Page 71

“I was referring more to acceptance,” Paxman pointed out. “What businessman or reporter would ever agree, knowing what would be in store if he were caught? I’d prefer the KGB to the AMAM.”

Bill Stewart put down his fork in frustration and called for another glass of milk.

“Well, that’s it then—short of finding a trained agent who can pass for an Iraqi.”

Paxman shot a glance at Steve Laing, who thought for a moment and slowly nodded.

“We’ve got a guy who can,” said Paxman.

“A tame Arab? So has the Mossad, so have we,” said Stewart, “but not at this level. Message-carriers, gofers. This is high-risk, high-value.”

“No, a Brit, a major in the SAS.”

Stewart paused, his milk glass halfway to his mouth. Barber put down his knife and fork and ceased chewing his steak.

“Speaking Arabic is one thing. Passing for an Iraqi inside Iraq is a whole different ball game,” said Stewart.

“He’s dark-skinned, black-haired, brown-eyed, but he’s a hundred percent British. He was born and raised there. He can pass for one.”

“And he’s fully trained in covert operations?” asked Barber. “Shit, where the hell is he?”

“Actually, he’s in Kuwait at the moment,” said Laing.

“Damn. You mean he’s stuck in there, holed up?”

“No. He seems to be moving about quite freely.”

“So if he can get out, what the hell’s he doing?”

“Killing Iraqis, actually.”

Stewart thought it over and nodded slowly.

“Big balls,” he murmured. “Can you get him out of there? We’d like to borrow him.”

“I suppose so, next time he comes on the radio. We would have to run him, though. And share the product.”

Stewart nodded again.

“I guess so. You guys brought us Jericho. It’s a deal. I’ll clear it with the Judge.”

Paxman rose and wiped his mouth.

“I’d better go tell Riyadh,” he said.

Mike Martin was a man accustomed to making his own luck, but his life was saved that October by a fluke.

He was due to make a radio call to the designated SIS house in the outskirts of Riyadh during the night of the nineteenth, the same night the four senior intelligence officers from the CIA and Century House were dining in South Kensington.

Had he done so, he would have been off the air, due t

o the two-hour time difference, before Simon Paxman could return to Century House and alert Riyadh that he was wanted.

Worse, he would have been on the air for five to ten minutes, discussing with Riyadh ways of securing a resupply of arms and explosives.

In fact, he was in the lockup garage where he kept his jeep just before midnight, only to discover that the vehicle had a flat tire.

Cursing, he spent an hour with the jeep jacked-up, struggling to remove the wheel nuts, which had been almost cemented into place by a mixture of grease and desert sand. At a quarter to one he rolled out of the garage, and within half a mile he noticed that even his spare tire had developed a slow leak.