Aroun had never felt so excited in his life. “I think so, my President. All things are possible, especially when sufficient money is involved. It would be my gift to you.”

“Good.” Saddam nodded. “You will return to Paris immediately. Captain Rashid will accompany you. He will have details of certain codes we will be using in radio broadcasts, that sort of thing. The day may never come, Michael, but if it does,…” He shrugged. “We have friends in the right places.” He turned to Rashid. “That KGB colonel at the Soviet Embassy in Paris?”

“Colonel Josef Makeev, my President.”

“Yes,” Saddam Hussein said to Aroun. “Like many of his kind not happy with the changes now taking place in Moscow. He will assist in any way he can. He’s already expressed his willingness.” He embraced Aroun, again like a brother. “Now go. I have work to do.”

The lights had still not come on in the palace and Aroun had stumbled out into the darkness of the 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.