Bad Company

“I feel overdressed.”

“I was ordered to make this as low-key as possible. Get in.”

The Baron did, sitting in the rear, Aroun in front beside the driver. As they drove away, the thunder rumbled again and rain erupted, deluging the slow-moving traffic, a scene of chaos, horns honking, the sidewalks crowded with people, most of them seemingly oblivious to the rain.

“This is the main throughfare through the old town. Al Rashid Street. It’s not too far to the palace.”

Al Rashid Street. It made von Berger think of Kate. She hadn’t rung back. The car braked behind a truck close to the curb, where several young men were sheltered under the awning of a cafe, smoking cigarettes and talking. As the Mercedes paused, they noticed it and stared, very much aware of von Berger’s Western clothes. They began talking excitedly in Arabic, youths of a kind to be found in any great city in the world and intent on mischief. Suddenly, they approached the car, and someone wrenched open the rear door of the Mercedes.

“American, eh? We don’t like Americans.”

“No, I’m German.”

“You lie – American.” Hands reached in for him.

Aroun got out on the other side and pulled a pistol, but three men jumped on him from behind, wrestled him to the ground and started kicking him. His driver was pulled out and received the same treatment. Von Berger thought his last hour had come, as many hands grabbed at him, pulling him into the middle of the crowd. A tall, young, bearded man, incongruously in a baseball cap and T-shirt, seemed to be the leader. He brandished Aroun’s pistol and shouted to the crowd, then advanced on von Berger as they held him.

“Americans we kill,” the man said.

But just then came a squeal of brakes as two Land Rovers came to a halt, the sound of a shot fired into the air, and a woman calling in Arabic. The men turned, pulling von Berger with them, and he saw Kate Rashid standing by one of the Land Rovers in headcloth, khaki bush shirt and slacks. She was holding a Browning Hi-Power and the six Bedu guards with her had AK47s at the ready.

“Let him go,” she said in English to the man in the baseball cap.

“He is American and Americans we kill,” he shouted. “And who are you, woman, to tell us what do?”

He grabbed von Berger by the hair and rammed the muzzle of his pistol against the Baron’s skull. “I say he dies.”

Her hand swung up, and she fired, shooting him through the mouth, the back of his skull fragmenting, blood and bone spraying over the crowd. He dropped the pistol and fell, and the crowd scattered and ran. The Baron had fallen to the ground and two of the Bedu picked him up.

“Kate,” he said, dumbfounded.

She smiled and turned to Aroun, who had picked himself up and leaned on the Mercedes. “Major Aroun, I think you know who I am.”

“Yes, Lady Kate.”

“I don’t know what’s been going on here. No uniforms, no military escort?”

“He said it had to be low-profile.”

“Really? Well, you’d better see to the scum on the pavement, then clean yourself up and I’ll take the Baron to the Presidential Palace.” She turned to von Berger. “Come on, get in and tidy yourself up. Your hair is all over the place.”

Sitting in the back of one of the Land Rovers as they drove away, he said, “Where in the hell did you spring from?”

“Oh, I was in the region and heard a whisper relating to your meeting with the great man. For various reasons, I wasn’t happy. Saddam can do strange things. He’s a man of uncertainties. He sends a junior officer to greet you, leaves you kicking your heels for three days, a man as important as you? That means he’s in another manic phase.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I know him well. He’s a good friend of mine. No, that’s not quite right. He thinks he’s a good friend of mine.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I think he’s a madman who’d be better off dead. Achieving that would be difficult, however.”

They paused at the gates of the Presidential Palace, were checked through instantly when the guards saw Kate, and drove inside, stopping at the bottom of the huge steps leading up to the entrance.

Kate turned and said calmly, “Well, here we go, Max. This should be interesting.”

An army colonel, who had presumably been waiting to greet the Baron, rushed forward to kiss Kate’s hand and spoke to her in English.

“Lady Kate, I’ve heard what happened. It shames us all. Are you all right?”

It was so strange how English the Iraqi military sounded, the Baron thought. This was another one who’d probably gone to Sandhurst Military Academy.

“The only problem is the man I had to leave on the pavement, Colonel.”

“He was a dog who deserved to die for his insult to you. Pavements, Lady Kate, are easily cleaned.”

“Is he aware of what happened?”

“His rage was terrible. He has ordered instant police reprisals in Al Rashid Street. Please follow me.”

There was a sudden wailing of sirens outside, and the lights dimmed at once. The colonel waved a hand and a soldier ran forward with a large hand lamp.

“It’s an air-raid practice only,” the colonel said. “Our American friends are not giving us much trouble at the moment. This way.”

They followed him along corridors of marbled splendor. It was an eerie feeling, the darkness closing in, statues on each side seemingly floating out of the gloom, the pool of light from the lamp, the echo of their feet on the marble.

“Are you all right?” Kate whispered.

Von Berger said, “I think you might say it’s one of the more remarkable experiences I’ve ever had – and considering I’m the only man you know who was in the Fuhrer Bunker, that’s quite a statement.”

She laughed. “Oh, I like you, Max. If only-”

“I was fifty years younger,” he cut in. “But I’m not, so behave yourself.”

They halted at an ornate door, sentries on either side. The colonel opened it and went in. They waited and a voice rumbled. The colonel was back in a moment.

“He will see you now.”

Saddam Hussein was seated alone in uniform at a large desk, the only light a shaded lamp. He was signing documents, but looked up and put down his pen, got up and came round the desk to embrace Kate, kissed her on each cheek.

She said in English, “Baron von Berger doesn’t speak Arabic.”

Saddam never advertised the fact that he spoke English well, but he turned now. “Baron, I’m outraged that you should be treated in such a fashion.”

“It was an unfortunate misunderstanding. They thought me an American. I think I was wearing the wrong clothes.”

Saddam roared with laughter. “I like that. I can understand that.” It was strange how volatile he was, for just as suddenly he frowned and looked down at Kate. “But the insult to you. That is unforgivable. I’ve ordered reprisals. The military police will teach the scum on Al Rashid Street a lesson.”

“But I did teach them a lesson,” Kate said. “I shot the leader of the mob.”

“Excellent. That was your lesson, and now I teach them mine. Come – sit.”

Which she did and nodded to von Berger, who took the next chair. Saddam passed across to a window and opened the shutters to a terrace. An “All Clear” sounded and he looked across the city. Lights started to come on.