Bad Company by Jack Higgins Page B

to his life had been only temporary. Since the meeting in Hazar, he had not had any overt contact with the Rashids. The business dealings in the Dhofar, in which he had invested so much, had prospered hugely. The truth was that he was seventy-eight years old, and the only people he had cared about were dead and gone. He had accomplished so much and there was nothing left that was worth doing. He was also bored, so he went to Baghdad.
     
    The city seemed immense, ancient and yet modern, hot and dusty, crowded with humanity. He flew into the airport in a Gulfstream and was received with extreme courtesy by a young intelligence major called Aroun, immaculate in a khaki uniform that looked as if it had been tailored in London’s Savile Row. Sporting medals and the wings of a paratrooper, he was handsome, intelligent and spoke good English. He eased von Berger through the usual formalities and escorted him out to a limousine, a Lincoln. He joined him in the rear seat.
    “Do you smoke, Baron?” He offered his cigarette case.
    “Why, thank you.” Von Berger accepted a light and leaned back, peering out at the crowded streets. “Fascinating.”
    “Yes, well, I think it will rain later.”
    “Is that good?”
    “In this city, yes. The smell can be overpowering, and Baghdad was not created to fit in with the invention of the motor car. I’m taking you to the Al Bustan, Baron, a five-star modern hotel.”
    “And my meeting?”
    “He can’t see you today. I’ll let you know.”
    “Of course.”
    Already, von Berger was wondering whether he should have come in the first place.
     
    Later that evening, he stood on the terrace of his suite, smoking a cigarette and drinking Irish whiskey. It was a strange thing to find in his suite and he wondered who had known enough about him to supply it. There was a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder and rain started to pour down. He looked to the crowded streets, the slow-moving traffic, but already the air smelled fresher. It was as if a weight had been lifted. He finished his whiskey, and the mobile phone in his breast pocket, an international model, rang.
    “Who is this?” he inquired.
    “How about a drink in the Piano Bar?” said a woman’s voice. “Oh – sorry, that’s not possible. You’re at the Al Bustan in downtown Baghdad.”
    He was astonished. “Kate, it’s you. Where are you?”
    “Never mind.”
    “And how on earth did you know I was here?”
    “Oh, I know most things. That you’re brokering some sort of arms deal with Saddam, for instance. When are you seeing him, or are you?”
    “It was supposed to be today, but it’s been delayed.”
    “Who said so?”
    “The young man who received me at the airport. A Major Aroun.”
    “A major? They should be doing better than that for you. It all smells a little like old fish to me.”
    “Well, dictators can be like that. I was raised on Hitler, remember.”
    “All right, but listen, take care. I’ll check back to see how you are. You’ll be pleased to know we’re making a fortune, partner.” The line went dead and he switched off.
     
    He languished for three days, and had definitely decided to go back home when the hotel phone finally rang. It was Aroun. “He’ll see you tonight at nine-thirty. I’ll pick you up at nine and deliver you to the Presidential Palace.”
    “How kind,” von Berger said. “I was about to leave.”
    “Please, Baron, his sense of humor is limited. In any case, you wouldn’t have made the airport. I would suggest you be ready on time.”
    Max von Berger laughed. “My dear boy, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
     
    When von Berger went down to the hotel foyer in response to Aroun’s phone call, he found the major standing by a Mercedes sedan. He wasn’t in uniform and wore a black leather bomber jacket and jeans, as did the driver. Von Berger wore a black suit, white shirt and dark tie.
    “I feel overdressed.”
    “I was ordered to make this as low-key as