“If it is possible,” continued Christopher, “for a public servant to make the President and the Secretary of State feel morally inferior, Mr. Marshall achieved it with considerable dignity. However, that does not change the fact that if we don’t get the original parchment back before its theft becomes public knowledge, the media are going to roast the President and me slowly over a spit. One thing’s also for sure: the Republicans, led by Dole, will happily wash their collective hands in public. Carry on, Dexter.”
“Under the Secretary of State’s instructions, we immediately formed a small task force at Langley to profile every aspect of the problem we are facing. But we quickly discovered that we were working under some severe restrictions. To begin with, because of the sensitivity of the subject and the people involved, we could not do what we automatically would have done in normal circumstances, namely consult the FBI and liaise with the D.C. Police Department. That, we felt, would have guaranteed us the front page of the Washington Post, and probably the following morning. We mustn’t forget that the FBI is still smarting over the Waco siege, and they would like nothing better than for the CIA to replace them on the front pages.
“The next problem we faced was having to tiptoe around people we’d usually bring in for questioning, for fear that they too might discover our real purpose. However, we have been able to come up with several leads without talking to any members of the public. Following a routine check of permit records at the DCPD, we discovered that a movie was being made in Washington on the same day as the document was stolen. The director of that movie was Johnny Scasiatore, who is currently out on bail facing an indecency charge. Three others involved in the enterprise turn out to have criminal records. And some of those people fit the descriptions Mr. Marshall and Mr. Mendelssohn have given us of the group who arrived at the National Archives posing as the Presidential party. They include a certain Bill O’Reilly, a well-known forger who has spent several years in more than one of our state penitentiaries, and an actor who played the President so convincingly that both Mr. Marshall and Mr. Mendelssohn accepted it was him without question.”
“Surely we can discover who that was,” said Christopher.
“We already have, sir. His name is Lloyd Adams. But we don’t dare bring him in.”
“How did you find him?” asked Leigh. “After all, there are quite a few actors who can manage a passable resemblance to Clinton.”
“Agreed,” said the Deputy Director, “but only one who’s been operated on by America’s leading plastic surgeon within the past few months. We have reason to believe that the ringleaders killed the surgeon and his daughter, which is why his wife reported everything she knew to the local Chief of Police.
“However, the whole operation would never have got off the ground without the inside help of Mr. Rex Butterworth, who was last seen on the morning of May 25th and has since disappeared off the face of the earth. He booked a flight to Brazil, but he never showed. We have agents across the globe searching for him.”
“None of this is of any importance if we are no nearer to finding out where the original Declaration is at this moment, and who took it,” said Christopher.
“That’s the bad news,” replied Dexter. “Our agents spend hours on routine investigations that many American citizens consider a waste of taxpayers’ money. But just now and then, it pays off.”
“We’re all listening,” said Christopher.
“The CIA keeps under surveillance several foreign diplomats who work at the United Nations. Naturally, they would be outraged if any of them could prove what we were up to, and if we ever think they’re onto us we back off immediately. In the case of Iraqis at the UN, we have people shadowing them around the clock. Our problem is that we can’t operate within the UN complex itself, because if we were caught inside that building it would cause an international outcry. So occasionally their representatives are bound to slip our net.
“But we believe it was not a coincidence that Iraq’s Deputy Ambassador to the United Nations, a Mr. Hamid Al Obaydi, was in Washington on the day the Declaration was switched, and took several photographs of the bogus filming that was taking place. The agent who was tracking Al Obaydi at the time also reported that, at ten thirty-seven, after the Declaration had gone back on display in the National Archives, Al Obaydi, waited in line over an hour to view the parchment. But here’s the clincher. He studied the document once, and then he looked at it a second time, with glasses.”
“Perhaps he’s nearsighted,” said Susan.
“Our agent reports that he’s never before or since seen him wearing glasses of any kind,” replied Dexter Hutchins. “Now for the really bad news,” he continued.
“That wasn’t it?” said Christopher.
“No, sir. Al Obaydi flew on to Geneva a week later and was spotted by our local station officer leaving a bank.” Dexter referred to his notes. “Franchard et cie. He was carrying a plastic cylinder, and I quote, ‘a little over two feet in length and about two inches in diameter.’ ”
“Who’s going to tell the President?” said Christopher, putting his hands over his eyes.
“He took this cylinder by car straight to the Palais des Nations, and it hasn’t been seen since.”
“And Barazan Al-Tikriti, Saddam’s half brother, is the Iraqi Ambassador to the United Nations in Geneva,” said Susan.
“Don’t remind me,” said Christopher. “But what I want to know is, why the hell didn’t your man jump Al Obaydi when it was obvious what he was carrying? I would have found a way of keeping the Swiss in line.”
“We would have done so if we’d known what he was carrying, but at that stage we weren’t even aware the Declaration had been stolen, and our surveillance was just routine.”
“So what you’re telling us, Mr. Hutchins, is that the Declaration could well be in Baghdad by now,” said Leigh. “Because if it was sent through the diplomatic pouch, the Swiss wouldn’t have let us get anywhere near it.”
No one spoke for several moments.
“Let’s work on the worst-case scenario,” said the Secretary of State finally. “The Declaration is already in Saddam’s possession. So what’s his next move going to be? Scott, you’re our man of logic. Can you anticipate what he might get up to?”
“No, sir, Saddam’s not a man you can second-guess, especially after his failed attempt in Kuwait on Bush’s life. Although the world accused him of being behind the plot, how did he react? Not with the usual bellicose shouting and screaming about American imperialism but with a reasoned, coherent statement from his Ambassador at the UN denying any involvement. Why? The press tells us it’s because Saddam is hoping Clinton will be more reasonable in the long term than Bush. I don’t believe it. I suspect Saddam realizes that Clinton’s position doesn’t differ greatly from that of his predecessor. I don’t think that’s his reasoning at all. No, I suspect he believes that with the Declaration in his possession, he has a weapon so powerful that he can humiliate the United States, and in particular the new President, as and when he pleases.”
“When and how, Scott? If we knew that…”
“I have two theories on that, sir,” replied Scott.
“Let’s hear them both.”
“Neither is going to make you feel any happier, Mr. Secretary.”
“Nevertheless…”
“First he sets up a press conference, inviting the world’s media to attend. He selects some public place in Baghdad where he is safely surrounded by his own people, and then he tears up, burns, destroys, does whatever he likes to the Declaration. I have a feeling it would make prime-time television.”
“But we’d bomb Baghdad to the ground if he tried that,” said Dexter Hutchins.
“I doubt it,” said Scott. “How would our allies, the British, the French, not to mention the other friendly Arab nations, react to our bombing innocent civilians because Saddam had stolen the Declaration of Independence from right under our eyes?”
“You’re right,
Scott,” said Warren Christopher. “The President would be vilified as a barbarian if he retaliated by bombing innocent Iraqis after what a lot of the world would consider nothing more than a public relations coup, though I must tell you, in the strictest confidence, that we do have plans to bomb Baghdad if Saddam continues to undermine the UN inspection teams’ attempts to examine Iraqi nuclear installations.”
“Has a date been decided on?” asked Scott.
Christopher hesitated. “Sunday June 27th,” he said.
“The timing might well turn out to be unfortunate for us,” said Scott.
“Why? When do you think Saddam is likely to move?” asked Christopher.
“That’s not so easy to answer, sir,” replied Scott, “because you have to think the way he thinks. What makes that almost impossible is that he’s capable of changing his mind from hour to hour. But if he thinks the problem through logically, my guess is he’ll be considering two alternatives. Either on some symbolic date, maybe an anniversary associated with the Gulf War, or…”
“Or…?” said Christopher.
“Or he intends to hold on to it as a bargaining chip so he can retake the oilfields in Kuwait. After all, he’s always claimed he had an agreement with us on that in the first place.”
“Either scenario is too horrific to contemplate,” said the Secretary of State. Turning to the Deputy Director, he asked, “Have you begun to form any plan for getting the document back?”
“Not at the moment, sir,” replied Dexter Hutchins, “as I suspect the parchment will be every bit as well protected as Saddam himself, and frankly we only learned of its likely destination last night.”
“Colonel Kratz,” said Christopher, turning his attention to the Mossad man, who had not uttered a word. “Your Prime Minister informed us a few weeks ago that he was considering a plan to take out Saddam at some time in the near future.”
“Yes, sir, but he recognizes your present dilemma, and all our activities have been shelved until the problem over the Declaration has been resolved, one way or the other.”
“I have already informed Mr. Rabin how much I appreciate his support, especially as he can’t even tell his own cabinet the true reason for his change of heart.”
“But we have our own problem, sir,” said the Israeli.
“Make my day, Colonel.”
“The burst of laughter that followed helped to ease the tension for a moment—but only for a moment.
“We have been training an agent who was going to be part of the team for the final operation to eliminate Saddam, a Hannah Kopec.”
“The girl who…” said Christopher, half-glancing towards Scott.
“Yes, sir. She was totally blameless. But that is not the problem. After she returned to the Iraqi Embassy that evening, we were unable to get anywhere near Miss Kopec to let her know what had happened, because during the next few days she never once left the building, night or day. She and the Iraqi Ambassador have since returned to Baghdad under heavy guard. However, Agent Kopec remains under the misapprehension that she has killed Scott Bradley, and we suspect her only interest now is to eliminate Saddam.”
“She’ll never get anywhere near him,” said Leigh.
“I wish I believed that,” said Scott quietly.
“She is a bold, imaginative and resourceful young woman,” said Kratz. “And, worse, she has the assassin’s greatest weapon.”
“Namely?” said Christopher.
“She no longer cares about her own survival.”
“Can this get any worse?” asked Christopher.
“Yes, sir. She knows nothing about the disappearance of the Declaration, and we have no way of contacting her to let her know.”
The Secretary of State paused for a moment, as if he was coming to a decision. “Colonel Kratz, I want to put something to you which is likely to stretch your personal loyalty.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” said Kratz.
“This plan to assassinate Saddam. How long have you been working on it?”
“Nine months to a year,” replied Kratz.
“And it obviously entailed your getting a person or persons into Saddam’s palace or bunker?”
Kratz hesitated.
“Yes or no will suffice,” said Christopher.
“Yes, sir.”
“My question is extremely simple, Colonel. May we therefore take advantage of the year’s preparation you’ve already carried out and—dare I suggest—steal your plan?”
“I would have to take advice from my government before I could consider…”
Christopher took an envelope from his pocket. “I will be happy to let you see Mr. Rabin’s letter to me on this subject, but first allow me to read it to you.”
The Secretary opened the envelope and extracted the letter. He placed his glasses on the end of his nose and unfolded the single sheet.
From the Prime Minister
Dear Mr. Secretary,
You are correct in thinking that the Prime Minister of the State of Israel is Chief Minister and Minister of Defense while at the same time having overall responsibility for Mossad.
However, I confess that when it comes to any ideas we may be considering for future relations with Saddam, I have only been kept in touch with the outline proposals. I have not yet been fully briefed on the finer details.
If you believe on balance that such information as we possess may make the difference between success or failure with your present difficulties, I will instruct Colonel Kratz to brief you fully and without reservation.
Yours,
Yitzhak Rabin
Christopher turned the letter around and pushed it across the table.
“Colonel Kratz, let me assure you on behalf of the United States Government that I believe such information as you have in your possession may make the difference between success and failure.”
Part II
“Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our British Brethren.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Declaration of Independence was nailed to the wall behind him.
Saddam continued puffing on his cigar as he lounged back in his chair. All of them seated around the table waited for him to speak. He glanced to his right.
“My brother, we are proud of you. You have served our country and the Ba’ath Party with distinction, and when the moment comes for my people to be informed of your heroic deeds, your name will be written in the history of our nation as one of its great heroes.”
Al Obaydi sat at the other end of the table, listening to the words of his leader. His fists, hidden under the table, were clenched to stop himself shaking. Several times on the journey back to Baghdad he had been aware that he was being followed. They had searched his luggage at almost every stop, but they had found nothing, because there was nothing to find. Saddam’s half brother had seen to that. Once the Declaration had reached the safety of their mission in Geneva he hadn’t even been allowed to pass it over to the Ambassador in person. Its guaranteed route in the diplomatic pouch made it impossible to intercept even with the combined efforts of the Americans and the Israelis.
Saddam’s half brother now sat on the President’s right-hand side, basking in his leader’s eulogy.
Saddam swung himself slowly back around and stared down at the other end of the table.
“And I also acknowledge,” he continued, “the role played by Hamid Al Obaydi, whom I have appointed to be our Ambassador in Paris. His name must not, however, be associated with this enterprise, lest it harm his chances of representing us on foreign soil.”
And thus it had been decreed. Saddam’s half brother was to be acknowledged as the architect of this triumph, while Al Obaydi was to be a footnote on a page, quickly turned. Had Al Obaydi failed, Saddam’s half brother would have been ignorant of even the original idea, and Al Obaydi’s bones would even now be rotting in an unmarked grave. Since Saddam had spoken no one around that table, except for the State Prosecutor, had given Al Obaydi a sec
ond look. All other eyes, and smiles, rested on Saddam’s half brother.
It was at that moment, in the midst of the meeting of the Revolutionary Command Council, that Al Obaydi came to his decision.
Dollar Bill sat slouched on a stool leaning on the bar in unhappy hour, happily sipping his favorite liquid. He was the establishment’s only customer, unless you counted the slip of a woman in a Laura Ashley dress who sat silently in the corner. The barman assumed she was drunk, as she hadn’t moved a muscle for the past hour.
Dollar Bill wasn’t at first aware of the man who stumbled through the swing doors, and wouldn’t have given him a second look had he not sat himself on the stool next to his. The intruder ordered a gin and tonic. Dollar Bill had a natural aversion to any man who drank gin and tonic, especially if they occupied the seat next to his when the rest of the bar was empty. He considered moving but decided on balance that he didn’t need the exercise.
“So how are you, old-timer?” the voice next to him asked. Dollar Bill didn’t care to think of himself as an “old-timer,” and refused to grace the intruder with a reply.
“What’s the matter, not got a tongue in your head?” the man asked, slurring his words. The barman turned to face them when he heard the raised voice, and then returned to drying the glasses left over from the lunchtime rush.
“I have, sir, and it’s a civil one,” replied Dollar Bill, still not so much as glancing at his interrogator.
“Irish. I should have known it all along. A nation of stupid, ignorant drunks.”