Eye of the storm Page 0,5
corridor, following the beam of Rashid’s torch.
Since his return to Paris he had got to know Makeev well, keeping their acquaintance, by design, purely on a social level, meeting mainly at various embassy functions. And Saddam Hussein had been right. The Russian was very definitely on their side, only too willing to do anything that would cause problems for the United States or Great Britain.
The news from home, of course, had been bad. The buildup of such a gigantic army. Who could have expected it? And then in the early hours of the seventeenth of January the air war had begun. One bad thing after another and the ground attack still to come.
He poured himself another brandy, remembering his despairing rage at the news of his father’s death. He’d never been religious by inclination, but he’d found a mosque in a Paris side street to pray in. Not that it had done any good. The feeling of impotence was like a living thing inside him, and then came the morning when Ali Rashid had rushed into the great ornate sitting room, a notepad in one hand, his face pale and excited.
“It’s come, Mr. Aroun. The signal we’ve been waiting for. I just heard it on the radio transmitter from Baghdad.”
The winds of heaven are blowing. Implement all that is on the table. May God be with you.
Aroun had gazed at it in wonder, his hand trembling as he held the notepad, and his voice was hoarse when he said, “The President was right. The day has come.”
“Exactly,” Rashid said. “Implement all that is on the table. We’re in business. I’ll get in touch with Makeev and arrange a meeting as soon as possible.”
Dillon stood at the French windows and peered out across the Avenue Victor Hugo to the Bois de Boulogne. He was whistling softly to himself, a strange, eerie little tune.
“Now this must be what the house agents call a favored location.”
“May I offer you a drink, Mr. Dillon?”
“A glass of champagne wouldn’t come amiss.”
“Have you a preference?” Aroun asked.
“Ah, the man who has everything,” Dillon said. “All right, Krug would be fine, but non-vintage. I prefer the grape mix.”
“A man of taste, I see.” Aroun nodded to Rashid, who opened a side door and went out.
Dillon, unbuttoning his reefer coat, took out a cigarette and lit it. “So, you need my services this old fox tells me.” He nodded at Makeev, who lounged against the fireplace warming himself. “The job of a lifetime, he said, and for a million pounds. Now what would I have to do for all that?”
Rashid entered quickly with the Krug in a bucket, three glasses on a tray. He put them on the table and started to open the bottle.
Aroun said, “I’m not sure, but it would have to be something very special. Something to show the world that Saddam Hussein can strike anywhere.”
“He needs something, the poor old sod,” Dillon said cheerfully. “Things aren’t going too well.” As Rashid finished filling three glasses, the Irishman added, “And what’s your trouble, son? Aren’t you joining us?”
Rashid smiled and Aroun said, “In spite of Winchester and Sandhurst, Mr. Dillon, Captain Rashid remains a very Muslim Muslim. He does not touch alcohol.”
“Well here’s to you.” Dillon raised his glass. “I respect a man with principles.”
“This would need to be big, Sean, no point in anything small. We’re not talking about blowing up five British Army paratroopers in Belfast,” Makeev said.
“Oh, it’s Bush you want, is it?” Dillon smiled. “The President of the United States flat on his back with a bullet in him?”
“Would that be so crazy?” Aroun demanded.
“It would be this time, son,” Dillon told him. “George Bush has not just taken on Saddam Hussein, he’s taken on the Arabs as a people. Oh, that’s total rubbish, of course, but it’s the way a lot of Arab fanatics see it. Groups like Hizbollah, the PLO or the wild cards like the Wrath of Allah people. The sort who would happily strap a bomb to their waist and detonate it while the President reached out to shake just another hand in the crowd. I know these people. I know how their minds tick. I’ve helped train Hizbollah people in Beirut. I’ve worked for the PLO.”
“What you are saying is nobody can get near Bush at the moment?”
“Read your papers. Anybody who looks even slightly Arab is keeping off the streets these days in New York and Washington.”
“But you, Mr. Dillon, do not look Arab to