After the first billion you stopped counting, another favorite saying. And now he was faced with disaster. Not only the promised riches of the Kuwait oilfields snatched from him, but that portion of his wealth which stemmed from Iraq dried up, finished as a result of the Coalition’s massive airstrikes that had devastated his country since the seventeenth of January.

He was no fool. He knew that the game was over, should probably have never started, and that Saddam Hussein’s dream was already finished. As a businessman he played the percentages and that didn’t offer Iraq too much of a chance in the ground war that must eventually come.

He was far from ruined in personal terms. He had oil interests still in the USA, and the fact that he was a French as well as an Iraqi citizen gave Washington a problem. Then there was his shipping empire and vast quantities of real estate in various capital cities around the world. But that wasn’t the point. He was angry when he switched on the television and saw what was happening in Baghdad each night, for, surprising in one so self-centered, he was a patriot. There was also the fact, infinitely more important, that his father had been killed in a bombing raid on the third night of the air war.

And there was a great secret in his life, for in August, shortly after the invasion of Kuwait by Iraqi forces, Aroun had been sent for by Saddam Hussein himself. Sitting here by the French window, a glass of brandy in one hand, rain slanting across the terrace, he gazed out across the Bois de Boulogne in the evening light and remembered that meeting.

There was an air-raid practice in progress as he was driven in an army Land-Rover through the streets of Baghdad, darkness everywhere. The driver was a young intelligence captain named Rashid, whom he had met before, one of the new breed, trained by the British at Sandhurst. Aroun gave him an English cigarette and took one himself.

“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.

“Michael.” He came round the desk and embraced Aroun like a brother. “Your father? He is well?”

“In excellent health, my President.”

“Give him my respects. You look well, Michael. Paris suits you.” He smiled again. “Smoke if you want. I know you like to. The doctors have unfortunately had to tell me to cut it out or else.”

He sat down behind the desk again and Aroun sat opposite, aware of Rashid against the wall in the darkness. “Paris was fine, but my place is here now in these difficult times.”

Saddam Hussein shook his head. “Not true, Michael. I have soldiers in plenty, but few men such as you. You are rich, famous, accepted at the highest levels of society and government anywhere in the world. More than that, because of your beloved mother of blessed memory, you are not just an Iraqi, but also a French citizen. No, Michael, I want you in Paris.”

“But why, my President?” Aroun asked.

“Because one day I may require you to do a service for me and for your country that only you could perform.”

Aroun said, “You can rely on me totally, you know that.”

Saddam Hussein got up and paced to the nearest window, opened the shutters and stepped on to the terrace. The all-clear sounded mournfully across the city and lights began to appear here and there.

“I still hope our friends in America and Britain stay in their own backyard, but if not…” He shrugged. “Then we may have to fight them in their own backyard. Remember, Michael, as the Prophet instructs us in the Koran, there is more truth in one sword than ten thousand words.” He paused and then carried on, still looking out across the city. “One sniper in the darkness, Michael, British SAS or Israeli, it doesn’t really matter, but what a coup-the death of Saddam Hussein.”

“God forbid it,” Michael Aroun said.

Saddam turned to him. “As God wills, Michael, in all things, but you see my point? The same would apply to Bush or the Thatcher woman. The proof that my arm reaches everywhere. The ultimate coup.” He turned. “Would you be capable of arranging such a thing, if necessary?”

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.