At that moment, a siren sounded in the distance and the palace was plunged into darkness. He hurried to the great windows and watched as lights turned out in patches.

“Curse them. I’ve never felt so impotent. And what can I do?” He turned, hands wide. “Tell me, what can I do?”

He was smiling madly, sweat on his face, turned, picked up a vacant chair and hurled it across the room in a rage and then seemed to pull himself together.

“But no, I’m a poor host. Now what about that? Women or wine? Boring. Action, passion, that’s the thing. Tell me, Colonel, did you come in an embassy limousine?”

“No, Excellency, Major Ashimov drove us here in a Range Rover.”

“A Range Rover?” The lights came on again, extending across the city. “It’s been a long time since I drove one of those. I’m sure you’ll lend it to me.”

“Of course, Excellency.”

“Then let’s go,” and Saddam led the way out.

It was a fact known only to intimates that he frequently roamed the city late at night, driving himself, often with no guards of any kind, even though Belov had heard that guards did usually attempt to follow him. Farouk was half running to keep up with him as Saddam plowed ahead.

Belov tugged on Ashimov’s sleeve and they held back. “He’s in one of his mad moods, so we just go with the flow. Anything can happen. We’ll arm ourselves the moment we get in the Range Rover.”

“As you say, Colonel.”

They passed outside the main door at the top of the steps while Farouk pleaded. “Allow me to bring an escort, Excellency, that at least.”

“It’s a shameful thing if I can’t drive through my own city without an armed guard. You will wait here.”

He started down the steps to the Range Rover, and Belov paused by Farouk. “Give me your pistol.” Farouk took a Browning from his holster and handed it over. “Good. Now, my advice is to follow us at a discreet distance.”

In later years, he often wondered whether Saddam had seen himself as the great Caliph Haroun al Rashid in the Baghdad of old, mingling with the common people in disguise by night, but that couldn’t be true, for he drove the Range Rover like a madman, scattering the crowd outside the palace, and bouncing three cars out of the way.

He laughed harshly. “I am an excellent driver, is it not so, Colonel?”

“Of course, Excellency.”

Belov had the Browning in his pocket and now opened the glove compartment, passed Ashimov his Beretta and slipped the Walther into his shoulder holster.

They carved their way down into the city, swerving from one street to another, colliding with a number of vehicles, people jumping for their lives, and Saddam, in high good humor, drove even faster.

Ashimov murmured to Belov, “We’re being followed.”

“I know. I suggested it to Farouk.”

“They’re not military vehicles.”

Saddam, oblivious to all this, crossed an intersection that led him onto a four-lane highway.

“Now for some real speed,” Saddam cried, but at the same moment a red Ferrari accelerated beside them, a man leaning out of the rear window with a machine pistol. As he started to fire, Ashimov shot him in the head.

Another man in the front passenger seat beside the driver sprayed the Range Rover again, bursting one of the front tires. Saddam cursed, working the wheel furiously, and the Range Rover rammed into the metal road barrier and came to a halt.

A number of passing vehicles accelerated out of the way, but the Ferrari swerved, braking ahead of the Range Rover, and three men got out, all armed. At the same moment, an old white van pulled in, the rear doors opened and three more men joined the others.

Belov got out of the Range Rover and pulled Saddam with him. “Stay down, Excellency.”

Ashimov joined him, his face sliced open from one eye to the corner of his mouth. “Are you all right?” Belov asked.

“Not really.” Ashimov fired twice at the ones who crouched behind the van and the Ferrari. “Traffic seems to have ground to a halt back there.”

“Who can blame them.”

Saddam also had blood on his face and seemed dazed. “In my own city,” he said. “In Baghdad.”

Belov weighed the Browning in one hand, the Walther in the other. He smiled slightly at Ashimov. “Shall we get it done?”

“Why not?”

“You take the left, I’ll see to the right.”

A burst of machine-pistol fire thudded into the Range Rover and he called in Arabic, “No more, Saddam is dead. I’ll come out with my friend.”

There was a pause, excited conversation. A voice called, “Throw out your weapons.”

“We only have one gun,” Belov shouted, stood up with the Walther in his left hand, and threw it toward the other vehicles, Ashimov rising beside him.

“Now,” Belov said, as the six men moved into the open, and he fired very rapidly, knocking down the three on the right while Ashimov took out the three on the left. There was a movement in the van, its driver peered out and Ashimov shot him.

It was then they heard vehicles approaching fast. “Farouk and his boys,” Belov said. “The cavalry arriving rather late.” He took out a pocket handkerchief and gave it to Ashimov. “Best I can do.”

“I’ll treasure it, Colonel,” and Ashimov held it to his face.

In the Ambassador’s office the following morning at the Russian Embassy by the Tigris, Belov and Ashimov faced an angry man.

“You had no right to become involved,” the Ambassador said. “This has gone all the way to the President in Moscow. It may not have occurred to you, Colonel, but our government’s position in the Iraq situation is a very delicate one.”

“I see,” Belov said. “You’ve been informed of the circumstances. Should I have refused Saddam’s invitation to the palace? I think that would have been difficult. Should I have refused to accompany him on his drive? I think not.”

“Good God, man, no one appointed you to be his guardian angels. Eight men – you killed eight.”

“I believe so. I would like to bring to your attention Major Ashimov’s gallant conduct in this affair. As you can see, his face will never be the same again. He’s lucky not to have lost an eye. I suggest he be recommended for a decoration.”

“Denied,” the Ambassador said. “And for the excellent reason that it never happened. That will suit Saddam, and it certainly suits our government.” He paused and then carried on. “A sense of self-importance can be considered a sin in some quarters. You go too far, Colonel, and this could seriously affect your career.”

The threat was implicit, but at that moment, the phone on his desk rang. He answered, listened, and the change on his face was plain.

“Of course, Excellency,” he said in Arabic and put down the phone. “That was Saddam. He wishes to see you both at once.”

“And do we go?” Belov asked, curiously gentle.

“I don’t seem to have any choice.”

“I’m sure Moscow will agree when you inform them. You will excuse us, then?” He nodded to Ashimov and led the way out.

At the presidential palace, they were met by Farouk, who was ecstatic. “What you did was heroic, incredible, Colonel.”

“You know who they were?”

“Oh, yes. Two of them were still alive and soon talked. Shiite rebels, naturally. They never stop trying. He’s waiting for you eagerly.”

When Farouk ushered them in, Saddam was behind his desk in full uniform. He got to his feet, came around and embraced Belov, then turned to Ashimov, examined the scar covered by gauze that ran from his eye to his mouth.

“How bad?”

“Sixteen stitches. An interesting memento, Excellency.”

“I like that.” Saddam laughed. “Every morning you look in the mirror to have a shave, you’ll be reminded of me. Now sit down, the both of you. I have things to say.

“I felt anger last night, but mainly impotence. I’m hedged in by the Americans and the British, even the United Nations are hardly my friends. The Shiites rebel, also the Kurds. I deal with them and people compare me to Hitler.”