you’ve been involved ever since that meeting back in 1983. Now come with me.’
He carried the case through to his garage and checked the front door was locked. Ali watched him pick up some cutters and as close to the seals as possible he severed the wires and unthreaded them. He unzipped the leather case and pulled out the documents from inside. The top page consisted of a large printed symbol which meant nothing to Ali, and underneath the word GILGAMESH. He put it to one side and looked at the other pages.
‘As I expected, they’re all written in English. As you know I can speak it fairly well, but I can barely read it. I should have taken more trouble I know, but when there are excellent people like you about… well I never saw the need. Come down into the basement.’
Mansour lead him down stairs and unlocked a big wooden trunk and threw back the lid. He grinned at Ali. ‘Another secret I’m happy to say.’
He took out armfuls of cloth, old sheets and towels, until he exposed the lid of an old photocopier. He plugged it in and tried out one of the sheets. The machine groaned and wheezed but after a few seconds it churned out a decent reproduction. Ali passed the pages to him one at a time and collated the copies.
‘There, now back to the kitchen.’
He put the documents back inside the leather case and closed up the zip. He heated the wire up until the wax began to melt and he could pull the seals off. Then he re-joined the wire with the same crimps and replaced the seals, smoothing the wax with a hot knife but leaving the palm tree symbols untouched. Ali looked on in amazement.
‘How do you know how to do that?’ he asked.
‘Skills I learned thirty years ago, in the… the interior ministry, shall we say. There; it might not look precisely the same as before, but only you and I know that.’