“What do you think, will they make some sort of move?”

“The Americans and Brits?” Rashid was being careful. “Who knows? They’re certainly reacting. President Bush seems to be taking a hard line.”

“No, you’re mistaken,” Aroun said. “I’ve met the man face-to-face twice now at White House functions. He’s what our American friends call a nice guy. There’s no steel there at all.”

Rashid shrugged. “I’m a simple man, Mr. Aroun, a soldier, and perhaps I see things simply. Here is a man, a Navy combat pilot at twenty, who saw a great deal of active service, who was shot down over the Sea of Japan and survived to be awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. I would not underestimate such a man.”

Aroun frowned. “Come on, my friend, the Americans aren’t going to come halfway round the world with an army to protect one little Arab state.”

“Isn’t that exactly what the British did in the Falklands War?” Rashid reminded him. “They never expected such a reaction in Argentina. Of course they had Thatcher’s determination behind them, the Brits, I mean.”

“Damned woman,” Aroun said and leaned back as they went in through the gate of the presidential palace, feeling suddenly depressed.

He followed Rashid along corridors of marble splendor, the young officer leading the way, a torch in one hand. It was a strange, rather eerie experience, following that small pool of light on the floor, their footfalls echoing. There was a sentry on each side of the ornate door they finally halted before. Rashid opened it and they went in.

Saddam Hussein was alone, sitting in uniform at a large desk, the only light a shaded lamp. He was writing, slowly and carefully, looked up and smiled, putting down his pen.