Honour Among Thieves

internal number of his superior. Hannah returned to her room and began typing up the dictation slowly, at the same time trying to commit the salient points to memory. Forty-five minutes later she placed a single copy of the report on the Minister's desk. He read the script carefully, adding the occasional note in his own hand. When he was satisfied that the memo fully covered the meeting that had taken place that morning, he set off down the corridor to rejoin the Foreign Minister. Hannah returned to her desk, aware that the team bringing the safe from Sweden were moving inexorably towards Saddam's trap. And if they had received her postcard ... When Al Obaydi landed in Jordan, he could not help feeling a sense of triumph. Once he had passed through customs at Queen Alia airport and was out on the road, he selected the most modern taxi he could find. The old seventies Chevy had no air conditioning and showed 187,000 miles on the clock. He asked the driver to take him to the Iraqi border as quickly as possible. The car never left the slow lane on its six-hour journey to the border, and because of the state of the roads Al Obaydi was unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. When the driver eventually reached the highway, he still couldn't go much faster because of the oil that had been spilt from lorries carrying loads they had illegally picked up in Basra, to sell at four times the price in Amman. Loads that Al Obaydi had assured the United Nations Assembly time and again were a figment of the Western world's imagination. He also became aware of trucks travelling in the opposite direction that were full of food that he knew would be sold to black-marketeers, long before any of it reached Baghdad. Al Obaydi checked his watch. If the driver kept going at this speed he wouldn't reach the border before the customs post closed at midnight. When Scott landed at Queen Alia airport later that day and stepped on to the tarmac, the first thing that hit him was a temperature of ninety-five degrees. Even dressed in an open-neck shirt, jeans and sneakers, he felt roasted before he had reached the airport terminal. Once he'd entered the building, he was relieved to find it was air conditioned, and his one bag came up on the carousel just as quickly as it would have done in the States. He checked his watch and changed it to Central Eastern time. The immigration officer hadn't seen many Swedish passports before, but as his father had been an engineer, he wished Mr Bernstrom a successful trip. As Scott strolled through the green channel, he was stopped by a customs official who was chewing something. He instructed the foreigner to open his bulky canvas bag. After rummaging around inside, the only thing the officer showed any interest in was a long, thin cardboard tube that had been wedged along the bottom of the bag. Scott removed the cap on the end of the tube, pulled out the contents and unrolled a large poster, which was greeted by the official with such puzzled amazement that he even stopped chewing for a moment. He waved Scott through. Once Scott had reached the main concourse, he walked out onto the road in search of a taxi. He studied the motley selection of cars that were parked by the side of the pavement. They made New York Yellow Cabs look like luxury limousines. He instructed the driver parked at the front of the queue to take him to the Roman theatre in the centre of the city. The eleven-mile journey into Amman took forty minutes, and when Scott was dropped outside the third-century theatre he handed the driver two ten-dinar notes -.enough, the experts at Langley had told him, to cover the cost of the trip. The driver pocketed the notes but did not smile. Scott checked his watch. He was still well in time for the planned reunion. He walked straight past the ancient monument that was, according to his guidebook, well worth a visit. As instructed by Kratz, he then proceeded west for three blocks, occasionally having to step off the pavement into the road to avoid the bustling crowds. When he reached a Shell petrol station he turned right, leaving the noisy shoppers behind. He then took the second turning on the left, and after that another to the right. The roads became less crowded with locals and more full of potholes with each stride he took. Another left, followed by another right, and he found himself entering the promised cul-de-sac. At the end of the road, when he could go no further, he came to a halt