Honour Among Thieves

outside a scrapyard. He smiled at the sight that greeted him. By the time Al Obaydi reached the border, it was already pitch dark. All three lanes leading to the customs post were bumper to bumper with waiting lorries, covered with tarpaulins for the night. The taxi driver came to a halt at the barrier and explained to his passenger that he would have to hire an Iraqi cab once he was on the other side. Al Obaydi thanked the driver and gave him a handsome tip before going to the front of the queue outside the customs shed. A tired official gave him a languid look and told him the border was closed for the night. Al Obaydi presented his diplomatic passport and the official quickly stamped his visa and ushered him through, aware that there would be no little red notes accompanying such a document. Al Obaydi felt exhilarated as he strolled the mile between the two customs posts. He walked to the front of another queue, produced his passport once again, and received another smile from the customs officer. 'There is a car waiting for you, Ambassador,' was all the official said, pointing to a large limousine that was parked near the highway. A smiling chauffeur stood waiting. He touched the peak of his cap and opened the back door. Al Obaydi smiled. The Chief Administrator must have warned them that he would be coming over the border late that night. He thanked the customs official, walked over to the highway and slipped into the back of the limousine. Someone else was already there, who also appeared to be waiting for him. Al Obaydi began to smile again, when suddenly an arm shot across his throat and threw him to the floor. His hands were pinned behind his back, and a pair of handcuffs clicked into place. 'How dare you?' shouted Al Obaydi. 'I am an Ambassador!' he screamed as he was hurled back up onto the seat. 'Don't you realise who I am?' 'Yes, I do,' came back the reply. 'And you're under arrest for treason.' Scott had to admit that the HEMTT carrying Madame Bertha looked quite at home among the colourful collection of old American cars and lorries piled high on three sides of the scrapyard. He ran across to the truck and jumped up into the cab on the passenger side. He shook hands with Kratz, who seemed relieved to see him. When Scott saw who was seated behind the wheel, he said, 'Good to see you again, Sergeant Cohen. Am I to assume you play a mean game of backgammon?' 'Two doubles inside the board clinched it for me in the final game, Professor, though God knows how the Kurd even reached the semi-final,' Cohen said as he switched on the engine. 'And because he's a mate of mine, the others are all claiming I fixed the dice.' 'So where's Aziz now?' asked Scott. 'On the back with Madame Bertha,' said the Sergeant. 'Best place for him. Mind you, he knows the back streets of Baghdad like I know the pubs in Brixton, so he may turn out to be useful.' 'And the rest of the team?' asked Scott. 'Feldman and the others slipped over the border during the night,' said Kratz. 'They're probably in Baghdad waiting for us by now.' 'Then they'd better keep well out of sight,' said Scott, 'because after the bombing last Sunday, I suspect death might prove the least of their problems.' Kratz offered no opinion as Sergeant Cohen eased the massive vehicle slowly out of the yard and onto the street; this time the roads became wider with each turning he took. 'Are we keeping to the plan that was agreed in Stockholm?' asked Scott. 'With two refinements,' said Kratz. 'I spent yesterday morning phoning Baghdad. After seven attempts, I got through to someone at the Ministry of Industry who knew about the safe, but it's the age-old problem with the Arabs: if they don't see the damn thing in front of their eyes, they don't believe it exists.' 'So our first stop will have to be the Ministry?' said Scott. 'Looks like it,' replied Kratz. 'But at least we know we've got something they want. Which reminds me, have you brought the one thing they don't want?' Scott unzipped his bag and pulled out the cardboard tube. 'Doesn't look a lot to be risking your life for,' said Kratz as Scott slipped it back into his bag. 'And the second refinement?' asked Scott. Kratz removed a postcard from his inside pocket and passed it over to Scott. A picture of Saddam Hussein addressing the Revolutionary Command Council stared back at him. A little biro'd square full of stars had been drawn in by the side of his head. Scott turned the card over and studied her