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Chip Barber and Simon Paxman pored over it for hours. Each had decided to take a brief break from Saudi Arabia and fly home for several days, leaving the running of Mike Martin and Jericho from the Riyadh end in the hands of Julian Gray for the British and the local CIA Head of Station for the Americans. There were only twenty-four days to go until the expiration of the United Nations deadline and the start of General Chuck Horner’s air war against Iraq. Both men wanted a short home leave, and Jericho’s powerful report gave them the chance. They could take it with them.

“What do you think he means, ‘win and be seen to win’?”

asked Barber.

“No idea,” said Paxman. “We’ll have to get some analysts who are better than we are to have a look at it.”

“We too. I guess nobody will be around for the next few days except the shop-minders. I’ll give it the way it is to Bill Stewart, and he’ll probably have some eggheads try to add an in-depth analysis before it goes on to the Director and the State Department.”

“I know an egghead I’d like to have a look at it,” said Paxman, and on that note they left for the airport to catch their respective flights home.

On Christmas Eve, seated in a discreet wine bar in London’s West End with Simon Paxman, Dr. Terry Martin was shown the whole text of the Jericho message and asked if he would try to work out what, if anything, Saddam Hussein could mean by winning against America as a price for leaving Kuwait.

“By the way,” he asked Paxman, “I know it breaks the rules of need-to-know, but I really am worried. I do these favors for you—give me one in return. How is my brother Mike doing in Kuwait? Is he still safe?”

Paxman stared at the doctor of Arabic studies for several seconds.

“I can only tell you that he is no longer in Kuwait,” he said. “And that’s more than my job is worth.”

Terry Martin flushed with relief.

“It’s the best Christmas present I could have. Thank you, Simon.” He looked up and waved a waggish finger. “Just one thing—don’t even think of sending him into Baghdad.”

Paxman had been in the business fifteen years. He kept his face immobile, his tone light. The scholar was clearly just joking.

“Really? Why not?”

Martin was finishing his glass of wine and failed to notice the flicker of alarm in the intelligence officer’s eyes.

“My dear Simon, Baghdad’s the one city in the world he mustn’t set foot in. You remember those tapes of Iraqi radio intercepts Sean Plummer let me have? Some of the voices have been identified. I recognized one of the names. A hell of a fluke, but I know I’m right.”

“Really?” said Paxman smoothly. “Tell me more.”

“It’s been a long time, of course, but I know it was the same man. And guess what? He’s now head of Counterintelligence in Baghdad, Saddam’s number-one spy-hunter.”

“Hassan Rahmani,” murmured Paxman. Terry Martin should stay off booze, even before Christmas. He can’t carry it. His tongue’s running away with him.

“That’s the one. They were at school together, you know. We all were. Good old Mr. Hartley’s prep school. Mike and Hassan were best mates. See? That’s why he can never be seen around Baghdad.”

Paxman left the wine bar and stared at the dumpy figure of the Arabist heading down the street.

“Oh shit,” he said. “Oh bloody, bloody hell.”

Someone had just ruined his Christmas, and he was about to ruin Steve Laing’s.

Edith Hardenberg had gone to Salzburg to spend the festive season with her mother, a family tradition that went back many years.

Karim, the young Jordanian student, was able to visit Gidi Barzilai at his safe-house apartment, where the controller for Operation Joshua was dispensing drinks to the off-duty members of the yarid and neviot teams working under him. Only one unfortunate was up in Salzburg, keeping an eye on Miss Hardenberg in case she should return suddenly to the capital.

Karim’s real name was Avi Herzog, a twenty-nine-year-old who had been seconded to the Mossad several years earlier from Unit 504, a branch of Army Intelligence specializing in cross-border raids, which accounted for his fluent Arabic. Because of his good looks and the deceptively shy and diffident manner he could affect when he wished, the Mossad had twice used him for honeytrap operations.

“So how’s it going, loverboy?” asked Gidi as he passed around the drinks.

“Slowly,” said Avi.

“Don’t take too long. The old man wants a result, remember.”

“This is one very uptight lady,” replied Avi. “Only interested in a meeting of minds—yet.”