steel there at all.’
Rashid shrugged. ‘I’m a simple man, Mr Aroun, a soldier, and perhaps I see things simply. Here is a man, a navy combat pilot at twenty, who saw a great deal of active service, who was shot down over the Sea of Japan and survived to be awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. I would not underestimate such a man.’
Aroun frowned. ‘Come on, my friend, the Americans aren’t going to come halfway round the world with an army to protect one little Arab state.’
‘Isn’t that exactly what the British did in the Falklands War?’ Rashid reminded him. ‘They never expected such a reaction in Argentina. Of course they had Thatcher’s determination behind them, the Brits, I mean.’
‘Damned woman,’ Aroun said and leaned back as they went in through the gate of the presidential palace, feeling suddenly depressed.
He followed Rashid along corridors of marble splendour, the young officer leading the way, a torch in one hand. It was a strange, rather eerie experience, following that small pool of light on the floor, their footfalls echoing. There was a sentry on each side of the ornate door they finally halted before. Rashid opened it and they went in.
Saddam Hussein was alone, sitting in uniform at a large desk, the only light a shaded lamp. He was writing, slowly and carefully, looked up and smiled, putting down his pen.
‘Michael.’ He came round the desk and embraced Aroun like a brother. ‘Your father? He is well?’
‘In excellent health, my President.’
‘Give him my respects. You look well, Michael. Paris suits you.’ He smiled again. ‘Smoke if you want. I know you like to. The doctors have unfortunately had to tell me to cut it out or else.’
He sat down behind the desk again and Aroun sat opposite, aware of Rashid against the wall in the darkness. ‘Paris was fine, but my place is here now in these difficult times.’
Saddam Hussein shook his head. ‘Not true, Michael. I have soldiers in plenty, but few men such as you. You are rich, famous, accepted at the highest levels of society and government anywhere in the world. More than that, because of your beloved mother of blessed memory, you are not just an Iraqi, but also a French citizen. No, Michael, I want you in Paris.’
‘But why, my President?’ Aroun asked.
‘Because one day I may require you to do a service for me and for your country that only you could perform.’
Aroun said, ‘You can rely on me totally, you know that.’
Saddam Hussein got up and paced to the nearest window, opened the shutters and stepped onto the terrace. The all clear sounded mournfully across the city and lights began to appear here and there.
‘I still hope our friends in America and Britain stay in their own backyard, but if not …’ He shrugged. ‘Then we may have to fight them in their own backyard. Remember, Michael, as the Prophet instructs us in the Koran, there is more truth in one sword than ten thousand words.’ He paused and then carried on, still looking out across the city. ‘One sniper in the darkness, Michael, British SAS or Israeli, it doesn’t really matter, but what a coup – the death of Saddam Hussein.’
‘God forbid it,’ Michael Aroun said.
Saddam turned to him. ‘As God wills, Michael, in all things, but you see my point? The same would apply to Bush or the Thatcher woman. The proof that my arm reaches everywhere. The ultimate coup.’ He turned. ‘Would you be capable of arranging such a thing, if necessary?’
Aroun had never felt so excited in his life. ‘I think so, my President. All things are possible, especially when sufficient money is involved. It would be my gift to you.’
‘Good.’ Saddam nodded. ‘You will return to Paris immediately. Captain Rashid will accompany you. He will have details of certain codes we will be using in radio broadcasts, that sort of thing. The day may never come, Michael, but if it does …’ He shrugged. ‘We have friends in the right places.’ He turned to Rashid. ‘That KGB colonel at the Soviet Embassy in Paris?’
‘Colonel Josef Makeev, my President.’
‘Yes,’ Saddam Hussein said to Aroun. ‘Like many of his kind, not happy with the changes now taking place in Moscow. He will assist in any way he can. He’s already expressed his willingness.’ He embraced Aroun, again like a brother. ‘Now go. I have work to do.’
The lights had still not come on in the palace and Aroun had stumbled out into the darkness of the corridor, following the beam of Rashid’s torch.
Since his return to Paris he had got to know Makeev well, keeping their acquaintance, by design, purely on a social level, meeting mainly at various Embassy functions. And Saddam Hussein had been right. The Russian was very definitely on their side, only too willing to do anything that would cause problems for the United States or Great Britain.
The news from home, of course, had been bad. The build-up of such a gigantic army. Who could have expected it? And then in the early hours of 17 January the air war had begun. One bad thing after another and the ground attack still to come.
He poured himself another brandy, remembering his despairing rage at the news of his father’s death. He’d never been religious by inclination, but he’d found a mosque in a Paris side street to pray in. Not that it had done any good. The feeling of impotence was like a living thing inside him and then came the morning when Ali Rashid had rushed into the great ornate sitting room, a notepad in one hand, his face pale and excited.
‘It’s come, Mr Aroun. The signal we’ve been waiting for. I just heard it on the radio transmitter from Baghdad.’
The winds of heaven are blowing. Implement all that is on the table. May God be with you.
Aroun had gazed at it in wonder, his hand trembling as he held the notepad, and his voice was hoarse when he said, ‘The President was right. The day has come.’
‘Exactly,’ Rashid said. ‘Implement all that is on the table. We’re in business. I’ll get in touch with Makeev and arrange a meeting as soon as possible.’
Dillon stood at the French windows and peered out across the Avenue Victor Hugo to the Bois de Boulogne. He was whistling softly to himself, a strange eerie little tune.
‘Now this must be what the house agents call a favoured location.’
‘May I offer you a drink, Mr Dillon?’
‘A glass of champagne wouldn’t come amiss.’
‘Have you a preference?’ Aroun asked.
‘Ah, the man who has everything,’ Dillon said. ‘All right, Krug would be fine, but non-vintage. I prefer the grape mix.’
‘A man of taste, I see.’ Aroun nodded to Rashid who opened a side door and went out.
Dillon, unbuttoning his reefer coat, took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘So, you need my services this old fox tells me.’ He nodded at Makeev who lounged against the fireplace warming himself. ‘The job of a lifetime, he said and for a million pounds. Now what would I have to do for all that?’
Rashid entered quickly with the Krug in a bucket, three glasses on a tray. He put them on the table and started to open the bottle.
Aroun said, ‘I’m not sure, but it would have to be something very special. Something to show the world that Saddam Hussein can strike anywhere.’
‘He needs something, the poor old sod,’ Dillon said cheerfully. ‘Things aren’t going too well.’ As Rashid finished filling three glasses the Irishman added, ‘And what’s your trouble, son? Aren’t you joining us?’
Rashid smiled and Aroun said, ‘In spite of Winchester and Sandhurst, Mr Dillon, Captain Rashid remains a very Muslim Muslim. He does not touch alcohol.’
‘Well, here’s to you.’ Dillon