Basra, 1991

"Bet you 6 goats against your camel that the monsoons will begin before Ramadan" said the curiously ageless man holding a copy of the Quran.

"I have no need of goats, my camel is already spoken for, but I will wager my baboon." Replied the woman.

Contact established, the two made their way to a discreet coffee house to talk.

With his dying breath, the Fez had told the preacher of a plot to disrupt the pipelines feeding oil from Basra, to the USSR. Armed with new orders to assist the anti-Saddam rebels in any way possible, the man made his way South from Baghdad in the company of thousands of refugees. It would be a bonus for his masters if his efforts bore fruit & inconvenienced the Russians.

On arriving in Basra, which had been largely untouched by US bombing, but still bore the ruinous marks from the Iran/Iraq war in the 80s, the man set about establishing his cover. It actually paid to make his face known a few days before getting down to business.

Firstly, he found a good, central place from where to begin his preaching. Secondly, he made sure his primary & backup escape routes were in place. Thirdly, he prepared a secondary disguise, "Luck favours the prepared.", he always said.

The woman, Soraya, had been born Barbara Billingsworth, to a wealthy family in Ohio nearly 35 years previously. Educated at Yale, she'd grown up with attitude, and a reckless father fixation. She'd been recruited after a Led Zeppelin concert at the backstage orgy, by a roadie affiliated with the CIA. Stoned out of her mind & wrapped around the bass player, she'd signed on the dotted line & been shipped to the Middle East the following month.

Her missions had initially been of the "honeytrap" variety, staged to seduce wayward Iranian clergy. She was very good at her job & after the beginning of the Gulf War, had been promoted to "insurgency consultant" & Iraq.

At the coffee house, the preacher paused to take her in like a long drink of ice-cold water after 3 parched weeks in the desert. Then got down to business, "By Allah", He thought, " she's built like a brick minaret!"

"I'd like a long drink of ice-cold water", he said to the waiter. "I've just spent 3 parched weeks in the desert".

Soraya meanwhile, viewed the newcomer with interest & a little suspicion. He didn't look like much, but this man had quite a reputation & not just for business. Agency rumour had it that this preacher man would as soon as looking at you, give you the last rites while applying the garrotte. "Efficient" she thought, "Definitely not a time waster." In addition, more than one of her "honey" colleagues had spent post mission extended vacations in las Vegas with him. He was known as a high roller & generous tipper. Besides, there was something about his creased face & sly smile that was charming.

"Have you ever been to Vegas?" he asked.

Ignoring him - for the moment anyway - Soraya suggested they return to her place not far away to get him cleaned up & brief him on the plan. On the way out the preacher noticed Kiwi journalist Peter Arnett at another table, and it made him homesick for Lambton Quay...

While he bathed, Soraya sat beside the tub & filled him in. The attack was scheduled for slightly more then two weeks away, but there was to be a meeting of all concerned in about 8 hours time. She described her fellow insurgents & detailed their backgrounds.

"There's only one problem we have" she said, "We need to know the movements of the secret police before during and after the operation, and we have no spies to rely on at the moment"

"Got it covered" he replied "I have a steel plate in my head, a souvenir from Burma a few years ago. Before I came here, the boffins managed to tune it to the secret police radio frequency."

He suddenly surprised her by standing up & motioning for a towel.

"Oh mummy" thought Soraya, "he's built like a brick minaret!"

"There's more to you than meets the eye" she finally quipped.

"Oh indeed" twinkled the preacher "Now how can we entertain ourselves over the next 6 or 7 hours...? Without standing up."