The Gilgamesh Conspiracy by Jeffrey Fleming Page B

amazement.
    ‘How do you know how to do that?’ he asked.
    ‘Skills I learned thirty years ago, in the…the interior ministry, shall we say. There; it might not look precisely the same as before, but only you and I know that.’
    Mansour picked up the sheaf of photocopied papers and gazed down at them. ‘So these are the papers that were brought across the border by your son. I would like you to translate them into Arabic for me. Read it to me now and then take it home and write it down. Then bring both versions back to me this evening.’ He handed them over. Ali took his glasses out of his jacket pocket and began to read out in Arabic. His hands began to tremble and he had to put the pages down on a small table. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief as he came to the end and gazed at Mansour.
    ‘Excellent! Thank you Ali. Now go home and write out that translation. How long do you need? I have to deliver the original to the boss in twenty minutes time, I’ll probably be a couple of hours so can you be back here at eleven?’
    Ali nodded nervously. He wasn’t going to say anything at first but then blurted out ‘If this gets into the wrong hands, it will be…death for many people! For me, my family…even you, perhaps even…’
    ‘I know I know…quiet now Ali; that’s enough.’  
     
    Hakim Mansour watched Hamsin walk down the street, around the corner and out of sight. He had ordered him not to hail a taxi until he was at least a kilometre away from his house, and to observe similar precautions on his return. Then he swallowed a tranquiliser with the last of his beer, picked up the document case and drove his Mercedes to his appointment with Qusay Hussein.
    The President’s son was in a good mood. He ushered Mansour into his private sitting room and to show how much he trusted him, he ordered all but two of his bodyguards to leave. Mansour knew that these two were deaf, having been too close to explosions in combat zones and he could speak freely in their presence. Qusay poured out two glasses of Scotch and handed one to Mansour. They exchanged small talk for a while until Qusay drained his glass and put it down on the table and Mansour knew it was time to get down to important matters.
    ‘Yesterday morning as you instructed, I met the Americans down by the border,’ Mansour announced. ‘The courier handed over the document in this leather folder, which I now present to you. I trust it will meet your requirements.’
    He handed over the document case and Qusay Hussein inspected the seals. ‘Who brought the folder over from Saudia?’ he asked.
    ‘I sent Rukan Khalifa to fetch it over; I was told he is to be trusted, but having met him I cannot vouch for his discretion,’ he replied. ‘His driver was Tariq Kayal.’
    Qusay nodded thoughtfully. He pulled a small leather note book out of his pocket, picked up a gold Cross ballpoint pen off the table and wrote the names down. ‘So nobody besides you and he can have held the case then.’
    ‘No sir,’ Mansour replied.
    ‘Very good. I am sorry that I had to delay our meeting until this evening. The President insisted on remaining in Tikrit to see some old friends.’ They discussed mutual friends and acquaintances for a while but Mansour could see Qusay Hussein’s glance kept returning to the document case and sure enough after a few minutes his boss said ‘Now I will detain you no further, Hakim. Thank you once again for your good offices. We will meet again tomorrow when I have looked over this.’
    After his trusted lieutenant had departed, Qusay Hussein picked up Hakim Mansour’s empty glass and took it and the leather document case into his private study. He inspected the seals and then cut through the wire. Then he called for his personal security chief, Kamal Ahwadi, to see him. He handed him the whisky glass and the top sheet of the document.
    ‘Kamal, take this piece of paper and see if there are any fingerprints that match those on this