“No, I’m not renowned for my sense of humor where money is concerned.”
“But the manipulations necessary to raise such a sum on the international finance scene would be very obvious. There is no way the Americans, the Russians and the Brits would not be aware of it.”
“No, there you’re wrong. There would be no need for anything unusual to happen. I have access to unlimited cash funds.”
Kate was astonished. “In that amount? But from where?”
“Oh, Swiss banks. I’m what is known as cash-rich. There’ll be no wheeler-dealing on the stock exchanges, no haggling for loans or investments in the financial markets. Just healthy injections of cash into Rashid Investments, as you choose.”
They looked at each other. Kate was excited and clutched at her brother’s arm. “Paul, we’ll never have such a chance again. We can confound them all.”
“I know, little sister.” Rashid turned to von Berger. “And in return?”
“In return, I would expect to be made a silent partner in Rashid Investments.”
“On what terms?”
“Nothing onerous, nothing unreasonable. We can work it out together, here, and I’ll step back. In fact, we shouldn’t even meet socially, not ever again.” He turned to Kate. “Which will be a great deprivation.”
Paul Rashid sat brooding. After a while, he said, “Those international oil cartels, they’d love to drill anywhere they damn well pleased in the Dhofar and walk all over the Bedu in the process. Rape the desert.”
“And you would do it differently?”
“It can be done differently, Max, no one knows that better than you. You are right, by the way. We can’t be seen together in the future.”
“So, we have a deal?”
“Subject to our agreement on the partnership, yes. I’ll arrange all the necessary documentation and you will arrange the funding.”
“By Friday.”
“We have an ancient Bedu custom, more binding than any contract.” Rashid took a small razor-sharp knife from his belt. “Your thumb, Baron, the left hand.” Von Berger held out the hand, Rashid touched the end of the thumb and drew a spot of blood. He did the same to his own, then touched it to von Berger’s, their blood mingling.
Kate held out her left hand. “Me too. It is my right. I brought him.”
He smiled. “And you did well, little sister.” He pricked her thumb also and she touched his and then von Berger’s. Paul Rashid leaned forward and put an arm around both of them. “This bond that will last for life itself.”
“I swear it on my honor,” von Berger said.
Kate smiled and something glowed in her eyes. “What a pity, Max, that we can’t meet again, but Paul is right.”
“No more Piano Bar.” He spread his hands. “I’m desolate.”
Little did he know, but some two years later, he was to meet her again and under the most dramatic of circumstances.
January 2000, to be precise. Von Berger was approached through his Berlin offices by Iraqi government sources. They wanted exploratory talks regarding arms supplies. Von Berger wasn’t surprised. Arms dealers all over the world had been approached. There wasn’t much chance of keeping quiet about it with the Israeli Mossad so closely allied to American and British intelligence.
He wasn’t certain why he went to Iraq at all. He didn’t approve of Saddam Hussein or his regime. The lift that Kate Rashid had given to his life had been only temporary. Since the meeting in Hazar, he had not had any overt contact with the Rashids. The business dealings in the Dhofar, in which he had invested so much, had prospered hugely. The truth was that he was seventy-eight years old, and the only people he had cared about were dead and gone. He had accomplished so much and there was nothing left that was worth doing. He was also bored, so he went to Baghdad.
The city seemed immense, ancient and yet modern, hot and dusty, crowded with humanity. He flew into the airport in a Gulfstream and was received with extreme courtesy by a young intelligence major called Aroun, immaculate in a khaki uniform that looked as if it had been tailored in London’s Savile Row. Sporting medals and the wings of a paratrooper, he was handsome, intelligent and spoke good English. He eased von Berger through the usual formalities and escorted him out to a limousine, a Lincoln. He joined him in the rear seat.
“Do you smoke, Baron?” He offered his cigarette case.
“Why, thank you.” Von Berger accepted a light and leaned back, peering out at the crowded streets. “Fascinating.”
“Yes, well, I think it will rain later.”
“Is that good?”
“In this city, yes. The smell can be overpowering, and Baghdad was not created to fit in with the invention of the motor car. I’m taking you to the Al Bustan, Baron, a five-star modern hotel.”
“And my meeting?”
“He can’t see you today. I’ll let you know.”
“Of course.”
Already, von Berger was wondering whether he should have come in the first place.
Later that evening, he stood on the terrace of his suite, smoking a cigarette and drinking Irish whiskey. It was a strange thing to find in his suite and he wondered who had known enough about him to supply it. There was a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder and rain started to pour down. He looked to the crowded streets, the slow- moving traffic, but already the air smelled fresher. It was as if a weight had been lifted. He finished his whiskey, and the mobile phone in his breast pocket, an international model, rang.
“Who is this?” he inquired.
“How about a drink in the Piano Bar?” said a woman’s voice. “Oh – sorry, that’s not possible. You’re at the Al Bustan in downtown Baghdad.”
He was astonished. “Kate, it’s you. Where are you?”
“Never mind.”
“And how on earth did you know I was here?”
“Oh, I know most things. That you’re brokering some sort of arms deal with Saddam, for instance. When are you seeing him, or are you?”
“It was supposed to be today, but it’s been delayed.”
“Who said so?”
“The young man who received me at the airport. A Major Aroun.”
“A major? They should be doing better than that for you. It all smells a little like old fish to me.”
“Well, dictators can be like that. I was raised on Hitler, remember.”
“All right, but listen, take care. I’ll check back to see how you are. You’ll be pleased to know we’re making a fortune, partner.” The line went dead and he switched off.
He languished for three days, and had definitely decided to go back home when the hotel phone finally rang. It was Aroun. “He’ll see you tonight at nine-thirty. I’ll pick you up at nine and deliver you to the Presidential Palace.”
“How kind,” von Berger said. “I was about to leave.”
“Please, Baron, his sense of humor is limited. In any case, you wouldn’t have made the airport. I would suggest you be ready on time.”
Max von Berger laughed. “My dear boy, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
When von Berger went down to the hotel foyer in response to Aroun’s phone call, he found the major standing by a Mercedes sedan. He wasn’t in uniform and wore a black leather bomber jacket and jeans, as did the driver. Von Berger wore a black suit, white shirt and dark tie.
