Honour Among Thieves

front of Al Obaydi. 'This is easy to explain. The Cavalli family is trying to get revenge because we didn't pay the full amount of one hundred million as originally promised.' 'Revenge, you claim. The money isn't real? It doesn't exist? This is just a piece of paper? A figment of our imagination?' 'Yes,' said Al Obaydi. 'That is the truth.' 'So perhaps you can explain why one hundred thousand dollars was withdrawn from this account on the day after you had visited Franchard et cie?' 'That's not possible.' 'Another impossibility? Another figment of the imagination? Then you have not seen this withdrawal order for one hundred thousand dollars, sent to you by the bank a few days later? The signature on which bears a remarkable resemblance to the one on the sanctions report which you accepted earlier was authentic' The Prosecutor held both documents in front of Al Obaydi so they touched the tip of his nose. He looked at the two signatures and realised what Cavalli must have done. The Prosecutor proceeded to sign his death warrant, even before Al Obaydi had been given the chance to explain. 'And now you are no doubt going to ask the Council to believe that it was Cavalli who also had your signature forged?' A little laughter trickled round the table, and Al Obaydi suspected that the Prosecutor knew that he had only spoken the truth. 'I have had enough of this,' said the one person in the room who would have dared to interrupt the State Prosecutor. Al Obaydi looked up in a last attempt to catch the attention of the President, but with the exception of the State Prosecutor the Council were looking towards the top of the table and nodding their agreement. 'There are more pressing matters for the Council to consider.' He waved a hand as if he were swatting an irritating fly. Two soldiers stepped forward and removed Al Obaydi from his sight. 'That was a whole lot easier than I expected,' said Cohen, once they had passed through the Iraqi checkpoint. 'A little too easy, perhaps,' said Kratz. 'It's good to know that we've got one optimist and one pessimist on this trip,' said Scott. Once Cohen was on the highway he remained cautious of pushing the vehicle beyond fifty miles per hour. The lorries that passed in the opposite direction on their way to Jordan rarely had more than two of their four headlights working, which sometimes made them appear like motorcycles in the distance, so overtaking became hazardous. But his eyes needed to be at their most alert for those lorries in front of him: for them, one red tail-light was a luxury. Kratz had always thought the three-hundred-mile journey from the border to Baghdad would be too long to consider covering in one stretch, so he had decided they should have a rest about forty miles outside the Iraqi capital. Scott asked Cohen what time he thought they might reach their rest point. 'Assuming I don't drive straight into a parked lorry that's been abandoned in the middle of the road or disappear down a pothole, I'd imagine we'll get there around four, five at the latest.' 'I don't like the sight of all these army vehicles on the road. What do you think they're up to?' asked Kratz, who hadn't slept a wink since they crossed the border. 'A battalion on the move, I'd say, sir. Doesn't look that unusual to me, and I don't think we'd need to worry about them unless they were going in the same direction as us.' 'Perhaps you're right,' said Kratz. 'You wouldn't give them a second thought if you'd crossed the border legally,' said Scott. 'Possibly. But Sergeant,' Kratz said, turning his attention back to Cohen, 'let me know the moment you spot anything you consider unusual.' 'You mean, like a woman worth a second glance?' Kratz made no comment. He turned to ask Scott a question, only to find he had dozed off again. He envied Scott's ability to sleep anywhere at any time, especially under such pressure. Sergeant Cohen drove on through the night, not always in a straight line, as he circumvented the occasional burned-out tank or large crater left over from the war. On and on they travelled, through small towns and seemingly uninhabited sleeping villages, until a few minutes past four, when Cohen swung off the highway and up a track that could have only considered one-way traffic. He drove for another twenty minutes, finally coming to a halt when the road ended at an overhanging ledge. 'Even a vulture wouldn't find us here,' said Cohen as he turned off the engine. 'Permission to have a smoke and a