Mansour picked up the sheaf of photocopied papers and gazed down at them. ‘So these are the papers that were brought across the border by your son. I would like you to translate them into Arabic for me. Read it to me now and then take it home and write it down. Then bring both versions back to me this evening.’ He handed them over. Ali took his glasses out of his jacket pocket and began to read out in Arabic. His hands began to tremble and he had to put the pages down on a small table. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief as he came to the end and gazed at Mansour.
‘Excellent! Thank you Ali. Now go home and write out that translation. How long do you need? I have to deliver the original to the boss in twenty minutes time, I’ll probably be a couple of hours so can you be back here at eleven?’
Ali nodded nervously. He wasn’t going to say anything at first but then blurted out ‘If this gets into the wrong hands, it will be… death for many people! For me, my family… even you, perhaps even…’
‘I know I know… quiet now Ali; that’s enough.’
Hakim Mansour watched Hamsin walk down the street, around the corner and out of sight. He had ordered him not to hail a taxi until he was at least a kilometre away from his house, and to observe similar precautions on his return. Then he swallowed a tranquiliser with the last of his beer, picked up the document case and drove his Mercedes to his appointment with Qusay Hussein.
The President’s son was in a good mood. He ushered Mansour into his private sitting room and to show how much he trusted him, he ordered all but two of his bodyguards to leave. Mansour knew that these two were deaf, having been too close to explosions in combat zones and he could speak freely in their presence. Qusay poured out two glasses of Scotch and handed one to Mansour. They exchanged small talk for a while until Qusay drained his glass and put it down on the table and Mansour knew it was time to get down to important matters.
‘Yesterday morning as you instructed, I met the Americans down by the border,’ Mansour announced. ‘The courier handed over the document in this leather folder, which I now present to you. I trust it will meet your requirements.’
He handed over the document case and Qusay Hussein inspected the seals. ‘Who brought the folder over from Saudia?’ he asked.
‘I sent Rukan Khalifa to fetch it over; I was told he is to be trusted, but having met him I cannot vouch for his discretion,’ he replied. ‘His driver was Tariq Kayal.’
Qusay nodded thoughtfully. He pulled a small leather note book out of his pocket, picked up a gold Cross ballpoint pen off the table and wrote the names down. ‘So nobody besides you and he can have held the case then.’
‘No sir,’ Mansour replied.
‘Very good. I am sorry that I had to delay our meeting until this evening. The President insisted on remaining in Tikrit to see some old friends.’ They discussed mutual friends and acquaintances for a while but Mansour could see Qusay Hussein’s glance kept returning to the document case and sure enough after a few minutes his boss said ‘Now I will detain you no further, Hakim. Thank you once again for your good offices. We will meet again tomorrow when I have looked over this.’
After his trusted lieutenant had departed, Qusay Hussein picked up Hakim Mansour’s empty glass and took it and the leather document case into his private study. He inspected the seals and then cut through the wire. Then he called for his personal security chief, Kamal Ahwadi, to see him. He handed him the whisky glass and the top sheet of the document.
‘Kamal, take this piece of paper and see if there are any fingerprints that match those on this glass.’
‘Yes sir.’
When he was alone he read carefully through the documents, nodding in approval from time to time. The document was satisfactory in most respects. Mansour and the Americans had done a good job. After twenty minutes there was a knock on the door and he admitted his security chief. ‘Yes Kamal.’
‘There are matching fingerprints, sir. The man who held the glass also held the paper.’
Qusay Hussein gave an irritated sigh. He had intended that Mansour should see the document tomorrow, but he had disobeyed instructions. Despite his unquestioned loyalty he deserved a good dressing down. ‘Hakim Mansour is driving back to his house. I want him brought back here immediately,’ he ordered.
‘Yes sir.’
‘Oh, Kamal, another matter. There are two people called Rukan Khalifa and Tariq Kayal who work in your department. Do you know who they are?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘They are traitors.’
‘Very good sir, then I’ll take care of them.’
Hakim Mansour was watching a film entitled The Road to Perdition which had been released last year. It was an illegal copy but the quality was fairly good and the Arabic subtitles were well written. He heard the outer door alarm go off and he touched the pause button. That must be Ali Hamsin with the completed translation.
He recoiled in consternation when he saw the familiar face of Qusay Hussein’s henchman through the spy hole in the door. It was too late to pretend he was not at home because the security lights had flashed on as he walked into the garden and his car was parked outside. He opened the door. ‘Good evening, Ahwadi. Can I help you?’
‘You’re wanted back by the boss.’
‘What? Now?’
‘Immediately!’
‘Very good. I wonder what he wants. I’ve already seen him this evening. Have you any idea what it’s about?’ He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice but he was not surprised when Kamal Ahwadi did not reply. ‘I’ll just get my jacket then.’
Hakim Mansour had worked for Qusay Hussein for long enough to have taken certain precautions. He hurried back inside and took off his expensive Swiss watch, and strapped on one with a poison capsule concealed in it. Then he put on his coat and went outside where Kamal politely held open his car door. ‘Are you coming along?’ Mansour asked.
‘No I have another errand sir,’ the security man replied. He watched a worried Hakim Mansour drive away and then he went inside to search his house. The only suspicious object he found was an old photocopier concealed in an ancient wooden trunk. Hakim Mansour should not have a photocopier at home, but Kamal knew that if he reported the find to Qusay Hussein he would have to explain why he had not discovered it the previous occasion when he had snooped around Mansour’s house. A few minutes effort with a hack saw he found in a tool box and he had reduced the photocopier to smaller chunks. He opened the cover of the cess pit in the alley behind the house and dropped the pieces inside, then walked back round the front of the house and locked the front door. He gazed up and down the street before he climbed back into his Mercedes and drove away. If he had looked more carefully he would have seen the frightened figure of Ali Hamsin peering out from between two houses further down the road.
CHAPTER SIX
Ali Hamsin sat back in his chair and took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. He had been sleeping badly in the four weeks since Hakim Mansour had given him the photocopy to translate. The following day the announcement had been made that Mansour had died from a heart attack. Ali had not felt safe since that evening. Every day of the following week he had sat fearfully at his desk expecting to be summoned before some faceless committee of inquiry, and every evening at home he had gone to bed in a state of nervous exhaustion. Tabitha had tearfully asked him what was wrong. He had told her that he had learned something that he should not have, and not to ask any further questions.