It was, against all expectations, a good day.
To wear the uniform of the Republican Guard was, undeniably, an honour. And, for a subaltern quartered in the capital, it was an honour that brought with it undeinable advantages, especially when chasing after off-duty entertaiment. But the flip side was the monotonous drill of barracks life in Baghdad, punctuated for a junior officer only by the dull duty known as 'potholing' - escorting visitors along the network of underground tunnels which connected the secret bunkers where the nation's military high command and weapons-research facilities were based.
The tunnel-system - converted from a half-completed subway during the Iran-Iraq war - was dark, damp and dismal, and the visitors were normally fat foreigners, who swore when they splashed their expensive shoes in dirty puddles, or self-important Party apparachiks - waddling, clucking, strutting creatures who demanded an obsequiousness from their escorts that officers of the Republican Guard - even subalterns - were unused to giving.
So when the the Lieutenant had been accosted - on his way to the officer's mess, no less! - by an important-looking, unfamiliar colonel with a presidential attaché's flashes, and promptly commandeered for potholing duty, he had barely been able to keep the look of disappointment off his face. When the Colonel introduced the 'foreign officer' that they were to escort, however, he had been quite unable to hide his shocked surprise.
The girl - she could hardly be more than twenty-five - had the black hair, pale face, and permanent pout of a westerner, and spoke good English with a light, indeterminate, accent. But it was her uniform which amazed the Lieutenant most, tailored in such a decadently western way that it drew loud, insubordinate, catcalls from passing privates, and had him instantly thinking thoughts which, as a loyal citizen of the Republic and a dilligent party member, he found alarmingly subversive.
Perhaps, he told himself, it had something to do with his long-running fantasy of single-handedly taking national revenge on America - and he could not say for sure that the girl was not American. But he suspected that he would have been enjoying himself to the same treasonable degree even without the pique of that particular desire to spice his thoughts. The dimly-lit tunnels definately seemed far less dank and dismal than they usually did.
The unfortunate Colonel led the way - unfortunate because he had only empty tunnel to admire, and had to listen to the teasing sound of the girl's boot-heels clicking off the concrete deck behind him. The Lieutenant, on the other hand, could smile at the sight of her black hair sashaying across the high collar of her tunic, and at the way the skirt of her tight tunic shifted across the even tighter seat of her breeches with every step she took.
Every know and then, he remembered to look round, to make sure he knew where they were - he knew from hard experience how easy it was for senior officers to get totally lost in the tunnels, and the stiff-backed Colonel seemed like a typical senior officer. But he had already worked out that their most likely destination lay round the next bend: a small door, guarded by a huge man in white armour, whose presence made the door seem even smaller.
The Lieutenant did not know how many times he had walked past the door before he realised that, had it not been for the armoured man, he would probably never have noticed it at all. But he knew enough not to ask about it - not even in the secretive subalterns-only 'sessions' of the self-styled Baghdad Potholing Society.
Sure enough, as they turned the corner, the Colonel said something to the foreign girl, and even if the Lieutenant did not understand the words, the meaning was clear, as was the deferrential tone.
The Lieutenant had just about managed to put away his smile before they stopped, and the Colonel turned smartly round to face him.
"You wait here," he said.
The Lieutenant nodded.
The door shot open, and briefly, bright light blazed out into the tunnel.
The Lieutenant had a glimpse of the girl's neat silhouete against the glare, and then the door slammed shut again, leaving him alone, with only the silent stormtrooper and the distant drip of water for company. With a sigh, he consoled himself by wondering what the odds might be that this was the colonel's billet, and that he would be the girl's only escort back to barracks.
***
Beyond the outer door lay a long, narrow corridor, brightly lit, and with another small door at its end. Soldiers in the combat uniform of the Republican Guard stood every ten paces, regarding the Colonel and the girl with a grim disdain that would have made most men flinch, but which brought no response from him, and only a light laugh from her.
On the far side of the second door lay a checkpoint where the guards wore white armour, not Iraqi camouflage, and carried E-11 blasters rather than modified AK-47s. Two of them stepped forward menacingly.
"Security check," the Colonel explained, in answer to the girl's doubtful look. "Compulsory."
It had been the Colonel himself who had insisted there should be no exceptions to the thorough search of personell entering this particular facility, and he enjoyed the absurdity of being submitted to it himself almost as much as he relished the girl's evident discomfort at the thorough frisking.
The search was quick, silent, and admirably efficient, and then they were straightening their uniforms, and being waved through into a bright, eight-sided room, lit by what seemed like sunlight and decorated an opulent arabesqe style, with painted tiles and bright inlay on the walls, a polished marble floor, and an elegant little dome above them, supported on carved squinches.
The room was unfurnished, except for an incongruous computer, sitting in a niche in one wall - a slender keypad and several sleek, sculpted devices of indeterminate function, connected to it by black cables. The Colonel had noted, the first time he saw it, that the machine did not whisper and whine like most computers, but it had taken rather longer for him to discover quite how alien it was.
The Colonel glanced at the girl, if only to confirm that she wore the expected expression of bored indifference. In the short time since he had met her, she had made it quite clear that the only things which interested her were those things which could provide her with selfish satisfaction. And evidently, she was no conosseur of computer equipment, or Ottoman architecture.
Then, as the heavy drape which closed the other entrance to the room - the twin of the one which hid the blast-door they had come through - was pulled back, and another man walked into the room, her expression changed. The Colonel noted the reaction, and smiled inwardly.
The newcomer wore the same uniform as the girl, but the contrast with her slim, studied sexuality could not have been more marked. He was yawning, and he had shrugged on his tunic with hasty indifference, so that it flopped open to reveal a bear's scarred chest. But unlike the girl, and unlike his own computer, he did not seem at all out of place in that elegant octagonal room.
"Colonel," the yawning man acknowledged, with a lazy smile.
"Colonel Zturk," the Colonel replied. "It is a great gift to see you again. I believe you know Admiral Tavira?"
"Yes," Zturk agreed, and his grin grew wider, and more dangerous. "I'm sure she remembers me quite well."
***
The wing of the old Presidential Palace which lay closest to the Tigris had lain semi-derelict since the end of the war with America, a decade earlier. Now, however, the broken walls had been demolished, and their rubble used to create a solid foundation for the President's new private paradise. The topiary had been planted, and the geometric patterns of the marble pathways between the brick revetments of the beds shone in the weak sunlight. In a few months, the whole area would be bright with new life.
But, in spite of everyone's best efforts, the fountains which were to be the centrepiece of the Courts of the Morning was still causing trouble, producing nothing more than a spluttering spume of white froth. Since before the dawn, a squad of military technicians in dull coveralls had been sweating in the shadow of the main pool, acutely aware that, from the south-facing belvedere which ran the length of the refurbished main block of the Palace, a man was watching them.
The man, who wore a thick, warm coat, and a traditional fur hat shaped like a forage cap, was stroking the tails of his mustache, and frowning. It was not just the inability of to get a few fountains to work which was the problem.
The President brooded for a while, until a man in uniform caught his eye, climbing the broad, switchback steps which were the only access to the belvedere from the outside world, an approach patterned after the facade of a ziguratt in proud proclamation of his country's heritage, but also a killing-ground where any uninvited guests would be caught in a shredding crossfire from hidden machine-gun bunkers.
The man wore the uniform of a colonel in the Republican Guard, but, although he affected the stiff discipline of a soldier, the President had to suppress a smile every time he tried to imagine him in combat. Although he had been well-trained in certain paramilitary techniques by foreign advisors during the long war with Iran, the Colonel owed his rank to the fact that he was one of the President's closest confidantes, one of the few who knew the full details of what Operation Assassin involved. Normally, his expression was unreadable - when he did wear any sort of meaningful expression, it was carefully chosen to suit the occasion. But the President had known him long enough to recognize, when he came close enough, the gunmetal gleam in his eyes which showed that he was excited.
"Yes," the Colonel said.
"Yes," the President echoed, looking out across the Courts of the Morning, across the gleaming Tigris, to the south. "Such a small word. But it means so much."
Far away, the fountains spluttered, and exploded into life, sending graceful streams of water shooting through the air to drum against the marble paths and set the still waters of the pools sparkling in the winter sunlight. Only a brief, flicker in his eyes showed that the Colonel had noticed the at all. But the President was smiling.
It was a very good day indeed.