It was Victor's first time setting foot in Baghdad. Though he carried a South African passport, the senior officials who liaised with the Soviet Union instantly recognized this man—so foreign in demeanor, so devoid of any Russian mannerisms—as a Soviet envoy sent for delicate negotiations.
This mission was unlike any before. Yanayev had orchestrated a bold, risky move: instead of delivering a stockpile of chemical weapons, he was offering Saddam mechanical equipment capable of producing such weapons. The timing was crucial—just before the Chemical Weapons Convention came into force.
Victor was a seasoned international arms dealer, hardened by countless clandestine transactions. Yet this was his most dangerous deal. If exposed, he would be hunted relentlessly by Mossad, the CIA, and MI6. He was already on the CIA's blacklist, not for destroying peace, but for stealing their lucrative arms contracts.
Disembarking from a crowded bus, Victor masked his face with an Arab scarf, blending into the noisy, shoulder-to-shoulder street throng. He moved cautiously, aware that every passerby could be a spy, every shadow a tail.
At the end of a narrow alley, a jeep awaited. A group of men with hard, suspicious eyes surrounded him. Without hesitation, they forced an airtight hood over his head. After thorough searches, Victor was bundled into the jeep, the world outside reduced to darkness and muffled engine noise.
Victor felt like a fly trapped in amber. His many arms deals across global conflict zones had made him rich, but his fate was tightly entwined with the Soviet Union—and Yanayev. To defect was to sign his own death warrant. KGB assassins would come for him no matter where he fled, and his family back home would pay the price. Retreat was impossible.
The road noise faded, replaced by the desolate stillness of a Gobi-like desert. The jeep entered a cavernous opening hidden deep in the wilderness—Saddam's secret base.
As the hood was removed, Victor's eyes adjusted to dim light. Before him stood Saddam, beard thick and eyes sharp, harboring the wary glint of a man who never trusted fully.
Victor observed carefully. Something was off, yet he kept his composure and greeted politely, "Thank you, President Saddam, for meeting with me despite your busy schedule."
Saddam returned the formality. "Please convey my sincere greetings to the Soviet people."
Victor shook his head. "You're mistaken, President Saddam. This deal isn't from the Soviet government directly. One of my secret backers simply has a batch of chemical weapons for sale. You understand, we must avoid mentioning the Soviet Union here."
Saddam attempted to relax the mood. "This is my secret base; very few know of it."
Victor's gaze hardened. "Better safe than sorry. You remember the car bomb attempt in Tikrit? And Samode's many plots? They want you gone—for oil and religion."
Saddam's smile faded, but Victor pressed on. "Enough politics. The Soviet Union will provide you with manufacturing equipment for VX, Soman, and Sarin gas—payment is gold only." He gestured to a briefcase.
Saddam nodded, silently inviting him to open it.
Victor moved cautiously—knowing one wrong move could mean death. He opened the case and placed three plain glass bottles on the table, each equipped with a complex electronic detonator switch.
"These are your Soman, Tabun, and Sarin gas triggers," Victor said coldly, sweeping his hand over the items.
As soon as Victor finished speaking, a cold steel barrel of a Kalashnikov pressed hard against his forehead. His heart skipped a beat. The guards, tense and suspicious, had mistaken him for a CIA assassin, ready to unleash a hail of bullets on everyone present.
But then, to Victor's surprise, Saddam's voice rang out sharply, cutting through the chaos."Put the gun down! Show some respect to our guest!"
The guards hesitated, lowering their weapons reluctantly. Saddam's tone was calm but carried unmistakable authority.
Victor exhaled slowly, the pressure against his skull gone. He dared to believe he wouldn't die here.
"They're just too loyal," Saddam explained, casting a brief glance at his men. "No ill intent. But their minds are sharp as daggers when it comes to protecting me."
Saddam's eyes shifted to the colorless, invisible gas contained in the bottles on the table. He leaned forward, curiosity sparking in his gaze."So, you're selling us poison gas? Like the ones in these bottles?"
Victor shook his head. "Strictly speaking, no." He pulled out another contract from his briefcase and slid it toward Saddam. His eyes, however, betrayed his true feelings—signing this piece of paper was a mere formality. If Iraq violated the terms, the Soviet Union would not deploy troops to retaliate. But Saddam was no fool. He fully understood the risks of double-crossing Moscow.
Money was Saddam's main concern, and this deal was a lifeline. He nodded slowly, a calculated smile curling at the corner of his lips. "Your terms?"
Victor's voice remained steady. "Payment must be in gold. Not dollars, not any other currency."
The Soviet government, flush with foreign currency reserves, cared little for Saddam's financial woes. But the tense geopolitical climate made dollar transactions too risky; any trail leading back to the U.S. dollar could trigger a diplomatic disaster.
Saddam furrowed his brow, clearly caught off guard by the unusual demand. "Gold? We have the economic capacity to pay in U.S. dollars. Why insist on gold?"
Victor shrugged with feigned indifference. "No particular reason. Just our condition. Agree, and we sign. Decline, and perhaps we meet again."
He paused, then lowered his voice, letting the next words hang in the air like a poisoned dagger."By the way... I wonder if Iran might be interested in this merchandise."
Saddam's smile vanished instantly, replaced by a shadow of cold calculation. The room fell silent, the weight of that single sentence settling like dust on an ancient battlefield.