Scott could now see the Kurdish checkpoint ahead of him as the helicopter swung even lower on its final attempt to stop them. A flurry of bullets hit the jeep’s hood, ricocheted off the bridge and into the windshield. As the helicopter swung away, Scott looked up and for a second stared into the eyes of General Hamil.
Scott looked back down and punched a hole in the shattered windshield, only to discover he was faced with two rows of soldiers lined up in front of him, their rifles aiming straight at the jeep.
Behind the row of soldiers were two small exits for those wishing to enter Kurdistan and two entrances on the other side of the road for those driving out of Kirkuk.
The two exits to Kurdistan were blocked with stationary vehicles, while the two entrances had been left clear—although no one at that moment was showing any desire to enter Saddam’s Iraq.
Aziz decided that he would have to swing across the road and risk driving the jeep at an acute angle through one of the small entrances, where he might be faced with an oncoming vehicle—in which case they would be trapped. He was still losing speed, and could feel that the rim of the front left-hand wheel was now touching the ground.
Once they were within range, Cohen opened fire on the line of soldiers in front of him. Some fired back, but he managed to hit several before the rest scattered.
With a hundred yards to go and still losing speed, Aziz suddenly swung the jeep across the road and tried to steer it towards the second entrance. The jeep hit the right-hand wall, careened into the short, dark tunnel and bounced onto the left-hand wall before lurching out into no-man’s-land, between the two customs posts.
Suddenly there were dozens of soldiers pursuing them from the Iraqi side. “Keep going, keep going!” shouted Scott as they emerged from the little tunnel.
Aziz was still losing speed as he steered the jeep back to the left and pointed it in the direction of the border with Kurdistan, a mere four hundred yards away. He pressed his foot flat down on the accelerator but the speedometer wouldn’t rise above two miles per hour. Another row of soldiers, this time from the Kurdish border, was facing them, their rifles pointing at the jeep. But none of them was firing.
Cohen swung around as a stray bullet hit the back of the jeep and another flew past his shoulder. Once again he fired a volley towards the Iraqi border, and those who could quickly retreated behind their checkpoint. The jeep trundled on for a few more yards before it finally whimpered to a halt halfway between the two unofficial barriers that the UN refused to recognize.
Scott looked towards the Kurdish border. A hundred Peshmergas were lined up, their rifles now firing—but not in the direction of the jeep. Scott turned back to see another line of soldiers tentatively advancing from the Iraqi side. He and Hannah began firing their pistols as Cohen let forth another burst which came to a sudden stop. The Iraqi soldiers had started to retreat again, but sensed immediately that their enemy had finally run out of ammunition.
Cohen leaped down off the jeep and quickly took out his pistol. “Come on, Aziz!” he shouted as he rushed forward and crouched beside the driver’s door. “We’ll have to cover them so the professor can get his bloody Declaration across the border.”
Aziz didn’t reply. His body was slumped lifelessly over the wheel, the horn sounding intermittently. The unanswered radio phone was still ringing.
“The bastards have killed my Kurd!” shouted Cohen. Hannah grabbed the canvas bag as Scott lifted Aziz out of the front of the jeep. Together, they began to drag him the last few hundred yards towards the border with Kurdistan.
Another line of Iraqi soldiers started to advance towards the jeep as Scott and Hannah carried the dead body of Aziz nearer and nearer to his Kurdish homeland.
They heard more shots whistle past them, and turned to see Cohen running towards the Iraqis screaming, “You killed my Kurd, you bastards! You killed my Kurd!” One of the Iraqis fell, another fell, one retreated. Another fell, another retreated, as Cohen went on advancing towards them. Suddenly, he fell to his knees, but somehow he kept crawling forward, until a final volley rang out. The Sergeant collapsed in a pool of blood a few yards from the Iraqi border.
While Scott and Hannah carried the dead Kurd into the land of his people, Saddam’s soldiers dragged the body of the Jew back into Iraq.
“Why were my orders disobeyed?” Saddam shouted.
For several moments no one around the table spoke. They knew the chances of all of them returning to their beds alive that night had to be marginal.
General Hamil turned the cover of a thick file, and looked down at the handwritten note in front of him.
“Major Saeed was to blame, Mr. President,” stated the General. “It was he who allowed the infidels to escape with the Declaration, and that is why his body is now hanging in Tohrir Square for your people to witness.”
The General listened intently to the President’s next question.
“Yes, Sayedi,” he assured his master. “Two of the terrorists were killed by guards from my own regiment. They were by far the most important members of the team. They were the two who managed to escape from Major Saeed’s custody before I arrived. The other two were an American professor and the girl.”
The President asked another question.
“No, Mr. President. Kratz was the commanding officer, and I personally arrested the infamous Zionist leader before questioning him at length. It was during that interrogation that I discovered that the original plan had been to assassinate you, Sayedi, and I made certain that he, like those who came before him, failed.”
The General had no well-rehearsed answer to the President’s next question, and he was relieved when the State Prosecutor intervened.
“Perhaps we can turn this whole episode to our advantage, Sayedi.”
“How can that be possible,” shouted the President, “when two of them have escaped with the Declaration and left us with a useless copy that anyone who can spell ‘British’ will immediately realize is a fake? No, it is I who will be made the laughingstock of the world, not Clinton.”
Everyone’s eyes were now fixed on the Prosecutor.
“That may not necessarily be the case, Mr. President. I suspect that when the Americans see the state of their cherished treasure, they will not be in a hurry to put it back on display at the National Archives.”
The President did not interrupt this time, so the Prosecutor continued.
“We also know, Mr. President, that because of your genius, the parchment currently on display in Washington to an unsuspecting American public is, to quote you, ‘a useless copy that anyone who can spell “British” will immediately realize is a fake.’ ”
The President’s expression was now one of concentration.
“Perhaps the time has come, Sayedi, to inform the world’s press of your triumph.”
“My triumph?” said the President in disbelief.
“Why, yes, Sayedi. Your triumph, not to mention your magnanimity. After all, it was you who gave the order to hand over the battered Declaration to Professor Bradley after the gangster Cavalli had attempted to sell it to you.”
The President’s expression turned to one of deep thought.
“They have a saying in the West,” added the Prosecutor, “about killing two birds with one stone.”
Another long silence followed, during which no one offered an opinion until the President smiled.
Part III
“…We Mutually Pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our Sacred Honor.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The official statement issued by the Iraqi government on July 2nd was that there was no truth in the report that there had been a shooting incident on the border posts at Kirkuk in which several Iraqi soldiers had been killed and more wounded.
The Kurdish leaders were unable to offer any opinion on the subject, as the only two satellite phones in Iraqi Kurdistan had been permanently engaged with requests for assistance from the State Department in Washingto
n.
When Charles Streator, the American Ambassador in Istanbul, was telephoned and asked by the Reuters Bureau Chief in the Middle East why a U.S. Air Force jet had landed at the American base in Silope on the Turkish border, and then returned to Washington with two unknown passengers as its cargo, His Excellency told his old friend that he had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. The Bureau Chief considered the Ambassador to be an honest man, although he accepted that it was part of the job to lie for his country.
The Ambassador had in fact been up all night following a call from the Secretary of State requesting that one of their helicopters should be dispatched to the outskirts of Kirkuk to pick up five passengers, one American, one Arab and three Israelis, who were then to be flown back to the base at Silope.
The Ambassador had called Washington later that morning to inform Warren Christopher that unfortunately only two people had managed to cross the border alive: an American named Scott Bradley and an Israeli woman, Hannah Kopec. He had no information on the other three.
The American Ambassador was totally thrown by the Secretary of State’s final question. Did Professor Bradley have a cardboard tube with him? The Ambassador was only disappointed that the Reuters correspondent hadn’t asked him the same thing, because then he would have been telling him the truth when he said, “I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
Scott and Hannah slept for most of the flight back to the United States. When they stepped off the plane at Andrews Air Force Base they found Dexter Hutchins at the bottom of the steps waiting to greet them. Neither of them was surprised when customs showed little interest in Scott’s canvas bag. A CIA car whisked them off in the direction of Washington.
On the journey into the capital, Dexter warned them that they would be going directly to the White House for a top-level meeting, and briefed them on who else would be present.
They were met at the West Wing reception entrance by the President’s Chief of Staff, who conducted them to the Oval Office. Scott couldn’t help feeling that, as it was his first meeting with the President, he would have preferred to have shaved at some time during the last forty-eight hours, and not to have been dressed in the same clothes that he’d worn for the past three days.
Warren Christopher was there to greet them at the door of the Oval Office, and he introduced Scott to the President. Bill Clinton welcomed Scott home, and thanked Hannah for the part she had played in securing the safe return of the Declaration.
Scott was delighted to meet Calder Marshall for the first time, Mr. Mendelssohn for the second time and to be reunited with Dollar Bill.
Dollar Bill bowed to Hannah. “Now I understand why the professor was willing to cross the earth to bring you back,” was all the little Irishman had to say.
The moment the handshakes were over, none of them could hide their impatience to see the Declaration. Scott unzipped his bag and carefully took out a bath towel, from which he extracted the document before handing it over to its rightful custodian, the Secretary of State. Christopher slowly unrolled the parchment. No one in the room was able to hide their dismay at the state the Declaration was in.
The Secretary passed the document over to the Archivist who, accompanied by the Conservator and Dollar Bill, walked across to the large window overlooking the South Lawn. The first word they checked was “Brittish,” and the Archivist smiled.
But it was only a few moments more before Calder Marshall announced their combined judgment. “It’s a fake,” was all he said.
“How can you be so certain?” asked the President.
“Mea Fecit,” said Dollar Bill, looking a little sheepish.
“So does that mean that Saddam is still in possession of the original?” asked the Secretary of State in disbelief.
“No, sir, he has the copy Scott took to Baghdad,” said Dollar Bill. “So clearly he was already in possession of a fake before Scott did the exchange.”
“Then who has the original?” the other four asked in unison.
“Alfonso Mario Cavalli would be my guess,” said Dollar Bill.
“And who’s he?” asked the President, no wiser.
“The gentleman who paid me to make the copy that is currently in the National Archives,” said Dollar Bill, “and to whom I released the only other copy, which I am now holding in my hands.”
“But if the word ‘Brittish’ is spelled with two t’s, how can you be so certain it’s a fake?” asked Dexter Hutchins.
“Because, of the fifty-six signatures on the original Declaration, six have the Christian name George. Five of them signed Geo, which was the custom of the time. Only George Wythe of Virginia appended his full name. On the copy I presented to Cavalli I made the mistake of also writing Geo for Congressman Wythe, and had to add the letters rge later. Although the lettering is perfect, I used a slightly lighter shade of ink. A simple mistake, and discernible only to an expert eye.”
“And even then, only if they knew what they were looking for,” added Mendelssohn.
“I never bothered to tell Cavalli,” continued Dollar Bill, “because once he had checked the word ‘Brittish’ he seemed quite satisfied.”
“So, at some time Cavalli must have switched his copy with the original, and then passed it on to Al Obaydi?” said Dexter Hutchins.
“Well done, Deputy Director,” said Dollar Bill.
“And Al Obaydi in turn handed the copy on to the Iraqi Ambassador in Geneva, who had it delivered to Saddam in Iraq. And, since Al Obaydi had seen Dollar Bill’s copy on display at the National Archives with ‘British’ spelled correctly, he was convinced he was in possession of the original,” said Dexter Hutchins.
“You’ve finally caught up with the rest of us,” said Dollar Bill. “Though to be fair, sir, I should have known what Cavalli was capable of doing when I said to you a month ago: ‘Is there no longer honor among thieves?”
“So, where is the original now?” demanded the President.
“I suspect it’s hanging on a wall in a brownstone in Manhattan,” said Dollar Bill, “where it must have been for the past ten weeks.”
The light on the telephone console to the right of the President began flashing. The President’s Chief of Staff picked up an extension and listened. The normally unflappable man turned white. He pushed the “hold” button.
“It’s Bernie Shaw at CNN for me, Mr. President. He says Saddam is claiming that the bombing of Baghdad last weekend was nothing more than a smokescreen set up to give a group of American terrorists the chance to retrieve the Declaration of Independence, which a Mafia gang had tried to sell him but as an act of good will, he has personally handed over to a man called Bradley. Saddam’s apparently most apologetic about the state the Declaration is in, but he has television pictures of Bradley spitting and stamping on the document before nailing it to a wall.
“If you don’t believe Saddam, he says you can check the copy of the Declaration that’s on display at the National Archives, because anyone who can spell ‘British’ will realize it’s a fake. Shaw’s asking if you have any comment to make, as Saddam intends to hold a press conference tomorrow morning to let the whole world know the truth.”
The President pursed his lips.
“My bet is that Saddam has given CNN an exclusive on this story, but probably only until tomorrow,” the Chief of Staff added.
“Whatever you do,” said Hutchins, “try to keep it off the air for tonight.”
The Chief of Staff hesitated for a moment until he saw the President nodding his agreement. He pressed the button to reengage the call. “If you want to go on the air with a story like that, Bernie, it’s your reputation on the line, not mine.”
The Chief of Staff listened carefully to Shaw’s reply while everyone else in the room waited in silence.
“Be my guest,” were the last words the Chief of Staff offered before putting the phone down.
He turned to the President and told him: “Shaw says he will have a crew outside
the National Archives the moment the doors open at ten tomorrow morning, and, I quote: if the word ‘British’ is spelled correctly, he’ll crucify you.”
The President glanced up at the carriage clock that stood on the mantelpiece below the portrait of Abraham Lincoln. It was a few minutes after seven. He swiveled his chair around to face the Deputy Director of the CIA.
“Mr. Hutchins,” he said, “you’ve got fifteen hours to prevent me being crucified. Should you fail, I can assure you there won’t be a second coming for me in three years, let alone three days.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The leak started in the early morning of Sunday July 4th, in the basement of number 21, the home of the Prestons, who were on vacation in Malibu.
When their Mexican housekeeper answered the door a few minutes after midnight, she assumed the worst. An illegal immigrant with no Green Card lives in daily fear of a visit from any government official.
The housekeeper was relieved to discover that these particular officials were only from the gas company. Without much prompting, she agreed to accompany them down to the basement of the brownstone and show them where the gas meters were located.
Once they had gained entry it only took a few moments to carry out the job. The loosening of two gas valves ensured a tiny leak which gave off a smell that would have alarmed any layman. The explosives expert assured his boss that there was no real cause for concern as long as the New York City Fire Department arrived within twenty minutes.
The senior official calmly asked the housekeeper to phone the fire department and warn them they had a gas leak in number 21 which, if not dealt with quickly, could cause an explosion. He told her the correct code to give.