“We had the Americans and the Brits in the Gulf War, interfering, sticking their nose in Arab business. They fly over the so-called exclusion zones, bomb our installations. War, perhaps, will come again.” He turned. “Which is why you are here, Baron.”
Max von Berger turned to Kate, and the look on her face said it all. He took a deep breath. “In what way can I help?”
Kate cut in. “Baron von Berger has access to most armaments. What are you looking for? Stinger missiles?”
He paced back into the room. “That kind of thing I can get from many resources. What I really need is plutonium.” He turned to von Berger. “My nuclear program is well advanced, but we do need plutonium. Can you supply me?”
Kate turned and nodded slightly. Von Berger said, “I am aware of sources.”
“Excellent.” Saddam sat behind his desk again. “If the Americans come, at the end I must have a weapon, a special weapon to stop them dead in their tracks. People talk of biological weapons, but this is not enough. Only a nuclear device will suffice.”
Max von Berger could have pointed out the catastrophic results of American retaliation, cited the fate of Japan at the end of the Second World War, but didn’t. There was no point. He now realized, at first hand, that Saddam Hussein was a madman.
“So, what do you want from me?” he asked.
“I told you. Plutonium, Baron, plutonium.” Saddam stood up and his head was shaking. “Don’t waste my time. Go away and get me plutonium.”
Von Berger was aware of Kate’s hand on his arm and stood up. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Saddam picked up his pen and started to sign more documents. Kate pulled von Berger away and he had the good sense to go with her.
In the Land Rover, he said, “He’s a raving lunatic.”
“Of course, but that’s not what’s important now. I had my other Land Rover retrieve your belongings from the Al Bustan. I’ve also arranged a departure slot for your plane. You should get out while you can. His manic moods are terrible. You never know what he’ll do.”
“I’ll take your advice.”
“Will you try to find him plutonium?”
And Max von Berger, a major in the SS, once Hitler’s aide, said, “Not in a thousand years.”
“Good,” she said. “You’re a lovely man, Max, so let’s get you to the airport and out of this place.”
Germany
4.
IT WAS THE following year and von Berger was in Brazil on business when he heard of the appalling tragedy that had befallen the Rashid family, the deaths of the brothers George and Michael and Paul. The news came too late for him to fly back for the funeral, and what would have been the point?
Because of the particular nature of the peerage, Kate Rashid inherited, and was now Countess of Loch Dhu. But the rule still held: There was no public connection between the Baron and the Rashid empire.
At that stage, von Berger knew nothing of the reasons for the deaths or of the Rashid feud with Western interests or the cause for it. It was only later that he would hear of the failed assassination attempt on the life of President Jake Cazalet at his weekend retreat on Nantucket by Irish mercenaries, instigated by Paul Rashid. Then there was the successful assassination of the Sultan of Hazar himself, followed by the failed attempt on the lives of the entire Council of Elders in Hazar, again, by Irish mercenaries.
It was only later that von Berger realized how important in all this had been Blake Johnson, who ran the Basement at the White House. And then there was General Charles Ferguson, who did the same thing for the British Prime Minister, seconded by his right-hand man, Sean Dillon. Dillon, who had personally killed Paul Rashid and his two brothers.
But all this knowledge was in the future. For the present, Max von Berger had to be content to follow Kate Rashid’s activities from afar. He was aware of the arrival in her life of Rupert Dauncey, an American cousin of some kind, once a major in the Marine Corps, and was also aware of a certain jealousy. But life went on and he busied himself in business as usual, until that evening, staying for a few days at the Schloss, when on a whim, he decided to have supper at the inn, the Eagle.
It was crowded, a Friday night, snow falling, winter beginning. When he went in, he received his usual welcome, and the innkeeper, Meyer, hurried to meet him. “Baron, are you dining with us tonight?”
“I think so. I’ll take your special hotpot with potatoes and dumplings. How could I do better?”
“You honor us.”
He led the way to a booth in the far corner and nodded to the two men sitting there, who jumped up and ducked their heads.
“Thank you, my friends.” The Baron took off his hat, and Meyer helped with the heavy coat and seated him. “It’s a bad night, so I’ll have champagne. It’ll liven things up a little.”
Meyer departed, and the Baron took out his case, selected a cigarette and lit it, aware of the man standing at the bar drinking beer and scowling at him. This was one Hans Klein, a huge brute, a local farmer and drunkard. He was seriously in arrears with his rent, had failed to pay again and again. At the town appeals court the previous month, the Baron had given him three months until eviction.
As Meyer brought the champagne in a bucket and a glass, Klein said loudly, “That’s all right for the high and bloody mighty.” He turned to the barmaid and slammed his hand on the bar. “Schnapps, and be quick about it, or do we all have to stand in line for him?”
Conversation faltered and Meyer, thumbing off the cork, looked agitated. “Baron, I’m so sorry.”
“Just pour.”
It was at that moment the door opened, snow whirled in, and the stranger appeared.
He was wearing a hunting jacket with a fur collar, and a tweed cap covered with snow, which he took off and beat against his thigh. Strangers were not usual in Neustadt and he attracted immediate attention. He had black hair, not quite to his shoulders, but long enough, and a handsome wedge-shaped face with a broken nose, with the look of some medieval brave about him. He unbuttoned his coat.
“Good evening,” he said. “A bad night for it.”
His German was almost flawless, but as von Berger recognized, there was a hint of Italian there.
Meyer said, “Welcome, Mein Herr, you’ve come far?”
“You could say that. All the way from Sicily.”
Klein turned to those nearest him. “Italian,” and there was contempt in his voice.
The stranger ignored him and said to Meyer, “I need something to warm me up. You look as if you’ve got every drink in the world back there. Would you have grappa?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Meyer took a bottle down from the shelf and held it up.
The stranger read the label aloud. “‘Grappa Di Brunello di Montalcino.’ Jesus, that stuff is firewater. Pour me one now.” He took it straight down and coughed. “Wonderful. I’ll hang on to it.”
He turned, saw a small table vacant and, in the same glance, the Baron in his booth, amused. The stranger stopped smiling and almost stepped back, as if recoiling physically. He paused, then went to the vacant table, sat down, opened the bottle and poured another one. He glanced at the Baron again, then lowered his eyes.
The Baron frowned, strangely uncomfortable. There was something familiar there. It was as if he knew him, but how could that be? Not that it mattered, for it was at that moment that Klein, drunker than ever, erupted. He reached over the bar, grabbed the bottle of schnapps, pulled the cork with his teeth and drank deeply, then he slammed the bottle down and turned.
