What a Carve Up! (46 page)

– But I mean, what about the restrictions –

– Well, you know, we’ve just got to be a bit careful, that’s all.

– Careful? How do you –

– Well, we’ve been advised to, you know, play down the military … the military application of the machines. We’ve got to be a bit careful saying what they’re for, and so on.

– What, like general –

–Like ‘general engineering’, or, you know, emphasize that these machines can have peaceful –

–
uses –

– peaceful applications, and you know, stress that whole aspect of why we’re applying.

– But I mean, they do know, obviously …

– Oh I mean, they all know, yes.

– I mean it is obvious, that that’s what we’re … selling.

– Well as we said, they’re not going to be making many cars in the middle of a war, are they?

– To them, you said it?

– No, I mean, afterwards, that’s what someone said.

– But they don’t mind?

–
Oh, nobody bloody minds. They all don’t mind.

– So it’s OK to –

– They don’t give a flying fuck what we’re selling, basically.

– I can tell the boss that, then. He’ll be –

– Pretty chuffed, I should –

– I mean I bet everybody is.

– Well, we’ve been making the most of it here. You should crack a few open at your end.

– I think I will. I mean why not.

– Look, I’ve got to go then.

– Well thanks for taking the time to – to ring. It’s a weight off my mind. You know, there’s some things I can – press ahead with, which had been looking a bit –

– I’ve got to go now, OK? We’ll have another talk.

–
OK. We’ll talk in the next few days.

– Next few days. OK then.

– Righto. Thanks for taking the time.

– OK. All the best then.

– All the best. Bye now.

Graham ejected the tape, and the radio came back on. It was BRMB, playing an old Huey Lewis song. Not one of his favourites.

∗

April 28th 1989

‘I see you are taking plenty of photographs. Holiday snaps for the wife and kids back at home?’

Graham whirled around, expecting to be confronted by a uniformed guard, but instead found himself being addressed by a short, stocky, dark-haired man with a rubbery smile which gave him the appearance of a benevolent goblin. He introduced himself as Louis and explained that he was a salesman from Belgium. He handed Graham a card.

‘There’s so much to see,’ said Graham. ‘I wanted to remember it all.’

‘You’re right: this is quite something, isn’t it? You know, Saddam Hussein’s birthday is always a big day in Baghdad. All the buses are covered in flowers, and in the schools the children sing special birthday songs. But this year, he’s really done something special.’

The First Baghdad International Exhibition for Military Production had indeed lived up to the grandeur of its name. Twenty-eight countries were represented, and almost a hundred and fifty different companies had set up tents and pavilions: from smallish firms like Ironmasters and Matrix Churchill to the international giants – Thomson-CSF, Construcciónes Aeronauticas and British Aerospace. All of the star names were there: maverick designer Gerald Bull was showing a scale model of his supergun at the Astra Holdings stand, French dealer Hugues de l’Estoile was engaged in friendly rivalry with Alan Clark’s top aide, David Hastie, over who would win the contract for the Fao Project – a long-term aerospace programme to help Iraq establish its own aircraft manufacturing base – while Serge Dessault, son of the great Marcel Dessault who had single-handedly built up France’s military aircraft industry, was given an ovation by the Iraqis like a visiting pop star when he approached the reviewing stand.

‘I thought there might have been more restrictions,’ said Graham, who had been worried enough about taking his camera into Iraq and was now cursing himself for not bringing a camcorder.

Louis seemed surprised. ‘But why? This is not a secret assembly. The whole point is for everyone to be open, to show our achievements with pride. There are journalists here from all over the world. We have nothing to hide. Nobody is doing anything illegal. We all believe in deterrence, and the right of every country to defend itself. Don’t you agree?’

‘Well, yes –’

‘Of course you do. Otherwise, why else would your company have sent you out here to show off such splendid examples of modern technology. Would you care to show me, please?’

Louis was clearly impressed by what he saw at the Ironmasters pavilion: it certainly compared well with the rather sorry-looking 1960s machine tools on offer from the Polish, Hungarian and Romanian exhibitors. He dropped a few hints to the effect that he might be able to fix up a deal with some Iranian buyers: but this was left vague. In the meantime he seemed to have taken a liking to Graham, and performed the function of his unofficial guide over the next few days. He took him on to the VIP reviewing stand to watch the Iraqi pilots perform hair-raising stunts in their MiG-29S, sometimes flying so low that the spectators had to throw themselves to the ground. (Only one of the displays went seriously wrong, when an Egyptian pilot mistakenly flew over the presidential palace and was at once gunned down by the Republican Guard, his Alphajet crash-landing in a residential area of Baghdad and killing some twenty civilians.) He took Graham to meet Colonel Hussein Kamil Hasan al-Majid, one of the Ba’ath party’s rising stars and the host of this event, who greeted his guests in a huge pavilion set up to resemble a desert encampment. And he was always on hand to introduce him to the more influential figures, such as Christopher Drogoul and Paul Van Wedel, the American bankers from BNL Atlanta who had supplied Iraq with some four billion dollars in long-term loans.

‘Did you notice their watches?’ Louis asked.

‘Their watches?’

‘Take a look at their watches next time you see them. They are specially made: Swiss manufacture. And they have Saddam Hussein’s face on them. They were personal gifts: a very great honour, I think. I think very few people here, maybe three or four, have been shown such honour. Monsieur de l’Estoile, conceivably. And, of course it goes without saying, your own Mr Winshaw.’

Graham tried to hide his sudden surge of interest. ‘Mark Winshaw of Vanguard?’

‘You are known to Mr Winshaw, I think. You have been doing business with him on some occasions.’

‘Once or twice, yes. Is he here at the moment, by any chance?’

‘Oh yes, he’s here, you can be sure of it. But he likes to keep a low profile, as you know. As a matter of fact I’m dining with him myself tonight. Shall I give him your regards?’

‘Please do,’ said Graham; then hesitated before asking boldly, ‘A business meeting, I take it?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Louis. ‘We both belong to a certain organization: a sort of rather exclusive club. It’s to do with technical matters, really. We meet regularly to discuss problems of safety in the manufacture and distribution of our weapons systems.’

Graham knew which organization he was talking about: AESOP, the Association of Europeans for Safety in Ordnance and Propellants. But he was surprised to hear that Mark was a member. He wouldn’t have thought he’d have time for such concerns.

‘Anyway,’ said Louis, ‘I don’t think there will be much business to discuss tonight. I expect it to be more of a social occasion. You should come along, Mr Packard. You would really be most welcome.’

Graham accepted.

A small private room had been booked towards the back of a very quiet and expensive restaurant in central Baghdad. There were only five guests: Mark, Louis, Graham, a severe Dutchman and a boisterous German. The food was French (they were all highly vocal in their condemnation of Middle Eastern cuisine); the champagne vintage (Roederer Cristal 77) and plentiful. Each guest enjoyed the attentions of his own pretty, petite Filipino waitress, who would giggle and affect to be pleased when a hand was thrust up her miniskirt or her breasts were roughly fondled as she attempted to serve the food. Graham’s waitress was called Lucila: so far as he could tell, none of the others were ever asked to say what their names were. He was seated between Louis and Mark, who seemed noticeably less self-contained and guarded than on previous occasions. He chatted freely about his work and the Baghdad Fair and what it revealed about Saddam’s military ambitions to anyone who had eyes to see. Graham was recording this conversation on to a slimline tape machine in the inside pocket of his jacket: it meant that he had to keep a careful track of the time, so that he could slip away to the toilet whenever the tape needed turning over (he’d brought two C90S with him) before the machine switched itself off with a giveaway click.

For personal reasons, in any case, he would erase these tapes after he got home.

Louis was the first to disappear upstairs with his waitress, between the first and second courses. They were away for nearly half an hour. As soon as they came back, it was the Dutchman’s turn. While this was going on the party had still managed to consume, by Graham’s reckoning, eight bottles of champagne. He could sense Lucila’s puzzlement that he was not behaving towards her as his companions would have done. She was not as conventionally attractive as the others: her skin was slightly blemished and pock-marked, and she wasn’t as good at hiding her sadness behind a façade of blank-eyed gaiety. She was nervous and sometimes spilled things while serving the food. Graham knew that if he could have relaxed more himself, it would have helped to put her at ease, but this was difficult because he was trying hard to remain sober.

Just as the main course – a shoulder of beef – was about to be served, Mark turned to him and said: ‘I hope you won’t think us rude, Mr Packard, but there are a few private business matters we have to attend to at this point. I think this might be a good moment for you to withdraw.’

‘Withdraw?’

Mark pointed towards Lucila and made a gesture with his eyes. Graham nodded and left the table.

They went upstairs to a small uncomfortable bedroom where the bed was unmade and dishevelled from recent use. The room was clean but dimly lit and inelegant. There were bloodstains on the carpet which seemed to have been there for some time. As soon as the door was closed Lucila began to undress. She looked bewildered when Graham asked her to stop. He explained that he did not want to make love to her because he was married and did not think it was right that women should be expected to go to bed with men they hardly knew. She nodded and sat down on the bed. Graham sat beside her and they smiled at each other. He could tell that she was both relieved and offended. He tried asking her a few questions about where she came from and what she was doing in Iraq, but her English wasn’t good and she seemed, besides, a little resentful of these inquiries. They both knew that a decent interval would have to pass before they went back downstairs. Then Lucila remembered something and, opening one of the drawers in the cupboard, she took out a pack of cards. Neither of them knew any proper card games, so they played a few hands of Snap. There was some more champagne in a bottle on the bedside table, and before long they both became hopelessly giggly. After all the subterfuge, the watchfulness, the perpetual tension of the last few days, Graham felt suddenly liberated: there was nothing on earth he would rather be doing than playing this mindless card game with a tipsy and lovely young woman in a strange room, and all at once he felt a wave of desire, which Lucila recognized as soon as she saw it in his eyes. She looked away. They finished the game on a quieter note and then it was time to go back to the restaurant.

He found Mark and his friends arguing with each other noisily but in a teasing vein while drawing a number of pencilled circles on their napkins and on the tablecloth. Each of these circles was divided up into four unequal segments, with the letters GB, D, NL and B written inside. With a bit of effort, Graham was able to coax a drunken explanation out of Louis: later on, the details would be confirmed by his own researches. AESOP, it turned out, had nothing at all to do with research into safety measures. It was an informal cartel of European arms dealers set up to tackle one of the biggest problems posed by Iraq’s military requirements: how – given that the demand was so enormous – could the munitions companies meet it without raising their production quotas to the point where government suspicions were aroused? AESOP was the answer: a forum in which leading dealers from each of the member countries could get together and share the work out equitably among their own manufacturers.

‘We have decided that these are the figures,’ said Louis, handing him a napkin and pointing at the segmented circle, ‘which will represent our commissions. Our commissions for the next year.’

‘But they don’t add up to a hundred,’ said Graham.

Louis laughed wildly.

‘These are not percentages,’ he said, his eyes shining. ‘These are millions of dollars!’ He laughed even louder when he saw Graham’s undisguised astonishment, and his whole body shook as he extended his arm in an expansive gesture which took in the room, the waitresses, his three friends and the gutted carcass of beef on its silver platter. ‘What a carve up, eh, Mr Packard? What a carve up!’

Over the next half hour, the atmosphere around the table grew more and more hilarious, and Graham knew that he had begun to seem increasingly out of place.

‘Your lips have a look of pursed disapproval,’ Mark Winshaw remarked, at one point. ‘I don’t see why. I’ve just secured your company the lion’s share of the Iraqi market for the foreseeable future.’

‘I’m a little tired, that’s all,’ said Graham. ‘It’s all been a bit much.’

‘Or perhaps, like me, you find this orgy of celebration all rather loud and vulgar.’