The Fist of God

infuriating hours working at such a lock in the corridor of an office building in a European capital before emerging livid with rage. Since then, the British have tested their own locks and left the Mossad to work it out for themselves.

The lock-picker brought from Tel Aviv was not the best in Israel but the second best. There was a reason for this: He had something the best lock-pick did not have.

During the night the young man underwent a six-hour briefing from Gidi Barzilai on the subject of the eighteenth-century work of the German-French cabinetmaker Riesener, and a full description by the spotter of the internal layout of the Winkler building. The yarid, surveillance team completed his education with a rundown of the movements of the nightwatch, as observed by the times and places of lights going on and off inside the bank during the night.

That same Monday, Mike Martin waited until five in the afternoon before he wheeled his bone-shaker bicycle across the graveled yard to the rear gate of the Kulikov garden, opened the gate, and let himself out.

He mounted and began to ride down the road in the direction of the nearest ferry crossing of the river, at the place where the Jumhuriya Bridge used to be before the Tornados offered it their personal attention.

He turned the corner, out of sight of the villa, and saw the first parked car. Then the second, farther on. When the two men emerged from the second car and took up position in the center of the road, his stomach began to tighten. He risked a glance behind him; two men from the other car had blocked any retreat. Knowing it was all over, he pedaled on. There was nothing else to do. One of the men ahead of him pointed to the side of the road.

“Hey you!” he shouted. “Over here!”

He came to a stop under the trees by the side of the road. Three more men emerged, soldiers. Their guns pointed straight at him. Slowly he raised his hands.

Chapter 21

That afternoon in Riyadh, the British and American ambassadors met, apparently informally, for the purpose of indulging in the peculiarly

English habit of taking tea and cakes.

Also present on the lawn of the British embassy were Chip Barber, supposedly on the U.S. embassy staff, and Steve Laing, who would tell any casual inquirer that he was with his country’s Cultural Section. A third guest, in a rare break from his duties belowground, was General Norman Schwarzkopf.

Within a short time, all five men found themselves together in a corner of the lawn, nursing their cups of tea. It made life easier when everyone knew what everyone else really did for a living.

Among all the guests, the sole topic of talk was the imminent war, but these five men had information denied to all the rest. One piece of information was the news of the details of the peace plan presented that day by Tariq Aziz to Saddam Hussein, the plan brought back from Moscow and the talks with Mikhail Gorbachev. It was a subject of worry for each of the five guests, but for different reasons.

General Schwarzkopf had already that day headed off a suggestion out of Washington that he might attack earlier than planned. The Soviet peace plan called for a declared cease-fire, and an Iraqi pullout from Kuwait on the following day.

Washington knew these details not from Baghdad but from Moscow.

The immediate reply from the White House was that the plan had merits but failed to address key issues. It made no mention of Iraq’s annulment forever of its claim on Kuwait; it did not bear in mind the unimaginable damage done to Kuwait—the five hundred oil fires, the millions of tons of crude oil gushing into the Gulf to poison its waters, the two hundred executed Kuwaitis, the sacking of Kuwait City.

“Colin Powell tells me,” said the general, “that the State Department is pushing for an even harder line. They want to demand unconditional surrender.”

“So they do, to be sure,” murmured the American envoy.

“So I told ’em,” said the general, “I told ’em, you need an Arabist to look at this.”

“Indeed,” replied the British ambassador, “and why should that be?”

Both the ambassadors were consummate diplomats who had worked for years in the Middle East. Both were Arabists.

“Well,” said the Commander-in-Chief, “that kind of ultimatum does not work with Arabs. They’ll die first.”

There was silence in the group. The ambassadors searched the general’s guileless face for a hint of irony.

The two intelligence officers stayed quiet, but both men had the same thought in their minds: That is precisely the point, my dear general.

“You have come from the house of the Russian.”

It was a statement, not a question. The Counterintelligence man was in plain clothes but clearly an officer.

“Yes, bey.”

“Papers.”

Martin rummaged through the pockets of his dish-dash and produced his ID card and the soiled and crumpled letter originally issued to him by First Secretary Kulikov. The officer studied the card, glanced up to compare the faces, and looked at the letter.

The Israeli forgers had done their work well. The simple, stubbled face of Mahmoud Al-Khouri stared through the grubby plastic.

“Search him,” said the officer.

The other plainclothesman ran his hands over the body under the dish-dash, then shook his head. No weapons.

“Pockets.”

The pockets revealed some dinar notes, some coins, a penknife, different colored pieces of chalk, and a plastic bag. The officer held up the last piece.

“What is this?”

“The infidel threw it away. I use it for my tobacco.”

“There is no tobacco in it.”

“No, bey, I have run out. I was hoping to buy some in the market.”

“And don’t call me bey. That went out with the Turks. Where do you come from, anyway?”

Martin described the small village far in the north. “It is well known thereabouts for its melons,” he added helpfully.

“Be quiet about your thrice-damned melons!” snapped the officer, who had the impression his soldiers were trying not to smile.

A large limousine cruised into the far end of the street and stopped, two hundred yards away.

The junior officer nudged his superior and nodded. The senior man turned, looked, and told Martin, “Wait here.”

He walked back to the large car and stooped to address someone through the rear window.

“Who have you got?” asked Hassan Rahmani.

“Gardener-handyman, sir. Works there. Does the roses and the gravel, shops for the cook.”

“Smart?”

“No, sir, practically simpleminded. A peasant from up-country, comes from some melon patch in the north.”

Rahmani thought it over. If he detained the fool, the Russians would wonder why their man had not come back. That would alert them. He hoped that if the Russian peace initiative failed, he would get his permission to raid the place. If he let the man complete his errands and return, he might alert his Soviet employers. In Rahmani’s experience there was one language every poor Iraqi spoke and spoke well. He produced a wallet and peeled out a hundred dinars.