Honour Among Thieves

Chapter One

New York

February 15, 1993

Antonio Cavalli stared intently at the Arab, who he considered looked far too young to be a Deputy Ambassador.

“One hundred million dollars,” Cavalli said, pronouncing each word slowly and deliberately, giving them almost reverential respect.

Hamid Al Obaydi flicked a worry bead across the top of his well-manicured thumb, making a click that was beginning to irritate Cavalli.

“One hundred million is quite acceptable,” the Deputy Ambassador replied in a clipped English accent.

Cavalli nodded. The only thing that worried him about the deal was that Al Obaydi had made no attempt to bargain, especially since the figure the American had proposed was double that which he had expected to get. Cavalli had learned from painful experience not to trust anyone who didn’t bargain. It inevitably meant that he had no intention of paying in the first place.

“If the figure is agreed,” he said, “all that is left to discuss is how and when the payments will be made.”

The Deputy Ambassador flicked another worry bead before he nodded.

“Ten million dollars to be paid in cash immediately,” said Cavalli, “the remaining ninety million to be deposited in a Swiss bank account as soon as the contract has been carried out.”

“But what do I get for my first ten million?” asked the Deputy Ambassador, looking fixedly at the man whose origins were as hard to hide as his own.

“Nothing,” replied Cavalli, although he acknowledged that the Arab had every right to ask such a question. After all, if Cavalli didn’t honor his side of the bargain, the Deputy Ambassador had far more to lose than just his government’s money.

Al Obaydi moved another worry bead, aware that he had little choice — it had taken him two years just to get an interview with Antonio Cavalli. Meanwhile, President Clinton had settled into the White House, while his own leader was growing more and more impatient for revenge. If he didn’t accept Cavalli’s terms, Al Obaydi knew that the chances of finding anyone else capable of carrying out the task before July the Fourth were about as promising as zero coming up on a roulette wheel with only one spin left.

Cavalli looked up at the vast portrait that dominated the wall behind the Deputy Ambassador’s desk. His first contact with Al Obaydi had been only days after the war had concluded. At the time the American had refused to deal with the Arab, as few people were convinced that the Deputy Ambassador’s leader would still be alive by the time a preliminary meeting could be arranged.

As the months passed, however, it began to look to Cavalli as if his potential client might survive longer than President Bush. So an exploratory meeting was agreed.

The venue selected was the Deputy Ambassador’s office in New York, on East 79th Street. Despite being a little too public for Cavalli’s taste, it had the virtue of proving the credentials of the party claiming to be willing to invest one hundred million dollars in such a daring enterprise.

“How would you expect the first ten million to be paid?” inquired Al Obaydi, as if he were asking a real estate agent about a down payment on a small house on the wrong side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

“The entire amount must be handed over in used, unmarked hundred-dollar bills and deposited with our bankers in Newark, New Jersey,” said the American, his eyes narrowing. “And Mr. Obaydi,” Cavalli added, “I don’t have to remind you that we have machines that can verify—”

“You need have no anxiety about us keeping to our side of the bargain,” interrupted Al Obaydi. “The money is, as your Western cliché suggests, a mere drop in the ocean. The only concern I have is whether you are capable of delivering your part of the agreement.”

“You wouldn’t have pressed so hard for this meeting if you doubted we were the right people for the job,” retorted Cavalli. “But can I be as confident about you putting together such a large amount of cash at such short notice?”

“It may interest you to know, Mr. Cavalli,” replied the Deputy Ambassador, “that the money is already lodged in a safe in the basement of the United Nations building. After all, no one would expect to find such a vast sum deposited in the vaults of a bankrupt body.”

The smile that remained on Al Obaydi’s face indicated that the Arab was pleased with his little witticism, despite the fact that Cavalli’s lips hadn’t moved.

“The ten million will be delivered to your bank by midday tomorrow,” continued Al Obaydi as he rose from the table to indicate that, as far he was concerned, the meeting was concluded. The Deputy Ambassador stretched out his hand and his visitor reluctantly shook it.

Cavalli glanced up once again at the portrait of Saddam Hussein, turned and quickly left.

When Scott Bradley entered the room there was a hush of expectancy.

He placed his notes on the table in front of him, allowing his eyes to sweep around the lecture hall. The room was packed with eager young students holding pens and pencils poised above yellow legal pads.

“My name is Scott Bradley,” said the youngest professor in the law school, “and this is to be the first of fourteen lectures on constitutional law.” Seventy-four faces stared down at the tall, somewhat disheveled man who obviously couldn’t have noticed that the top button of his shirt was missing and who hadn’t made up his mind which side to part his hair on that morning.

“I’d like to begin this first lecture with a personal statement,” he announced. Some of the pens and pencils were laid to rest. “There are many reasons to practice law in this country,” he began, “but only one which is worthy of you, and certainly only one that interests me. It applies to every facet of the law that you might be interested in pursuing, and it has never been better expressed than in the engrossed parchment of The Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen United States of America.

“ ‘We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.’ That one sentence is what distinguishes America from every other country on earth.

“In some aspects, our nation has progressed mightily since 1776,” continued the professor, still not having referred to his notes as he walked up and down tugging the lapels of his well-worn Harris tweed jacket, “while in others we have moved rapidly backwards. Each of you in this hall can be part of the next generation of lawmakers or lawbreakers” — he paused, surveying the silent gathering — “and you have been granted the greatest gift of all with which to help make that choice, a first-class mind. When my colleagues and I have finished with you, you can if you wish go out into the real world and ignore the Declaration of Independence as if it were worth no more than the parchment it was written on, outdated and irrelevant in this modern age. Or,” he continued, “you may choose to benefit society by upholding the law. That is the course great lawyers take. Bad lawyers, and I do not mean stupid ones, are those who begin to bend the law, which, I submit, is only a step away from breaking it. To those of you in this class who wish to pursue such a course I must advise that I have nothing to teach you, because you are beyond learning. You are still free to attend my lectures, but ‘attending’ is all you will be doing.”

The room was so silent that Scott looked up to check they hadn’t all crept out. “Not my words,” he continued as he stared at the intent faces, “but those of Dean Thomas W. Swan, who lectured in this theater for the first twenty-seven years of this century. I see no reason not to repeat his philosophy whenever I address an incoming class of the Yale Law School.”

The professor opened the file in front of him for the first time. “Logic,” he began, “is the science and art of reasoning correctly. No more than common sense, I hear you say. And nothing so uncommon, Voltaire reminds us. But those who cry ‘common sense’ are often the same people who are too lazy to train their minds.

“Oliver Wendell Holmes once wrote: ‘The life of the law has not been logic, it has been experience.’” The pens and pencils began to scratch furiously across the yellow pages, and continued to do so for the next fifty minutes.

When Scott Bradley had come to the end of his lecture, he closed his file, picked up his notes and marched quickly out of the room. He did not care to indulge himself by remaining for the sustained applause that had followed his opening lecture for the past ten years.

Hannah Kopec had been considered an outsider as well as a loner from the start, although the latter was often thought by those in authority to be an advantage.

Hannah had been told that her chances of qualifying were slim, but she had now come through the toughest part, the twelve-month physical training, and although she had never killed anyone — six of the last eight applicants had — those in authority were now convinced she was capable of doing so. Hannah knew she could.

As the plane lifted off from Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport for Heathrow, Hannah pondered once again what had caused a twenty-five-year-old woman at the height of her career as a model to want to apply to join the Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks — better known as Mossad — when she could have had her pick of a score of rich husbands in a dozen capitals.

Thirty-nine Scuds had landed on Tel Aviv and Haifa during the Gulf War. Thirteen people had been killed. Despite much wailing and beating of breasts, no revenge had been sought by the Israeli government because of some tough political bargaining by James Baker, who had assured them that the Coalition Forces would finish the job. The American Secretary of State had failed to fulfill his promise. But then, as Hannah often reflected, Baker had not lost his entire family in one night.

The day she was discharged from the hospital, Hannah had immediately applied to join Mossad. They had been dismissive of her request, assuming she would, in time, find that the wound had healed. Hannah visited the Mossad headquarters every day for the next two weeks, by which time even they acknowledged that the wound remained open and, more important, was still festering.

In the third week they reluctantly allowed her to join a course for trainees, confident that she couldn’t hope to survive for more than a few days, and would then return to her career as a model. They were wrong a second time. Revenge for Hannah Kopec was a far more potent drug than ambition. For the next twelve months she worked hours that began before the sun rose and ended long after it had set. She ate food that would have been rejected by a tramp and forgot what it was like to sleep on a mattress. They tried everything to break her, and they failed. To begin with, the instructors had treated her gently, fooled by her graceful body and captivating looks, until one of them ended up with a broken leg. He simply didn’t believe Hannah could move that fast. In the classroom the sharpness of her mind was less of a surprise to her instructors, though once again she gave them little time to rest.

But now they’d come to an area in which she excelled.

Hannah had always, from a young age, taken for granted that she could speak several languages. She had been born in Leningrad in 1968, and when her father died, fourteen years later, her mother immediately applied for an emigration permit to Israel. The new liberal wind that was blowing across the Baltics made it possible for her request to be granted.

Hannah’s family did not remain on a kibbutz for long: her mother, still an attractive, sparkling woman, received several proposals of marriage, one of which came from a wealthy widower. She accepted.

When Hannah, her sister Ruth and brother David took up their new residence in the fashionable district of Haifa, their whole world changed. Their new stepfather doted on Hannah’s mother and lavished gifts on the family he had never had.

After Hannah had completed her schooling she applied to universities in America and England to study languages. Mama didn’t approve and had often suggested that with such a figure, glorious long black hair and looks that turned the heads of men from seventeen to seventy, she should consider a career in modeling. Hannah laughed and explained that she had better things to do with her life.

A few weeks later, after Hannah returned from an interview at Vassar, she joined her family in Paris for their summer vacation. She also planned to visit Rome and London, but she received so many invitations from attentive Parisians that when the three weeks were over she found she hadn’t once left the French capital. It was on the last Thursday of their vacation that the Mode Rivoli Agency offered her a contract that no amount of university degrees could have obtained for her. She handed her return ticket to Tel Aviv back to her mother and remained in Paris for her first job. While she settled down in Paris her sister Ruth was sent to finishing school in Zurich, and her brother David enrolled at the London School of Economics.

In January 1991, the children all returned to Israel to celebrate their mother’s fiftieth birthday. Ruth was now a student at the Slade School of Art; David was completing his studies for a Ph.D.; and Hannah was appearing once again on the cover of Elle.

At the same time, the Americans were massing on the Kuwaiti border, and many Israelis were becoming anxious about a war, but Hannah’s stepfather assured them that Israel would not become involved. In any case, their home was on the north side of the city and therefore immune to any attack.

A week later, on the night of their mother’s fiftieth birthday, they all ate and drank a little too much, and then slept a little too soundly. When Hannah eventually woke, she found herself strapped down in a hospital bed. It was to be days before they told her that her mother, brother and sister had been killed instantly by a stray Scud, and only her stepfather had survived.

For weeks Hannah lay in that hospital bed planning her revenge. When she was eventually discharged her stepfather told her that he hoped she would return to modeling, but that he would support her in whatever she wanted to do. Hannah informed him that she was going to join Mossad.

It was ironic that she now found herself on a plane to London that, under different circumstances, her brother might have been taking to complete his studies at the LSE. She was one of eight trainee agents being dispatched to the British capital for an advanced course in Arabic. Hannah had already completed a year of night classes in Tel Aviv. Another six months and the Iraqis would believe she’d been born in Baghdad. She could now think in Arabic, even if she didn’t always think like an Arab.

Once the 757 had broken through the clouds, Hannah stared down at the winding River Thames through the little porthole window. When she had lived in Paris she had often flown over to spend her mornings working in Bond Street or Chelsea, her afternoons at Ascot or Wimbledon, her evenings at Covent Garden or the Barbican. But on this occasion she felt no joy at returning to a city she had come to know so well.

Now, she was only interested in an obscure sub-faculty of London University and a terraced house in a place called Chalk Farm.

Chapter Two

On the journey back to his office on Wall Street, Antonio Cavalli began to think more seriously about Al Obaydi and how they had come to meet. The file on his new client supplied by their London office, and updated by his secretary, Debbie, revealed that although the Deputy Ambassador had been born in Baghdad, he had been educated in England.

When Cavalli leaned back, closed his eyes and recalled the clipped accent and staccato delivery, he felt he might have been in the presence of a British Army officer. The explanation could be found in Al Obaydi’s file under “Education”: The King’s School, Wimbledon, followed by three years at London University studying law. Al Obaydi had also eaten his dinners at Lincoln’s Inn, whatever that meant.

On returning to Baghdad, Al Obaydi had been recruited by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He had risen rapidly, despite the self-appointment of Saddam Hussein as President and the regular placement of Ba’ath Party apparatchiks in posts they were patently unqualified to fill.

As Cavalli turned another page of the file, it became obvious that Al Obaydi was a man well capable of adapting himself to unusual circumstances. To be fair, that was something Cavalli also prided himself on. Like Al Obaydi he had studied law, but in his case at Columbia University in New York. When that time of the year came around for graduates to fill out their applications to join leading law firms, Cavalli was always shortlisted when the partners saw his grades, but once they realized who his father was, he was never interviewed.

After working fourteen hours a day for five years in one of Manhattan’s less prestigious legal establishments, the young Cavalli began to realize that it would be at least another ten years before he could hope to see his name embossed on the firm’s masthead, despite having married one of the senior partners’ daughters. Tony Cavalli didn’t have ten years to waste, so he decided to set up his own law practice and divorce his wife.

In January 1982 Cavalli and Co. was incorporated, and ten years later, on April 15, 1992, the company had declared a profit of $157,000, paying its tax demand in full. What the company books did not reveal was that a subsidiary had also been formed in 1982, but not incorporated. A firm that showed no tax returns, and despite its profits mounting each year, could not be checked up on by phoning Dun and Bradstreet and requesting a complete VIP business report. This subsidiary was known to a small group of insiders as “Skills” — a company that specialized in solving problems that could not be taken care of by thumbing through the Yellow Pages.

With his father’s contacts, and Cavalli’s driving ambition, the unlisted company soon made a reputation for handling problems that their unnamed clients had previously considered insoluble. Among Cavalli’s latest assignments had been the recovery of taped conversations between a famous singer and a former first lady that were due to be published in Rolling Stone and the theft of a Vermeer from Ireland for an eccentric South American collector. These coups were discreetly referred to in the company of potential clients.

The clients themselves were vetted as carefully as if they were applying to be members of the New York Yacht Club because, as Tony’s father had often pointed out, it would only take one mistake to ensure that he would spend the rest of his life in less pleasing surroundings than 23 East 75th Street, or their villa in Lyford Cay.

Over the past decade, Tony had built up a small network of representatives across the globe who supplied him with clients requiring a little help with more “imaginative” propositions. It was his Lebanese contact who had been responsible for introducing the man from Baghdad, whose proposal unquestionably fell into this category.

When Tony’s father was first briefed on the outline of Operation “Desert Calm” he recommended that his son demand a fee of one hundred million dollars to compensate for the fact that the whole of Washington would be at liberty to observe him going about his business.

“One mistake,” the old man warned him, licking his lips, “and you’ll make more front pages than the second coming of Elvis.”

Once he had left the lecture theater, Scott Bradley hurried across Grove Street Cemetery, hoping that he might reach his apartment on St. Ronan Street before being accosted by a pursuing student. He loved them all — well, almost all — and he was sure that in time he would allow the more serious among them to stroll back to his rooms in the evenings to have a drink and to talk long into the night. But not until they were well into their second year.

Scott managed to reach the staircase before a single would-be lawyer had caught up with him. But then, few of them knew that he had once covered four hundred meters in 48.1 seconds when he’d anchored the Georgetown varsity relay team. Confident he had escaped, Scott leaped up the staircase, not stopping until he reached his apartment on the third floor.

He pushed open the unlocked door. It was always unlocked. There was nothing in his apartment worth stealing — even the television didn’t work. The one file that would have revealed that the law was not the only field in which he was an expert had been carefully secreted on his bookshelf between “Tax” and “Torts.” He failed to notice the books that were piled up everywhere or the fact that he could have written his name in the dust on the sideboard.

Scott closed the door behind him and glanced, as he always did, at the picture of his mother on the sideboard. He dumped the pile of notes he was carrying by her side and retrieved the mail poking out from under the door. Scott walked across the room and sank into an old leather chair, wondering how many of those bright, attentive faces would still be attending his lectures in two years’ time. Forty percent would be good — thirty percent more likely. Those would be the ones for whom fourteen hours’ work a day became the norm, and not just for the last month before exams. And of them, how many would live up to the standards of the late Dean Thomas W. Swan? Five percent, if he was lucky.

The professor of constitutional law turned his attention to the bundle of mail he held in his lap. One from American Express — a bill with the inevitable hundred free offers which would cost him even more money if he took any of them up — an invitation from Brown to give the Charles Evans Hughes Lecture on the Constitution; a letter from Carol reminding him she hadn’t seen him for some time; a circular from a firm of stockbrokers who didn’t promise to double his money but... and finally a plain buff envelope postmarked Virginia, with a typeface he recognized immediately.

He tore open the buff envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper which gave him his latest instructions.

Al Obaydi strolled onto the floor of the General Assembly and slipped into a chair directly behind his Head of Mission. The Ambassador had his earphones on and was pretending to be deeply interested in a speech being delivered by the Head of the Brazilian Mission. Al Obaydi’s boss always preferred to have confidential talks on the floor of the General Assembly: he suspected it was the only room in the United Nations building that wasn’t bugged by the CIA.

Al Obaydi waited patiently until the older man flicked one of the earpieces aside and leaned slightly back.

“They’ve agreed to our terms,” murmured Al Obaydi, as if it was he who had suggested the figure. The Ambassador’s upper lip protruded over his lower lip, the recognized sign among his colleagues that he required more details.

“One hundred million,” Al Obaydi whispered. Ten million to be paid immediately. The final ninety on delivery.”

“Immediately?” said the Ambassador. “What does ‘immediately’ mean?”

“By midday tomorrow,” whispered Al Obaydi.

“At least Sayedi anticipated that eventuality,” said the Ambassador thoughtfully.

Al Obaydi admired the way his superior could always make the term “my master” sound both deferential and insolent at the same time.

“I must send a message to Baghdad to acquaint the Foreign Minister with the details of your triumph,” added the Ambassador with a smile.

Al Obaydi would also have smiled, but he realized the Ambassador would not admit to any personal involvement with the project while it was still in its formative stage. As long as he distanced himself from his younger colleague for the time being, the Ambassador could continue his undisturbed existence in New York until his retirement fell due in three years’ time. By following such a course he had survived almost fourteen years of Saddam Hussein’s reign while many of his colleagues had conspicuously failed to become eligible for their state pension. To his knowledge one had been shot in front of his family, two hanged and several others posted as “missing,” whatever that meant.

The Iraqi Ambassador smiled as his British counterpart walked past him, but he received no response for his trouble.

“Stuck-up snob,” the Arab muttered under his breath.

The Ambassador pulled his earpiece back over his ear to indicate that he had heard quite enough from his number two. He continued to listen to the problems of trying to preserve the rain forests of Brazil, coupled with a request for a further grant from the UN of a hundred million dollars.

Not something he felt Sayedi would be interested in.

Hannah would have knocked on the front door of the little terraced house, but it was opened even before she had closed the broken gate at the end of the pathway. A dark-haired, slightly overweight lady, heavily made-up and with a beaming smile, came bustling out to greet her. Hannah supposed she was about the same age as her mother would have been, had Mama still been alive.

“Welcome to England, my dear. I’m Ethel Rubin,” she announced in gushing tones. “I’m only sorry my husband’s not here to meet you, but I don’t expect him back from his chambers for another hour.” Hannah was about to speak when Ethel added, “But first let me show you your room, and then you can tell me all your plans.” She picked up one of Hannah’s bags and led her inside. “It must be such fun seeing London for the first time,” she said as they climbed the stairs, “and there will be so many exciting things for you to do during the next six months.”

As each sentence poured out Hannah became aware that Ethel Rubin had no idea why she was in London.

After she had unpacked and taken a shower Hannah joined her hostess in the sitting room. Mrs. Rubin chatted on, barely listening to Hannah’s intermittent replies.

“Do you know where the nearest gym is?” Hannah had asked.

“My husband should be back at any moment,” Mrs. Rubin replied. But before she could get the next sentence out the front door swung open and a man of about five foot three with dark, wiry hair and even darker eyes almost ran into the room. Once Peter Rubin had introduced himself and asked how her flight had been he didn’t waste any words suggesting that Hannah might have come to London to enjoy the social life of the metropolis. Hannah quickly learned that Peter Rubin didn’t ask any questions he realized she couldn’t answer truthfully. Although Hannah felt sure Mr. Rubin knew no details of her mission, he was obviously aware that she hadn’t come to London on a package vacation.

Mrs. Rubin, however, didn’t allow Hannah to get to bed until well after midnight, by which time she was exhausted. Once her head had touched the pillow she slept soundly, unaware of Peter Rubin explaining to his wife in the kitchen that in the future their guest must be left in peace.

Chapter Three

The Deputy Ambassador’s chauffeur slipped out of the UN’s private garage and headed west through the Lincoln Tunnel under the Hudson in the direction of New Jersey. Neither Al Obaydi nor he spoke for several minutes while the driver continually checked his rearview mirror. Once they were on the New Jersey Turnpike he confirmed that no one was following them.

“Good,” was all Al Obaydi offered. He began to relax for the first time that day, and started to fantasize about what he might do if the ten million dollars were suddenly his. When they had passed a branch of the Midlantic National Bank earlier, he had asked himself for the thousandth time why he didn’t just stop the car and deposit the money in a false name. He could be halfway across the globe by the following morning. That would certainly make his Ambassador sweat. And, with an ounce of luck, Saddam would be dead long before they caught up with him. And then who would care?

After all, Al Obaydi didn’t believe, not even for one moment, that the great leader’s outrageous plan was feasible. He had been hoping to report back to Baghdad after a reasonable period of time that no one reliable or efficient enough could be found to carry out such a bold coup. And then the Lebanese gentleman had flown into New York.

There were two reasons why Al Obaydi knew he could not touch one dollar of the money stuffed into the golf bag that rested on the seat beside him. First, there were his mother and younger sister, who resided in Baghdad in relative comfort and who, if the money suddenly disappeared, would be arrested, raped, tortured and hanged — the only explanation being that they had collaborated with a traitor. Not that Saddam ever needed an excuse to kill anyone, especially someone he suspected might have betrayed him.

Secondly, Al Obaydi — who fell on his knees five times daily, faced east and prayed that Saddam would eventually die a traitor’s death — could not help observing that Gorbachev, Thatcher and Bush had found it considerably more difficult than the great Sayedi to cling to power.

Al Obaydi had accepted from the moment he had been handed this assignment by the Ambassador that Saddam would undoubtedly die peacefully in his bed while his own chances of survival — the Ambassador’s favorite word — were slim. And once the money had been paid over, if Antonio Cavalli failed to carry out his side of the bargain, it would be Al Obaydi who was called back to Baghdad on some diplomatic pretext, arrested, summarily tried and found guilty. Then all those fine words his law professor at London University had uttered would turn out to be so much sand in the desert.

The driver swung off the turnpike and headed for the center of Newark as Al Obaydi’s thoughts returned to what the money was being used for. The idea had all the hallmarks of his President. It was original, required daring, raw courage and a fair degree of luck. Al Obaydi still gave the plan no more than a one percent chance of even reaching the starting blocks, let alone the finishing tape. But then, some people in the State Department had only given Saddam a one percent chance of surviving Operation Desert Storm. And if the great Sayedi could pull this off, the United States would become a laughingstock and Saddam would have guaranteed himself a place in Arab history alongside Saladin.

Although Al Obaydi had already checked the exact location of the building, he instructed the driver to stop two blocks west of his final destination. An Iraqi getting out of a large black limousine right in front of the bank would be enough of an excuse for Cavalli to pocket the money and cancel the deal. Once the car had stopped, Al Obaydi climbed over the golf bag and out onto the pavement on the curb side. Although he only had to cover a couple of hundred yards to the bank, this was the one part of the journey that he considered was a calculated risk. He checked up and down the street. Satisfied, he dragged the golf bag out onto the pavement and humped it up onto his shoulder.

The Deputy Ambassador felt he must have looked an incongruous sight as he marched down Martin Luther King Drive in a Saks Fifth Avenue suit with a golf bag slung over his shoulder.

Although it took less than two minutes to cover the short distance to the bank, Al Obaydi was sweating profusely by the time he reached the front entrance. He climbed up the well-worn steps and walked through the revolving door. He was met by two armed men who looked more like sumo wrestlers than bank clerks. The Deputy Ambassador was quickly guided to a waiting elevator that closed the moment he stepped inside. The door slid open only when he reached the basement. As Al Obaydi stepped out he came face to face with another man, bigger, if anything, than the two who had originally greeted him. The giant nodded and led him towards a door at the end of a carpeted corridor. As he approached, the door swung open and Al Obaydi entered a room to find twelve men waiting expectantly around a large table. Although conservatively dressed and silent, none of them looked like bank tellers. The door closed behind him and he heard a lock turning. The man at the head of the table stood up and greeted him.

“Good morning, Mr. Al Obaydi. I believe you have something to deposit for one of our customers.”

The Deputy Ambassador nodded and handed over the golf bag without a word. The man showed no surprise. He had seen valuables transported in everything from a crocodile to a condom.

He was, however, surprised by the weight of the bag as he lifted it up onto the table, spilled out the contents and divided the spoils among the other eleven men. The tellers began counting furiously, making up neat piles of ten thousand.

No one offered Al Obaydi a seat, so he remained standing for the next forty minutes, with nothing to do but watch them go about their task.

When the counting had been completed, the chief teller double-checked the number of piles. One thousand exactly. He smiled, a smile that was not directed at Al Obaydi but at the money, then looked up in the direction of the Arab and gave him a curt nod, acknowledging that the man from Baghdad had made the down payment.

The golf bag was then handed back to the Deputy Ambassador, since it had not been part of the deal. Al Obaydi felt slightly stupid as he slung it over his shoulder. The chief teller touched a buzzer under the table and the door behind him was unlocked.

One of the men who had first met Al Obaydi when he had entered the bank was waiting to escort him to the ground floor. By the time the Deputy Ambassador stepped out onto the street, his guide had already disappeared.

With an enormous sigh of relief, Al Obaydi began to stroll the two blocks back to his waiting car. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction at the professional way he had carried out the whole exercise. He felt sure the Ambassador would be pleased to learn that there had been no mishaps. He would undoubtedly take most of the praise when the message was relayed back to Baghdad that Operation Desert Calm had begun.

Al Obaydi collapsed on the sidewalk before he realized what had hit him: the golf bag had been wrenched from his shoulder before he could react. He looked up to see two youths moving swiftly down the street, one of them clutching their prize.

The Deputy Ambassador had been wondering how he was going to dispose of it.

Tony Cavalli joined his father for breakfast a few minutes after seven the following morning. He had moved back into their brownstone on 75th and Park soon after his divorce.

Since his retirement, Tony’s father spent most of his time pursuing his lifelong hobby of collecting rare books, manuscripts and historical documents. He had also spent many hours passing on to his son everything he’d learned as a lawyer, concentrating on how to avoid wasting too many years in one of the state’s penitentiaries.

Coffee and toast were served by the butler as the two men went about their business.

“Nine million dollars has been placed in forty-seven banks across the country,” Tony told his father. “Another million has been deposited in a numbered account with Franchard et cie in Geneva, in the name of Hamid Al Obaydi,” he added, buttering a piece of toast.

The father smiled at the thought of his son using an old ploy he had taught him so many years before.

“But what will you tell Al Obaydi when he asks how his ten million is being spent?” the unofficial chairman of Skills inquired.

For the next hour, Tony took his father through Operation Desert Calm in great detail, interrupted only by the occasional question or suggestion from the older man.

“Can the actor be trusted?” he asked before taking another sip of coffee.

“Lloyd Adams still owes us a little over thirty thousand dollars,” Tony replied. “He hasn’t been offered many scripts lately — a few commercials...”

“Good,” said Cavalli’s father. “But what about Rex Butterworth?”

“Sitting in the White House waiting for his instructions.”

His father nodded. “But why Columbus, Ohio?” he asked.

“The surgical facilities there are exactly what we require, and the Dean of the Medical School has the ideal qualifications we need. We’ve had his office and home bugged from top to bottom.”

“And his daughter?”

“We’ve got her under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

The chairman licked his lips. “So when do you press the button?”

“Next Tuesday, when the Dean is due to make a keynote speech at his daughter’s school.”

The butler entered the room and began to clear the table.

“And how about Dollar Bill?” asked Cavalli’s father.

“Angelo is on his way to San Francisco to try and convince him. If we’re going to pull this off we’ll need Dollar Bill. He’s the best. In fact no one else comes close,” added Cavalli.

“As long as he’s sober,” was all the chairman said.

Chapter Four

The tall, athletic man stepped off the plane into the U.S. Air terminal at Washington National Airport. He carried only hand luggage, so he didn’t have to wait at the baggage carousel where someone might recognize him. He needed just one person to recognize him — the driver who was picking him up. At six foot one, with his fair hair tousled and with almost chiseled fine features, and dressed in light blue jeans, cream shirt and a dark blue blazer, he made many women rather hope that he would recognize them.

The back door of an anonymous black Ford was opened as soon as he came through the automatic doors into the bright morning sunlight.

He climbed into the back of the car without a word and made no conversation during the twenty-five-minute journey that took him in the opposite direction to the capital. The forty-minute flight always gave him a chance to compose his thoughts and prepare his new persona. Twelve times a year he made the same journey.

It had all begun when Scott was a child back in his hometown of Denver, and he had discovered his father was not a respectable lawyer but a criminal in a Brooks Brothers suit, a man who, if the price was right, could always find a way around the law. His mother had spent years protecting her only child from the truth, but when her husband was arrested, indicted and finally sentenced to seven years, the old excuse, “There must have been some misunderstanding,” no longer carried any conviction.

His father survived three years in prison before dying of what was described in the coroner’s report as a heart attack, without any explanation being given for the marks around his throat. A few weeks later, his mother did die of a heart attack, while he was coming to the end of his third year at Georgetown studying law. Once the body had been lowered into the grave and the sods of earth hurled on top of the coffin, he left the cemetery and never spoke of his family again.

When the final rankings were announced, Scott Bradley was placed first in the graduating class, and several universities and leading law firms contacted him to ask him about his plans for the future. To the surprise of his contemporaries, Scott applied for an obscure professorship at Beirut University. He didn’t explain to anyone why he needed a clean break with the past.

Appalled by the low standard of the students at the university and bored by the social life, Scott began to fill his hours by attending courses on everything from the Islamic religions to the history of the Middle East. When three years later the university offered him the Chair of American Law, he knew it was time to return to the United States.

A letter from the dean of the law faculty at Georgetown suggested he should apply for a vacant professorship at Yale. He wrote the following day and packed his bags when he received their reply.

Once he had taken up his new post, whenever he was asked the casual question, “What do your parents do?” he would simply reply, “They’re both dead and I’m an only child.” There was a certain type of girl who delighted in this knowledge — they assumed he would need mothering. Several of them entered his bed, but none of them became part of his life.

But he hid nothing from the people he was summoned to see twelve times a year. They couldn’t tolerate deception of any kind, and were highly suspicious of his real motives when they learned of his father’s criminal record. He told them simply that he wished to make amends for his father’s disgrace, and refused to discuss the subject any further.

At first they didn’t believe him. After a time they took him on his own terms, but it was still to be years before they trusted him with any classified information. It was when he started coming up with solutions for problems in the Middle East that the computer couldn’t handle that they began to stop doubting his motives. When the Clinton administration was sworn in, the new team welcomed Scott’s particular expertise.

Twice recently he had penetrated the State Department itself to advise Warren Christopher. He had been amused to see Mr. Christopher suggest on the early-evening news a solution to the problem of sanctions-busting by Saddam that he had put to him earlier that afternoon.

The car turned off Route 123 and came to a halt outside a pair of massive steel gates. A guard came out to check on the passenger. Although the two men had seen each other regularly over the past nine years, the guard still asked to see his credentials.

“Welcome back, Professor,” the uniformed man finally offered before saluting.

The driver proceeded down the road and stopped outside an anonymous office block. The passenger climbed out of the car and entered the building through a turnstile. His papers were checked once again, followed by another salute. He walked down a long corridor with cream walls until he reached an unmarked oak door, he gave a gentle knock and entered before waiting for a reply.

A secretary was sitting behind a desk on the far side of the room. She looked up and smiled. “Go right in, Professor Bradley, the Deputy Director is expecting you.”

Columbus School for Girls, Columbus, Ohio, is one of those establishments that prides itself on discipline and scholarship, in that order. The director would often explain to parents that it was impossible to have the second without the first.

Breaking school rules could, in the director’s opinion, only be considered in rare circumstances. The request that she had just received fell into such a category.

That night, the graduating class of ’93 was to be addressed by one of Columbus’s favorite sons, T. Hamilton McKenzie, Dean of the Medical School at Ohio State University. His Nobel Prize for Medicine had been awarded for the advances he had made in the field of plastic and reconstructive surgery. T. Hamilton McKenzie’s work on war veterans from Vietnam and the Gulf had been chronicled from coast to coast, and there were men in almost every city who, thanks to his genius, had been able to return to normal lives. Some lesser mortals who had trained under the Nobel Laureate used their skills to help women of a certain age appear more beautiful than their Maker had originally intended. The director of Columbus felt confident that the girls would be interested only in the work T. Hamilton McKenzie had done for “our gallant war heroes,” as she referred to them.

The school rule that the director had allowed to be waived on this occasion was one of dress. She had agreed that Sally McKenzie, head of student government and captain of the lacrosse team, could go home one hour early from afternoon class and change into clothes of a casual but suitable nature to accompany her father when he addressed the class later that evening. After all, the director had learned the previous week that Sally had won an endowed national scholarship to Oberlin College to study chemistry.

A car service had been called with instructions to pick Sally up at four o’clock. She would miss one hour of school, but the driver had confirmed that he would deliver father and daughter back by six.

As four chimed on the chapel clock, Sally looked up from her desk. A teacher nodded and the student gathered up her books. She placed them in her bag and left the building to walk down the long drive in search of the car. When Sally reached the old iron gates at the entrance to the drive, she was surprised to find the only car in sight was a Lincoln Continental stretch limousine. A chauffeur wearing a gray uniform and a peaked cap stood by the driver’s door. Such extravagance, she knew only too well, was not the style of her father, and certainly not that of the director.

The man touched the peak of his hat with his right hand and inquired, “Miss McKenzie?”

“Yes,” Sally replied, disappointed that the long winding drive prevented her classmates from observing the whole scene.

The back door was opened for her. Sally climbed in and sank into the luxurious leather upholstery.

The driver jumped into the front and pressed a button and the window that divided the passenger from the driver slid silently up. Sally heard the safety lock click into place.

She allowed her mind to drift as she glanced out of the misty windows, imagining for a moment that this was the sort of lifestyle she might expect once she left Columbus.

It was some time before the seventeen-year-old girl realized the car wasn’t actually heading in the direction of her home.

Had the problem been posed in textbook form, T. Hamilton McKenzie would have known the exact course of action to be taken. After all, he lived “by the book,” as he so often told his students. But when it happened in real life, he behaved completely out of character.

Had he consulted one of the senior psychiatrists at the university, the psychiatrist would have explained that many of the anxieties he’d kept suppressed over a long period of time had, in his new circumstances, been forced to the surface.

The fact that he adored his only child, Sally, was clear for all to see. So was the fact that for many years he had become bored with, almost completely uninterested in, his wife, Joni. But the discovery that he was not good under pressure once he was outside the operating room — his own little empire — was something he could never have accepted.

T. Hamilton McKenzie became at first irritated, then exasperated and finally downright angry when his daughter failed to return home that Tuesday evening. Sally was never late, or at least not for him. The journey by car from Columbus should have taken no more than thirty minutes, even in the rush-hour traffic. Joni would have picked Sally up if she hadn’t scheduled her hair appointment so late. “It’s the only time Julian could fit me in,” she explained. She always left everything to the last minute. At 4:50 T. Hamilton McKenzie phoned Columbus School for Girls to check that there had been no late change of plan.

Columbus doesn’t change its plans, the director would have liked to tell the Nobel Laureate, but satisfied herself with the fact that Sally had left school at four o’clock, and that the car service had phoned an hour before to confirm that they would be waiting for her at the end of the drive by the main school gates.

Joni kept repeating in that Southern accent he had once found so attractive, “She’ll be here at any minute, jus’ you wait. You can always rely on our Sally.”

Another man, who was sitting in a hotel room on the other side of town and listening to every word they exchanged, poured himself a beer.

By five o’clock T. Hamilton McKenzie had taken to looking out of the bedroom window every few moments, but the path to their front door lay obstinately unbeaten.

He had hoped to leave at 5:20, allowing himself enough time to arrive at the school with ten or fifteen minutes to spare. If his daughter did not appear soon, he would have to go without her. He warned his wife that nothing would stop him leaving at 5:20.

At 5:20 T. Hamilton McKenzie placed the notes for his speech on the hall table and began pacing up and down the front path as he waited for his wife and daughter to come from opposite directions. By 5:25 neither of them was at his side and his famous “cool” was beginning to show distinct signs of steaming.

Joni had taken considerable time to select an appropriate outfit for the occasion, and was disappointed that her husband didn’t even seem to notice.

“We’ll have to go without her,” was all he said. “If Sally hopes to be a doctor one day she’ll have to learn that people have a tendency to die when you keep them waiting.”

“Shouldn’t we give her just a li’l longer, honey?” asked Joni.

“No,” he barked, and without even looking back set off for the garage. Joni spotted her husband’s notes on the hall table and stuffed them into her handbag before she pulled the front door closed and double-locked it. By the time she reached the road, her husband was already waiting behind the wheel of his car, drumming his fingers on the gear shift.

They drove in silence towards Columbus School for Girls. T. Hamilton McKenzie checked every car heading towards Upper Arlington to see if his daughter was in the back seat.

A small reception party, led by the director, was waiting for them at the foot of the stone steps at the school’s main entrance. The director walked forward to shake hands with the distinguished surgeon as he stepped out of the car, followed by Joni McKenzie. Her eyes searched beyond them for Sally. She raised an eyebrow.

“Sally never came home,” Dr. McKenzie explained.

“She’ll probably join us in a few minutes, if she’s not already here,” suggested his wife. The director knew Sally was not on the school grounds, but did not consider it courteous to correct the guest of honor’s wife, especially as she’d just received a call from the car service that required an explanation.

At fourteen minutes to six they walked into the director’s study, where a young lady of Sally’s age offered the guests a choice of dry sherry or orange juice. McKenzie suddenly remembered that in the anxiety of waiting for his daughter he had left his notes on the hall table. He checked his watch and realized that there wasn’t enough time to send his wife back for them. In any case, he was unwilling to admit such an oversight in front of this particular gathering. Damn it, he thought. Teenagers are never an easy audience, and girls are always the worst. He tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort of order.

At three minutes to six, despite there still being no sign of Sally, the director suggested they should all make their way to the Great Hall.

“Can’t keep the girls waiting,” she explained. “It would set a bad example.”

Just as they were leaving the room, Joni took her husband’s notes out of her handbag and passed them over to him. He looked relieved for the first time since 4:50.

At one minute to six, the director led the guest of honor onto the stage. He watched the four hundred girls rise and applaud him in what the director would have described as a “ladylike” manner.

When the applause had faded away, the director raised and lowered her hands to indicate that the girls should be seated again, which they did with the minimum of noise. She then walked over to the lectern and gave an unscripted eulogy on T. Hamilton McKenzie that would have surely impressed the Nobel Committee. She talked of Edward Zeir, the founder of modern plastic surgery, of J. R. Wolte and Wilhelm Krause, and reminded her pupils that T. Hamilton McKenzie had followed in their great tradition by advancing the still-burgeoning science. She said nothing about Sally and her many achievements while at the school, although it had been in her original script. It was still possible to be punished for breaking school rules even if you had just won an endowed national scholarship.

When the director returned to her place in the center of the stage, T. Hamilton McKenzie made his way to the lectern. He looked down at his notes, coughed and then began his dissertation.

“Most of you in the audience, I imagine, think plastic surgery is about straightening noses, removing double chins and getting rid of bags from under your eyes. That, I can assure you, is not plastic but cosmetic surgery. Plastic surgery,” he continued — to the disappointment, his wife suspected, of most of those seated in front of him — “is something else.” He then lectured for forty minutes on z-plasty, homografting, congenital malformation and third-degree burns without once raising his head.

When he finally sat down, the applause was not quite as loud as it had been when he’d entered the room. T. Hamilton McKenzie assumed that was because showing their true feelings would have been considered “unladylike.”

On returning to the director’s study, Joni asked the secretary if there had been any news of Sally.

“Not that I’m aware of,” replied the secretary, “but she might have been seated in the hall.”

During the lecture, versions of which Joni had heard a hundred times before, she’d scanned every face in the room, and knew that her daughter was not among them.

More sherry was poured, and after a decent interval T. Hamilton McKenzie announced that they ought to be getting back. The director nodded her agreement and accompanied her guests to their car. She thanked the surgeon for a lecture of great insight, and waited at the bottom of the steps until the car had disappeared from view.

“I have never known such behavior in all my days,” she declared to her secretary. “Tell Miss McKenzie to report to me before chapel tomorrow. The first thing I want to know is why she canceled the car I arranged for her.”

Scott Bradley also gave a lecture that evening, but in his case only sixteen students attended, and none of them was under the age of thirty-five. Each was a senior CIA officer, and when they talked of logic, it had a more practical application than the one suggested when Scott lectured his younger students at Yale.

These men were all operating on the front line, stationed right across the globe. Often Professor Bradley pressed them to go over, detail by detail, decisions they had made under pressure, and whether those decisions had achieved the result they’d originally hoped for.

They were quick to admit their mistakes. There was no room for personal pride — only pride in the service was considered acceptable. When Scott had first heard this sentiment he thought they were being corny, but after nine years of working with them in the classroom and in the gym, he’d learned otherwise.

For over an hour Bradley threw test cases at them, while at the same time suggesting ways of how to think logically, always weighing known facts with subjective judgment before reaching any firm conclusion.

Over the past nine years, Scott had learned as much from them as they had from him, but he still enjoyed helping them put his knowledge to practical use. Scott had often felt he too would like to be tested in the field, and not simply in the lecture theater.

When the session was over, Scott joined them in the gym for another workout. He climbed ropes, pumped iron and practiced karate exercises, and they never once treated him as anything other than a full member of the team. Anyone who patronized the visiting professor from Yale often ended up with more than his ego bruised.

Over dinner that night — no alcohol, just Quibel — Scott asked the Deputy Director if he was ever going to be allowed to gain some field experience.

“It’s not a vacation job, you know,” came back Dexter Hutchins’s reply as he lit up a cigar. “Give up Yale and join us full-time and then perhaps we’ll consider the merits of allowing you out of the classroom.”

“I’m due for a sabbatical next year,” Bradley reminded his superior.

“Then take that trip to Italy you’ve always been promising yourself. After dining with you for the last seven years, I think I know as much about Bellini as ballistics.”

“I’m not going to give up trying for a field job — you realize that, Dexter, don’t you?”

“You’ll have to when you’re fifty, because that’s when we’ll retire you.”

“But I’m only thirty-six...”

“You rise too easily to make a good field officer,” said the Deputy Director, puffing away at his cigar.

When T. Hamilton McKenzie opened the front door of his house, he ignored the ringing phone as he shouted, “Sally? Sally?” at the top of his voice but he received no response.

He finally snatched the phone, assuming it would be his daughter. “Sally?” he repeated.

“Dr. McKenzie?” asked a calmer voice.

“Yes, it is,” he said.

“If you’re wondering where your daughter is, I can assure you that she’s safe and well.”

“Who is this?” demanded McKenzie.

“I’ll call later this evening, Dr. McKenzie, when you’ve had time to calm down,” said the quiet voice. “Meanwhile, do not, under any circumstances, contact the police or any private agency. If you do, we’ll know immediately, and we’ll be left with no choice but to return your lovely daughter—” he paused “—in a coffin.” The phone went dead.

T. Hamilton McKenzie turned white, and in seconds was covered in sweat.

“What’s the matter, honey?” asked Joni, as she watched her husband collapse onto the sofa.

“Sally’s been kidnapped,” he said, aghast. “They said not to contact the police. They’re going to call again later this evening.” He stared at the phone.

“Sally’s been kidnapped?” repeated Joni, in disbelief.

“Yes,” snapped her husband.

“Then we ought to tell the police right away,” Joni said, jumping up. “After all, honey, that’s what they’re paid for.”

“No, we mustn’t. They said they’d know immediately if we did, and would send her back in a coffin.”

“A coffin? Are you sure that’s what they said?” Joni asked quietly.

“Damn it, of course I’m sure, but they told me she’ll be just fine as long as we don’t talk to the police. I don’t understand it. I’m not a rich man.”

“I still think we ought to call the police. After all, Chief Dixon’s a personal friend.”

“No, no!” shouted McKenzie. “Don’t you understand? If we do that they’ll kill her.”

“All I understand,” replied his wife, “is that you’re out of our depth and your daughter is in great danger.” She paused. “You should call Chief Dixon right now.”

“No!” repeated her husband at the top of his voice. “You just don’t begin to understand.”

“I understand only too well,” said Joni, her voice remarkably calm. “You intend to play Chief of Police for Columbus as well as Dean of the Medical School, despite the fact that you’re quite unqualified to do so. How would you react if a state trooper marched into your operating room, leaned over one of your patients and demanded a scalpel?”

T. Hamilton McKenzie stared coldly at his wife, and assumed it was the strain that had caused her to react so irrationally.

The two men listening to the conversation on the other side of town glanced at each other. The man with earphones said, “I’m glad it’s him and not her we’re going to have to deal with.”

When the phone rang again an hour later both T. Hamilton McKenzie and his wife jumped as if they had been touched by an electric wire.

McKenzie waited for several rings as he tried to compose himself. Then he picked up the phone. “McKenzie,” he said.

“Listen to me carefully,” said the quiet voice, “and don’t interrupt. Answer only when instructed to do so. Understood?”

“Yes,” said McKenzie.

“You did well not to contact the police as your wife suggested,” continued the quiet voice. “Your judgment is better than hers.”

“I want to talk to my daughter,” interjected McKenzie.

“You’ve been watching too many late-night movies, Dr. McKenzie. There are no heroines in real life — or heroes, for that matter. So get that into your head. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” said T. Hamilton McKenzie.

“You’ve wasted too much of my time already,” said the quiet voice. The line went dead.

It was over an hour before the phone rang again, during which time Joni tried once more to convince her husband that they should contact the police. This time T. Hamilton McKenzie picked up the receiver without waiting. “Hello? Hello?”

“Calm down, Dr. McKenzie,” said the quiet voice, “and this time, listen. Tomorrow morning at eight-thirty you’ll leave home and drive to the hospital as usual. On the way you’ll stop at the Olentangy Inn and take any table in the corner of the coffee shop that is not already occupied. Make sure it can only seat two. Once we’re confident that no one has followed you, you’ll be joined by one of my colleagues and given your instructions. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“One false move, Doctor, and you will never see your daughter again. Try to remember, it’s you who is in the business of extending life. We’re in the business of ending it.”

The phone went dead.

Chapter Five

Hannah was sure that she could carry it off. After all, if she couldn’t deceive them in London, what hope was there that she could do so in Baghdad?

She chose a Tuesday morning for the experiment, having spent several hours reconnoitering the area the previous day. She decided not to discuss her plan with anyone, fearing that one of the Mossad team might become suspicious if she were to ask one question too many.

She checked herself in the hall mirror. A clean white T-shirt and baggy sweater, well-worn jeans, sneakers, tennis socks and her hair looking just a little untidy.

She packed her small, battered suitcase — the one family possession they’d allowed her to keep — and left the little terraced house a few minutes after ten o’clock. Mrs. Rubin had gone earlier to do what she called her “big shop,” an attempt to stock up at Sainsbury’s for the next couple of weeks.

Hannah walked slowly down the road, knowing that if she were caught they’d put her on the next flight home. She disappeared into the tube station, showed her travel-card to the ticket collector, went down in the elevator and walked to the far end of the brightly lit platform as the train rumbled into the station.

At Leicester Square she changed to the Piccadilly line, and when the train pulled into South Kensington, Hannah was among the first to reach the escalator. She didn’t run up the steps, which would have been her natural inclination, because running attracted attention. She stood quietly on the escalator, studying the advertisements on the wall so that no one could see her face. The new fuel-injected Rover 200, Johnnie Walker whisky, a warning against AIDS and Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Sunset Boulevard at the Adelphi glared back at her. Once she’d emerged into the sunlight, Hannah quickly checked left and right before she crossed Harrington Road and walked towards the Norfolk Hotel, an inconspicuous medium-sized hostelry that she had carefully selected. She had checked it out the day before, and could walk straight to the ladies’ rest room without having to ask for directions.

Hannah pushed the door open, and after quickly checking to confirm she was alone, chose the end cubicle, locked the door and flicked open the catch of the battered suitcase. She began the slow process of changing identity.

Two sets of footsteps entered and left while she was undressing. During that time, Hannah sat hunched up on the toilet seat, continuing only when she was confident she was alone.

The exercise took her nearly twenty minutes. When she emerged, she checked herself in the mirror and made a few minor adjustments.

And then she prayed, but not to their God.

Hannah left the ladies’ room and made her way slowly up the stairs and back into the lobby of the hotel. She handed over her little case to the hall porter, telling him she’d collect it again in a couple of hours. She pushed a pound coin across the counter, and in return she received a little red ticket. She followed a tour party through the revolving doors and seconds later was back on the pavement.

She knew exactly where she was going and how long it would take her to reach the front door, since she’d carried out a dry run the previous day. She only hoped her Mossad instructor was right about the internal layout of the building. After all, no other agent had ever been inside before.

Hannah walked slowly along the sidewalk towards Brompton Road.

She knew she couldn’t afford to hesitate once she reached the front door. With twenty yards to go, she nearly decided to walk straight past the building. But once she reached the steps she found herself climbing up them and then boldly knocking on the door. A few moments later, the door was opened by a bull of a man who towered a full six inches over her. Hannah marched in, and to her relief the guard stepped to one side, looked up and down the road and then slammed the door closed.

She walked down the corridor towards the dimly lit staircase without ever looking back. Once she reached the end of the fading carpet, she slowly climbed the wooden staircase. They’d assured her that it was the second door on the left on the second floor, and when she reached the landing she saw a door to the left of her, with peeling brown paint and a brass handle that looked as if it hadn’t been polished for months. She turned the handle slowly and pushed the door open. As she entered, she was greeted by a babble of noise that suddenly ceased. The occupants of the room all turned to stare at her.

How could they know that Hannah had never been there before, when all they could see were her eyes?

Then one of them began talking again, and Hannah quietly took a seat in the circle. She listened carefully, and found that even when three or four of them were speaking at once she could understand almost every word. But the tougher test came when she decided to join in the conversation herself. She volunteered that her name was Sheka and that her husband had just arrived in London, but had only been allowed to bring one wife. They nodded their understanding and expressed their disbelief at British Immigration’s inability to accept polygamy.

For the next hour, she listened to and discussed with them their problems. How dirty the English were, how decadent, all dying of AIDS. They couldn’t wait to go home and eat proper food, drink proper water. And would it ever stop raining? Without warning, one of the black-clad women rose and bade her friends farewell. When a second got up to join her, Hannah realized this was her chance to leave. She followed the two women silently down the stairs, remaining a few paces behind. The massive man who guarded the entrance opened the door to let the three of them out. Two of them climbed into the back of a large black Mercedes and were whisked away, while Hannah turned west and began to retrace her steps to the Norfolk Hotel.

T. Hamilton McKenzie spent most of the night trying to work out what the man with the quiet voice could possibly want. He had checked his bank statements. He only had about $230,000 in cash and securities, and the house was probably worth another quarter of a million once the mortgage had been paid off — and this certainly wasn’t a sellers’ market, so that might take months to realize. All together, he could just about scrape up half a million. He doubted if the bank would advance him another cent beyond that.

Why had they selected him? There were countless fathers at Columbus School who were worth ten or twenty times what he was — Joe Ruggiero, who never stopped reminding everybody that he owned the biggest liquor chain in Columbus, must have been a millionaire several times over. For a moment, McKenzie wondered if he was dealing with a gang that had simply picked the wrong man, amateurs even. But he dismissed that idea when he considered the way they’d carried out the kidnap and the follow-up. No, he had to accept that he was dealing with professionals who knew exactly what they wanted.

He slipped out of bed at a few minutes past six and, staring out of the window, discovered there was no sign of the morning sun. He tried to be as quiet as he could, although he knew that his motionless wife must surely be awake — she probably hadn’t slept a wink all night. He took a warm shower, shaved, and for reasons he couldn’t explain to himself, put on a brand-new shirt, the suit he only wore when he went to church and a flowered Liberty of London tie Sally had given him two Christmases before and that he had never had the courage to wear.

He then went down to the kitchen and made coffee for his wife for the first time in fifteen years. He took the tray back to the bedroom where he found Joni sitting upright in her pink nightgown, rubbing her tired eyes.

McKenzie sat on the end of the bed and they drank black coffee together in silence. During the previous eleven hours they had exhausted everything there was to say.

He cleared the tray away and returned downstairs, taking as long as he could to wash and tidy up in the kitchen. The next sound he heard was the thud of the paper landing on the porch outside the front door.

He dropped the dishcloth, rushed out to get his copy of the Dispatch and quickly checked the front page, wondering if the press could have somehow got hold of the story. Clinton dominated the headlines, with trouble in Iraq flaring up again. The President was promising to send in more troops to guard the Kuwaiti border if it proved necessary.

“They should have finished off the job in the first place,” McKenzie muttered as he closed the front door. “Saddam is not a man who works by the book.”

He tried to take in the details of the story but couldn’t concentrate on the words. He gathered from the editorial that the Dispatch thought Clinton was facing his first real crisis. The President doesn’t begin to know what a crisis is, thought T. Hamilton McKenzie. After all, his daughter had slept safely in the White House the previous night.

He almost cheered when the clock in the hall eventually struck eight. Joni appeared at the bottom of the stairs, fully dressed. She checked his collar and brushed some dandruff off his shoulder, as if he were about to leave for a normal day’s work at the university. She didn’t comment on his choice of tie.

“Come straight home,” she added, as she always did.

“Of course I will,” he said, kissing his wife on the cheek and leaving without another word.

As soon as the garage door swung up, he saw the flickering headlights and swore out loud. He must have forgotten to turn them off the previous night when he had been so cross with his daughter. This time he directed his anger at himself, and swore again.

He climbed in behind the wheel, put the key in the ignition and prayed. He switched the lights off and, after a short pause, turned the key. First quickly, then slowly, he tried to coax the engine into action, but it barely clicked as he pumped the accelerator pedal up and down.

“Not today!” he screamed, banging the steering wheel with the palms of his hands. He tried a couple more times and then jumped out and ran into the house. He didn’t take his thumb off the doorbell until Joni opened it with a questioning look on her face.

“My battery’s dead, I need your car, quickly, quickly!”

“It’s being serviced. You’ve been telling me for weeks to have it attended to.” T. Hamilton McKenzie didn’t wait to offer an opinion. He turned his back on his wife, ran down the drive into the road and began searching the tree-lined avenue for the familiar yellow color with a sign reading 444-4444 attached to the roof. But he realized there was a hundred-to-one chance of finding a cab driving around looking for a fare that early in the morning. All he could see was a bus heading towards him. He knew the stop was a hundred yards away, so he began running in the same direction as the bus. Although he was still a good twenty or thirty yards short of the stop when it passed him, the bus pulled in and waited.

McKenzie climbed up the steps, panting. “Thank you,” he said. “Does this bus go to Olentangy River Road?”

“Gets real close, man.”

“Then let’s get going,” said T. Hamilton McKenzie. He checked his watch. It was 8:17. With a bit of luck he might still make the meeting on time. He began to look for a seat.

“That’ll be a dollar,” said the driver, staring at his retreating back.

T. Hamilton McKenzie rummaged in his Sunday suit.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “I’ve left—”

“Don’t try that one, man,” said the driver. “No cash, no dash.” McKenzie turned to face him once again.

“You don’t understand, I have an important appointment. A matter of life and death.”

“So is keeping my job, man. I gotta stick by the book. If you can’t pay, you’ve gotta debus ’cause that’s what the regulations say.”

“But—” spluttered McKenzie.

“I’ll give you a dollar for that watch,” said a young man seated in the second row who’d been enjoying the confrontation.

T. Hamilton McKenzie looked at the gold Rolex that had been presented to him for twenty-five years’ service to the Ohio State University Hospital. He whipped it off his wrist and handed it over to the young man.

“It must be a matter of life and death,” said the young man as he exchanged the prize for a dollar. He slipped the watch onto his wrist. T. Hamilton McKenzie handed the dollar on to the driver.

“You didn’t strike a good bargain there, man,” he said, shaking his head. “You could have had a week in a stretch limo for a Rolex.”

“Come on, let’s get going!” shouted McKenzie.

“It’s not me who’s been holding us up, man,” said the driver as he moved slowly away from the curb.

T. Hamilton McKenzie sat in the front seat wishing it were he who was driving. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t there. He turned around and asked the youth, “What’s the time?” The young man looked proudly at his new acquisition, which he hadn’t taken his eyes off for one moment.

“Twenty-six minutes after eight and twenty seconds.”

McKenzie stared out of the window, willing the bus to go faster. It stopped seven times to drop off and pick up passengers before they finally reached the corner of Independence, by which time the driver feared the watch-less man was about to have a heart attack. As T. Hamilton McKenzie jumped off the steps of the bus, he heard the clock on the Town Hall strike 8:45.

“Oh, God, let them still be there,” he said as he ran towards the Olentangy Inn, hoping no one would recognize him. He stopped running only when he had reached the path that led up to reception. He tried to compose himself, aware that he was badly out of breath and sweating from head to toe.

He pushed through the swing door of the coffee shop and peered around the room, having no idea who or what he was looking for. He imagined that everyone was staring back at him.

The coffee shop had about sixty café tables in twos and fours, and he guessed it was about half-full. Two of the corner tables were already taken, so McKenzie headed to the one that gave him the best view of the door.

He sat and waited, praying that they hadn’t given up on him.

It was when Hannah arrived back at the crossing on the corner of Thurloe Place that she first had the feeling someone was following her. By the time she had reached the sidewalk on the South Kensington side, she was convinced of it.

A tall man, young, evidently not very experienced at shadowing, bobbed rather obviously in and out of doorways. Perhaps he thought she wasn’t the type who would ever be suspicious. Hannah had about a quarter of a mile in which to plan her next move. By the time the Norfolk came in sight, she knew exactly what needed to be done. If she could get into the building well ahead of him, she estimated she only needed about thirty, perhaps forty-five, seconds at most, unless the porters were both fully occupied. She paused at the front window of a cosmetics shop and stared at the array of beauty products that filled the shelves. She turned to look towards the lipsticks in the corner and saw his reflection in the brightly polished window. He was standing by a newspaper stand at the entrance to the South Kensington tube station. He picked up a copy of the Daily Mail — amateur, she thought — which gave her the chance to cross the road before he could collect his change. She had reached the front door of the hotel by the time he had passed the cosmetics shop. Hannah didn’t run up the steps as it would have acknowledged his existence, but mistakenly pushed the revolving door so sharply that she sent an unsuspecting old lady tumbling onto the sidewalk much sooner than she’d intended.

The two porters were chatting as she shot across the lobby. The red ticket and another pound were already in her hand before she reached the porters’ desk. Hannah slammed the coin down on the counter, which immediately attracted the older man’s attention. When he spotted the pound, he quickly took the ticket, retrieved Hannah’s little case and returned it to her just as her pursuer was coming through the revolving doors. She headed in the direction of the staircase at the end of the corridor, clutching the little case close to her stomach so the man following her would be unaware that she was carrying anything. When she reached the second step of the staircase she did run, as there was no one else in sight. Once down the staircase she bolted across the corridor and into the comparative safety of the ladies’ room.

This time she was not alone. A middle-aged woman was leaning over a washbasin to check her lipstick. She didn’t give Hannah so much as a glance when she disappeared into one of the cubicles. Hannah sat on the top of the toilet, her knees tucked under her chin as she waited for the woman to finish her handiwork. It was two or three minutes before she finally left. Once Hannah heard the door close, she lowered her feet onto the cold marble floor, opened the battered suitcase to check everything was there and, satisfied that it was, changed back into her T-shirt, baggy sweater and jeans as quickly as she could.

She’d just managed to get her sneakers on when the door opened again, and she watched the lower part of two stockinged legs cross the floor and enter the cubicle next to hers. Hannah shot out and buttoned up her jeans before checking herself quickly in the mirror. She ruffled her hair a little and then began checking around the room. There was a large receptacle in the corner for depositing dirty towels. Hannah removed the plastic lid, took out all the towels that were there and forced her little case to the bottom, then quickly covered it with the towels and put the lid back in place. She tried to forget she had carried the bag from Leningrad to Tel Aviv to London — halfway across the world. She cursed in her native tongue before checking her hair in the mirror again. Then she strolled out of the ladies’ room, attempting to appear calm, even casual.

The first thing Hannah saw when she stepped into the corridor was the young man sitting at the far end reading the Daily Mail. With luck, he wouldn’t even give her a second thought. She had reached the bottom of the stairs when he glanced up. Rather good-looking, she thought, staring back at him for a second too long. She turned and began to climb the staircase. She was away, she’d made it.

“Excuse me, miss,” said a voice from behind her. Don’t panic, don’t run, act normally she thought. She turned and smiled. He smiled back, almost flirting with her, and then blushed.

“Did you by any chance see an Arab lady when you were in the rest room?”

“Yes, I did,” replied Hannah. “But why do you ask?” she demanded. Always put the enemy on the defensive whenever possible was the standard rule.

“Oh, it’s not important. Sorry to have bothered you,” he said, and disappeared back around the corner.

Hannah climbed the stairs, returned to the lobby and headed straight for the revolving doors.

Pity, she thought once she was back on the sidewalk. He looked rather sexy. She wondered how long he would sit there, who he was working for and to whom he would eventually be reporting.

Hannah began to retrace her steps home, regretting that she couldn’t drop into Dino’s for a quick spaghetti bolognese and then take in Frank Marshall’s latest film, which was showing at the Cannon. There were still times when she yearned to be just a young woman in London. And then she thought of her mother, her brother, her sister, and once again told herself all of that would have to wait.

She sat alone for the first part of the train journey, and was beginning to believe that if they sent her to Baghdad — as long as no one wanted to go to bed with her — she could surely pass herself off as an Iraqi.

When the train pulled into Green Park two youths hopped on. Hannah ignored them. But as the doors clamped shut she became aware that there was no one else in the car.

After a few moments one of them sauntered over towards her and grinned vacantly. He was dressed in a black bomber jacket with the collar covered in studs, and his jeans were so tight they made him look like a ballet dancer. His spiky black hair stood up so straight that it looked as if he had just received electric shock therapy. Hannah thought he was probably in his early twenties. She glanced down at his feet to see that he was wearing heavy-duty army boots. Although he was a little overweight, she suspected from his movements that he was quite fit. His friend stood a few paces away, leaning against the railing by the door.

“So what do you say to my mate’s suggestion of a quick strip?” he asked, removing a flick-knife from his pocket.

“Get lost,” Hannah replied evenly.

“Oh, a member of the upper classes, eh?” he said, offering the same vacant grin. “Fancy a gang bang, do we?”

“Fancy a thick lip, do you?” she countered.

“Don’t get clever with me, lady,” he said as the train pulled into Piccadilly Circus.

His friend stood in the doorway so that anyone who might have considered entering the end car thought better of it.

Never seek attention, never cause a scene: the accepted rule if you work for any branch of the secret service, especially when you’re stationed abroad. Only break the rules in extreme circumstances.

“My friend Marv fancies you. Did you know that?”

Hannah smiled at him as she began planning the route she would have to take out of the car once the train pulled into the next station.

“Quite like you myself,” he said. “But I prefer black birds. It’s their big bums, you know. They turn me on.”

“Then you’ll like your friend,” said Hannah, regretting her words the moment she had said them. Never provoke.

She heard the click as a long thin blade shot out and flashed in the brightly lit carriage.

“Now there are two ways we can go about this — quietly or noisily. It’s your choice. But if you don’t feel like cooperating, I might have to make a few etchings in that pretty face of yours.” The youth by the door began laughing. Hannah rose and faced her tormentor. She paused before slowly undoing the top button of her jeans.

“She’s all yours, Marv,” said the young man as he turned to face his friend. He never saw the foot fly through the air as Hannah swiveled 180 degrees. The knife went flying out of his hand and shot across the floor to the far end of the car. A flat arm came down across his neck and he slumped to the ground in a heap, looking like a sack of potatoes. She stepped over his body and headed towards Marv.

“No, no, miss. Not me. Owen’s always been the troublemaker. I wouldn’t have done nothin’, not me, nothin’.”

“Take off your jeans, Marvin.”

“What?”

She straightened the fingers of her right hand.

“Anything you say, miss.” Marvin quickly undid his zipper and pulled off his jeans to reveal a grubby pair of navy jockey shorts and a tattoo on his thigh that read “Mum.”

“I do hope your mother doesn’t have to see you like that too often, Marvin,” Hannah said as she picked up his jeans. “Now the pants.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Marvin.”

Marvin slowly pulled off his underwear.

“How disappointing,” said Hannah as the train pulled into Leicester Square.

As the doors squelched closed behind her Hannah thought she heard, “You filthy bitch, I’ll...”

As she walked down the passage to the Northern line, Hannah couldn’t find a trash can in which to dispose of Marvin’s grubby clothing. They had all been removed some time before after a sudden outbreak of IRA bombs in the London Underground. She had to carry the jeans and pants all the way to Chalk Farm, where she finally deposited them in a dumpster on the corner of Adelaide Road, then strolled quietly back home.

As she opened the front door, a cheery voice called from the kitchen, “Lunch is on the table, my dear.” Mrs. Rubin walked through carrying a bowl of potatoes and declared, “I’ve had the most fascinating morning. You wouldn’t believe what happened to me at Sainsbury’s.”

“What will it be, honey?” asked a waitress who wore a red uniform and a black apron and held a pad in her hand.

“Just black coffee, please,” said T. Hamilton McKenzie.

“Coming right up,” she said cheerfully.

He was about to check the time when he was reminded once again that his watch was on the wrist of a young man who was now probably miles away. McKenzie looked up at the clock above the counter: 8:56. He began to check everyone as they came through the door.

A tall, well-dressed man was the first to walk in, and as he scanned the room McKenzie became quite hopeful and willed him to look in his direction. But the man walked towards the counter and took a seat on a stool, with his back to the restaurant. The waitress returned and poured the nervous doctor a steaming black coffee.

Next to enter the room was a young woman, carrying a shopping bag with a long rope handle. She was followed a moment later by another smartly dressed man who also searched the room with his eyes. Once again, T. Hamilton McKenzie’s hopes were raised, only to be dashed when a smile of recognition flickered across the man’s face. He too headed for the counter and took the stool next to the man who had come in a few minutes earlier.

The girl with the shopping bag slipped into the place opposite him. “That seat’s taken,” said T. Hamilton McKenzie, his voice rising with every word.

“I know, Dr. McKenzie,” said the girl. “It’s been taken by me.”

T. Hamilton McKenzie began to perspire.

“Coffee, honey?” asked the waitress who appeared by their side.

“Yes, black,” was all she said, not glancing up.

McKenzie looked at the young woman more carefully. She must have been around thirty — still at an age when she didn’t require his professional services. From her accent she was undoubtedly a native of New York, though with her dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin her family must surely have emigrated from southern Europe. She was slight, almost frail, and her neatly patterned Laura Ashley dress of autumn browns, which could have been purchased in any one of a thousand stores across the country, made certain she would be forgettable in any crowd. She didn’t touch the coffee that was placed in front of her.

McKenzie decided to go on the attack. “I want to know how Sally is.”

“She’s fine, just fine,” said the woman calmly. She reached down and with a gloved hand removed a single sheet of paper from her bag. She passed it over to him. He unfolded the anonymous-looking sheet:

It was her writing, no question of that, but she would never have signed herself “Sal.” The coded message only made him more anxious.

The woman leaned across and snatched the letter back.

“You bastards. You won’t get away with it,” he said, staring across at her.

“Calm down, Dr. McKenzie. No amount of threats or rhetoric is going to influence us. It’s not the first time we’ve carried out this sort of operation. So, if you hope to see your daughter again...”

“What do you expect me to do?”

The waitress returned to the table with a fresh pot of coffee, but when she saw that neither of them had taken a sip she said, “Coffee’s getting cold, folks,” and moved on.

“I’ve only got about two hundred thousand dollars to my name. You must have made some mistake.”

“It’s not your money we’re after, Dr. McKenzie.”

“Then what do you want? I’ll do anything to get my daughter back safely.”

“The company I represent specializes in gathering skills, and one of our clients is in need of your particular expertise.”

“But you could have called and made an appointment like anyone else,” he said in disbelief.

“Not for what we have in mind, I suspect. And, in any case, we have a time problem, and we felt Sally might help us get to the front of the line.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s why I’m here,” said the woman. Twenty minutes later, when both cups of coffee were stone cold, T. Hamilton McKenzie understood exactly what was expected of him. He was silent for some time before he said, “I’m not sure if I can do it. To begin with, it’s professionally unethical. And do you realize how hard—”

The woman leaned down and removed something else from her bag. She tossed a small gold earring over to his side of the table. “Perhaps this will make it a little easier for you.” T. Hamilton McKenzie picked up his daughter’s earring. “Tomorrow you get the other earring,” the woman continued. “On Friday the first ear. On Saturday the other ear. If you go on worrying about your ethics, Dr. McKenzie, there won’t be much of your daughter left by this time next week.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Ask John Paul Getty III if we wouldn’t.”

T. Hamilton McKenzie rose from the table and leaned across.

“We can speed the whole process up if that’s the way you want it,” she added, displaying not the slightest sign of fear.

McKenzie slumped back into his seat and tried to compose himself.

“Good,” she said. “That’s better. At least we now seem to understand each other.”

“So what happens next?” he asked.

“We’ll be back in touch with you some time later today. So make sure you’re in. Because I feel confident that by then you’ll have come to terms with your professional ethics.”

McKenzie was about to protest when the woman stood up, took a five-dollar bill out of her bag and placed it on the table.

“Can’t have Columbus’s leading surgeon washing up the dishes, can we?” She turned to leave and had reached the door before it struck McKenzie that they even knew he had left the house without his wallet.

T. Hamilton McKenzie began to consider her proposition, not certain if he had been left with any alternative.

But he was sure of one thing. If he carried out their demands, then President Clinton was going to end up with an even bigger problem.

Chapter Six

Scott heard the phone ringing when he was at the foot of the stairs. His mind was still going over the morning lecture he had just given, but he leaped up the stairs three at a time, pushed open the door of his apartment and grabbed the phone, knocking his mother to the floor.

“Scott Bradley,” he said as he picked up the photograph and replaced it on the sideboard.

“I need you in Washington tomorrow. My office, nine o’clock sharp.”

Scott was always impressed by the way Dexter Hutchins never introduced himself, and also assumed that the work he did for the CIA was more important than his commitment to Yale.

It took Scott most of the afternoon to rearrange his teaching schedule with two understanding colleagues. He couldn’t use the excuse of not feeling well, as everyone on campus knew he hadn’t missed a day’s work through illness in nine years. So he fell back on “woman trouble,” which always elicited sympathy from the older professors, but didn’t lead them to ask too many questions.

Dexter Hutchins never gave any details over the phone as to why he needed Scott, but as all the morning papers had carried pictures of Yitzhak Rabin arriving in Washington for his first meeting with President Clinton, he made the obvious assumption.

Scott removed the file that was lodged between “Tax” and “Torts” and extracted everything he had about the new Israeli Prime Minister. His policy towards America didn’t seem to differ greatly from that of his predecessor. He was better educated than Shamir, more conciliatory and gentler in his approach, but Scott suspected that if it came to a knife fight in a downtown bar, Rabin was the one who would come out unmarked.

He leaned back and began thinking about a blonde named Susan Anderson who had been present at the last briefing he had been asked to attend with the new Secretary of State. If she was at the meeting, the trip to Washington might prove worthwhile.

A quiet man sat on a stool at the end of the bar emptying the final drops in his glass. The glass had been almost empty of Guinness for some time, but the Irishman always hoped that the movement would arouse some sympathy in the barman and he might just be kind enough to pour a drop more into the empty glass. But not this particular barman.

“Bastard,” he said under his breath. It was always the young ones who had no heart.

The barman didn’t know the customer’s real name. For that matter, few people did except the FBI and the San Francisco Police Department.

The file at the SFPD gave William Sean O’Reilly’s age as fifty-two. A casual onlooker might have judged him to be nearer sixty-five, not just because of his well-worn clothes, but from the pronounced lines on his forehead, the wrinkled bags under his eyes and the extra inches around his waist. O’Reilly blamed it on three alimonies, four jail sentences and going too many rounds in his youth as an amateur boxer. He never blamed it on the Guinness.

The problem had begun at school when O’Reilly discovered by sheer chance that he could copy his classmates’ signatures when they signed chits to withdraw pocket money from the school bank. By the time he had completed his first year at Trinity College, Dublin, he could forge the signatures of the provost and the bursar so well that even they believed that they had awarded him a scholarship.

While at St. Patrick’s Institution for Offenders, Bill was introduced to the bank note by Liam the Counterfeiter. When they opened the gates to let him out, the young apprentice had nothing left to learn from the master. Bill discovered that his mother was unwilling to allow him to return to the bosom of the family, so he forged the signature of the American Consul in Dublin and departed for the brave new world.

By the age of thirty, he had etched his first dollar plate. The work was so good that, during the trial that followed its discovery, the FBI acknowledged that the counterfeit was a masterpiece that would never have been detected without the help of an informer. O’Reilly was sentenced to six years and the crime desk of the San Francisco Chronicle dubbed him “Dollar Bill.”

When Dollar Bill was released from jail, he moved on to tens, twenties and later fifties, and his sentences increased in direct proportion. In between sentences he managed three wives and three divorces. Something else his mother wouldn’t have approved of.

His third wife did her best to keep him on the straight and narrow, and Bill responded by producing documents only when he couldn’t get any other work — the odd passport, the occasional driver’s license or social security claim — nothing really criminal, he assured the judge. The judge didn’t agree and sent him back down for another five years.

When Dollar Bill was released this time, nobody would touch him, so he kept his hand in at fairgrounds doing tattoos and, in desperation, sidewalk paintings which, when it didn’t rain, just about kept him in Guinness.

Bill lifted the empty glass and stared once again at the barman, who returned a look of stony indifference. He failed to notice the smartly dressed young man who took a seat on the other side of him.

“What can I get you to drink, Mr. O’Reilly?” said a voice he didn’t recognize. Bill looked around suspiciously. “I’m retired,” he declared, fearing that it was another of those young plain-clothes detectives from the San Francisco Police Department who hadn’t made his quota of arrests for the month.

“Then you won’t mind having a drink with an old con, will you?” said the younger man, revealing a slight Bronx accent.

Bill hesitated, but the thirst won.

“A pint of draft Guinness,” he said hopefully.

The young man raised his hand and this time the barman responded immediately.

“So what do you want?” asked Bill, once he’d taken a swig and was sure the barman was out of earshot.

“Your skill.”

“But I’m retired. I already told you.”

“And I heard you the first time. But what I require isn’t criminal.”

“So what are you hoping I’ll knock up for you? A copy of the Mona Lisa, or is it to be the Magna Carta?”

“Nearer home than that,” said the young man.

“Buy me another,” said Bill, staring at the empty glass that stood on the counter in front of him, “and I’ll listen to your proposition. But I warn you, I’m still retired.”

After the barman had filled Bill’s glass a second time, the young man introduced himself as Angelo Santini, and began to explain to Dollar Bill exactly what he had in mind. Angelo was grateful that at four in the afternoon there was no one else around to overhear them.

“But there are already thousands of those in circulation,” said Dollar Bill after he had listened to Angelo’s request. “You can find them all over the place. You could buy a good reproduction from any decent tourist shop.”

“Maybe, but not a perfect copy,” insisted the young man.

Dollar Bill put down his drink and thought about the statement.

“Who wants one?”

“It’s for a client who’s a collector of rare manuscripts,” Angelo said. “And he’ll pay top dollar.”

Not a bad lie, as lies go, thought Bill. He took another sip of Guinness.

“But it would take me weeks,” he said, almost under his breath. “In any case, I’d have to move to Washington.”

“We’ve already found a suitable place for you in Georgetown, and I’m sure we can lay our hands on all the materials you’d need.”

Dollar Bill considered this claim for a moment, before taking another gulp and declaring, “Forget it — it sounds too much like hard work. As I explained, it would take me weeks and, worse, I’d have to stop drinking,” he added, placing his empty glass back on the counter. “You must understand, I’m a perfectionist.”

“That’s exactly why I’ve traveled from one side of the country to the other to find you,” said Angelo quietly. Dollar Bill hesitated and looked at the young man more carefully.

“I’d want twenty-five thousand down and twenty-five thousand on completion, with all expenses paid,” said the Irishman.

The young man couldn’t believe his luck. Cavalli had authorized him to spend up to one hundred thousand dollars if he could guarantee the finished article. But then he remembered that his boss never trusted anyone who didn’t bargain.

“Ten thousand when we reach Washington and another twenty thousand on completion.”

Dollar Bill toyed with his empty glass.

“Thirty thousand on completion if you can’t tell the difference between mine and the original.”

“But we’ll need to tell the difference,” said Angelo. “You’ll get your thirty thousand if no one else can.”

The following morning a black limousine with smoked windows pulled up outside Ohio State University Hospital. The chauffeur parked in the space reserved for T. Hamilton McKenzie, as he had been instructed to do.

His only other orders were to pick up a patient at ten o’clock and drive him to the University of Cincinnati and Homes Hospital.

At 10:10, two white-coated orderlies wheeled a tall, well-built man in a chair out through the swing doors and, seeing the car parked in the dean’s space, guided him towards it. The driver jumped out and quickly opened the back door. Poor man, he thought, his head all covered in bandages and only a small crack left for his lips and nostrils. He wondered if it had been burns.

The stockily built man clambered from the wheelchair into the back, sank into the luxurious upholstery and stretched out his legs. The driver told him, “I’m going to put on your seatbelt,” and received a curt nod in response.

He returned to his seat in the front and lowered his window to say goodbye to the two orderlies and an older, rather distinguished-looking man who stood behind them. The driver had never seen such a drained face.

The limousine moved off at a sedate pace. The chauffeur had been warned not, under any circumstances, to break the speed limit.

T. Hamilton McKenzie was overcome with relief as he watched the car disappear down the hospital drive. He hoped the nightmare was at last coming to an end. The operation had taken him seven hours, and the previous night had been the first time he had slept soundly for the past week. The last order he had received was to go home and wait for Sally’s release.

When the demand had been put to him by the woman who left five dollars on the table at the Olentangy Inn, he had considered it impossible. Not, as he had suggested, on ethical grounds, but because he had thought he could never achieve a true likeness. He had wanted to explain to her about autografting, the external epithelium and the deeper corium, and how unlikely it was that... But when he saw the unnamed man in his private office, he immediately realized why they had chosen him. He was almost the right height, perhaps a shade short — an inch, no more — and he might have been five to ten pounds too light. But shoe lifts and a few Big Macs would sort out both of those problems.

The skull and features were remarkable and bore a stunning resemblance to the original. In fact in the end it had only proved necessary to perform rhinoplasty and a partial thickness graft. The results were good, very good. The surgeon assumed that the man’s red hair was irrelevant because they could shave his head and use a wig. With a new set of teeth and good makeup, only his immediate family would be able to tell the difference.

McKenzie had had several different teams working with him during the seven hours in the operating room. He’d told them he needed fresh help whenever he began to tire. No one ever questioned T. Hamilton McKenzie inside the hospital, and only he had seen the final result. He had kept his end of the bargain.

She parked the Ford Taurus — America’s most popular car — a hundred yards from the house, but not before she’d swung it around to face the direction in which she would be leaving.

She changed her shoes in the car. The only time she had nearly been caught was when some mud had stuck to the soles of her shoes and the FBI had traced it to within yards of a spot she had visited a few days before.

She swung her bag over her shoulder and stepped out onto the road. She began to walk slowly towards the house.

They had chosen the location well. The farmhouse was several miles from the nearest building — and that was an empty barn — at the end of a track that even desperate lovers would have thought twice about.

There was no sign of anyone being in the house, but she knew they were there, waiting, watching her every move. She opened the door without knocking and immediately saw one of them in the hall.

“Upstairs,” he said, pointing. She did not reply as she walked past him and began to climb the stairs.

She went straight into the bedroom and found the young girl sitting on the end of the bed reading. Sally turned and smiled at the slim woman in the Laura Ashley dress, hoping that she had brought another book with her.

The woman placed a hand in her bag and smiled shyly before pulling out a paperback and passing it over to the young girl.

“Thank you,” said Sally, who took the book, checked the cover and then quickly turned it over to study the plot summary.

While Sally became engrossed by the promised love story, the woman unclipped the long plaited rope that was attached to the two sides of her shopping bag.

Sally opened the book at the first chapter, having already decided she would have to read every page very slowly. After all, she couldn’t be sure when the next offering might come.

The movement was so fast that she didn’t even feel the rope go around her neck. Sally’s head jerked back and with one flick her vertebra was broken. Her chin slumped onto her chest.

Blood began to trickle out of her mouth, down her chin and onto the cover of A Time to Love and a Time to...

The driver of the limousine was surprised to be flagged down by a traffic cop just as he was about to take the exit ramp onto the freeway. He felt sure he hadn’t broken the speed limit. Then he spotted the ambulance in his rearview mirror, and wondered if they simply wanted to pass him. He looked to the front again to see the motorcycle cop was firmly waving him onto the hard shoulder.

He immediately obeyed the order and brought the car to a standstill, puzzled as to what was going on. The ambulance drew in and stopped behind him. The cop dismounted from his motorcycle, walked up to the driver’s door and tapped on the window. The chauffeur touched a button in the armrest and the window slid silently down.

“Is there a problem, Officer?”

“Yes, sir, we have an emergency on our hands,” the policeman said without raising his visor. “Your patient has to return to the Ohio State University Hospital immediately. There have been unforeseen complications. You’re to transfer him to the ambulance and I will escort them back into the city.”

The wide-eyed driver agreed with a series of consenting nods. “Should I go back to the hospital as well?” he asked.

“No, sir, you’re to continue to Cincinnati and report to your office.”

The driver turned his head to see two paramedics dressed in white coveralls standing by the side of the car. The policeman nodded and one of them opened the back door while the other released the seatbelt so that he could help the patient out.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and watched the two paramedics guide the well-built man to the ambulance. The siren on the motorcycle brought his attention back to the policeman who was now directing the ambulance up the exit ramp so that it could cross the bridge over the highway and begin its journey back into the city.

The whole changeover had taken less than five minutes, leaving the driver in the limousine feeling somewhat dazed. He then did what he felt he should have done the moment he saw the policeman, and telephoned his headquarters in Cincinnati.

“We were just about to call you,” said the girl on the switchboard. “They don’t need the car any longer, so you may as well come straight back.”

“Suits me,” said the driver. “I just hope the client pays the bill.”

“They paid cash in advance last Thursday,” she replied. The driver clicked the phone back on its cradle and began his journey to Cincinnati. But something was nagging in the back of his mind. Why had the policeman stood so close to the door that he couldn’t get out, and why hadn’t he raised his visor? He dismissed such thoughts. As long as the company had been paid, it wasn’t his problem.

He drove up onto the freeway, and didn’t see the ambulance ignore the signpost to the city center and join the stream of traffic going in the opposite direction. The man behind the wheel was also contacting his headquarters.

“It went as planned, boss,” was all he replied to the first question.

“Good,” said Cavalli. “And the chauffeur?”

“On his way back to Cincinnati, none the wiser.”

“Good,” Cavalli repeated. “And the patient?”

“Fine, as far as I can tell,” said the driver, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“And the police escort?”

“Mario took a detour down a side road so he could get changed into his Federal Express uniform. He should catch up with us within the hour.”

“How long before the next switch?”

The driver checked the odometer. “Must be about another ninety miles, just after we cross the state line.”

“And then?”

“Four more changes between there and the Big Apple. Fresh drivers and a different car each time. The patient should be with you around midnight tomorrow, though he may have to stop off at a rest room or two along the way.”

“No rest rooms,” said Cavalli. “Just take him off the highway and hide him behind a tree.”

Chapter Seven

Dollar Bill’s new home turned out to be the basement of a house in Georgetown, formerly an artist’s studio. The room where he worked was well lit without glare and, at his request, the temperature was kept at sixty-six degrees with a constant humidity.

Bill attempted several “dry runs” as he called them, but he couldn’t get started on the final document until he had all the materials he needed. “Nothing but perfection will do,” he kept reminding Angelo. He would not have his name associated with anything that might later be denounced as a forgery. After all, he had his reputation to consider.

For days they searched in vain for the right pen nibs. Dollar Bill rejected them all until he was shown a picture of some in a small museum in Virginia. He nodded his approval and they were in his hands the following afternoon.

The curator of the museum told a reporter from the Richmond Times Dispatch that she was puzzled by the theft. The pens were not of any historic importance or particularly valuable. There were far more irreplaceable objects in the next display case.

“Depends who needs them,” said Dollar Bill when he was shown the press clipping.

The ink was a little easier once Bill had found the right shade of black. When it was on the paper he knew exactly how to control the viscosity by temperature and evaporation to give the impression of old age. Several pots were tested until he had more than enough to carry out the job.

While others were searching for the materials he needed, Dollar Bill read several books from the Library of Congress and spent a few minutes every day in the National Archives until he discovered the one mistake he could afford to make.

But the toughest requirement proved to be the parchment itself, because Dollar Bill wouldn’t consider anything that was less than two hundred years old. He tried to explain to Angelo about carbon dating.

Samples were flown in from Paris, Amsterdam, Vienna, Montreal and Athens, but the forger rejected them all. It was only when a package arrived from Bremen with a selection dated 1781 that Dollar Bill gave a smile which only Guinness normally brought to his lips.

He touched, caressed and fondled the parchment as a young man might a new lover but, unlike a lover, he pressed, rolled and flattened the object of his attentions until he was confident it was ready to receive the baptism of ink. He then prepared ten sheets of exactly the same size, knowing that only one would eventually be used.

Bill studied the ten parchments for several hours. Two were dismissed within a moment, and four more by the end of the day. Using one of the four remaining sheets, the craftsman worked on a rough copy that Angelo, when he first saw it, considered perfect.

“Perfect to the amateur eye, possibly,” Bill said, “but a professional would spot the seventeen mistakes I’ve made within moments. Destroy it.”

During the next week three copies of the text were executed in Dollar Bill’s new home in Georgetown. No one was allowed to enter the room while he was working, and the door remained locked whenever he took a break. He worked in two-hour shifts and then rested for two hours. Light meals were brought to him twice a day and he drank nothing but water, even in the evening. At night, exhausted, he would often sleep for eight hours without stirring.

Once he had completed the three copies of the forty-six-line text, Dollar Bill declared himself satisfied with two of them. The third was destroyed.

Angelo reported back to Cavalli, who seemed pleased with Dollar Bill’s progress, although neither of them had been allowed to see the two final copies.

“Now comes the hard part,” Bill told Angelo. “Fifty-six signatures, every one requiring a different nib, a different pressure, a different shade of ink and every one a work of art in itself.”

Angelo accepted this analysis, but was less happy to learn that Dollar Bill insisted on a day off before he began to work on the names because he needed to get paralytically drunk.

Professor Bradley flew into Washington on Tuesday evening and booked himself into the Ritz Carlton — the one luxury the CIA allowed the schizophrenic agent/professor. After a light dinner in the Jockey Club, accompanied only by a book, Scott retired to his room on the fifth floor. He flicked channels from one bad movie to another before falling asleep thinking about Susan Anderson.

He woke at six-thirty the next morning, rose and read the Washington Post from cover to cover, concentrating on the articles dealing with Rabin’s visit. He got dressed watching a CNN report on the Israeli Prime Minister’s speech at a White House dinner that had taken place the previous evening. Rabin assured the new President he wanted the same warm relationship with America that his predecessor had enjoyed.

After a light breakfast, Scott strolled out of the hotel to find a company car waiting for him.

“Good morning, sir,” were the only words his driver spoke on the entire journey. It was a pleasant trip out of the city that Wednesday morning, but Scott smiled wryly as he watched commuters blocking all three lanes going in the opposite direction.

When he arrived at Dexter Hutchins’s office ten minutes before his appointment, Tess, the Deputy Director’s secretary, waved him straight through.

Dexter greeted Scott with a firm handshake and a cursory attempt at an apology.

“Sorry to pull you in at such short notice,” he said, removing the butt of a cigar from his mouth, “but the Secretary of State wants you to be present for his working meeting with the Israeli Prime Minister. They’re having one of the usual official lunches, rack of lamb and irrelevant small talk, and they expect to start the working session around three.”

“But why would Mr. Christopher want me there?” asked Scott.

“Our man in Tel Aviv says Rabin is going to come up with something that isn’t officially on the agenda. That’s all he could find out. No details. You know as much about the Middle East as anyone in the department, so Christopher wants you around. He isn’t taking any risks. I’ve had Tess put the latest data together so that you’ll be right up-to-date by the time we get to this afternoon’s meeting.” Dexter Hutchins picked up a pile of files from the corner of his desk and handed them to Scott. The inevitable “Top Secret” was stamped on each of them, despite the fact that a lot of the information they contained could be found strewn across the Foreign Desk of the Washington Post.

“The first file is on the man himself and Labor Party policy; the others are on the PLO, Lebanon, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia and Jordan, all in reference to our current defense policy. If Rabin’s hoping to get more money out of us, he can think again, especially after Clinton’s speech last week on domestic policy. There’s a copy in the bottom file.”

“Marked ‘Top Secret,’ no doubt,” said Scott.

Dexter Hutchins raised his eyebrows as Scott bundled up the files and left without another word. Tess unlocked a door that led to a small empty office next to her own. “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed, Professor,” she promised.

Scott turned the pages of the first file, and began to study a report on the secret talks that had been taking place in Norway between the Israelis and the PLO. When he came to the file on the Iraq-Iran conflict there was a whole section he’d written himself only two weeks before, recommending a surprise bombing mission on the Mukhbarat headquarters in Baghdad if the UN inspection team continued to be frustrated in their efforts to check Iraqi defense installations.

At twelve o’clock Tess brought in a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk as he began to read the reports on no-fly zones beyond the 36th and 32nd parallels in Iraq. When he had finished reading the President’s speech, Scott spent another hour trying to puzzle out what change of course or surprise the new Prime Minister of Israel might have in mind. He was still deep in thought when Dexter Hutchins stuck his head around the door and said, “Five minutes.”

In the car on the way to the State Department, Dexter asked Scott if he had any theories about what the Israeli leader might surprise them with.

“Several, but I need to observe the man in action before I try to anticipate anything. After all, I’ve only seen him once before, and on that occasion he still thought Bush might win the election.”

When they arrived at the C Street entrance it took almost as long for the two men from the CIA to reach the seventh floor as it always did for Scott to penetrate the inner sanctum of Langley.

At 2:53 they were ushered into an empty conference room. Scott selected a chair against the wall, just behind where Warren Christopher would be seated but slightly to his left so he would have a clear view of Prime Minister Rabin across the table. Dexter sat on Scott’s right.

At one minute to three, five senior staffers entered the room, and Scott was pleased to see that Susan Anderson was among them. Her fine fair hair was done up in a coil, making her look rather austere, and she wore a tailored blue suit that accentuated her slim figure. The spotted white blouse with the little bow at the neck would have frightened off most men; it appealed to Scott.

“Good afternoon, Professor Bradley,” she said when Scott stood up. But she took a seat on the other side of Dexter Hutchins, and informed him that the Secretary of State would be joining them in a few moments.

“So how are the Orioles doing?” Scott asked, leaning forward and looking straight across at Susan, trying not to stare at her slim, shapely legs. Susan blushed. From some file, Scott had recalled that she was a baseball fan, and when she wasn’t accompanying the Secretary of State abroad, she never missed a game. Scott knew only too well that they had lost their last three games.

“Doing about as well as Georgetown did in the NCAAs,” came back her immediate reply.

Scott could think of no suitable reply. Georgetown had failed to make the national tournament for the first time in years.

“Fifteen all,” said Dexter, who was obviously enjoying sitting on the high stool between them.

The door suddenly swung open and Warren Christopher entered the room, accompanied by the Prime Minister of Israel, and followed by officials from both countries. They split down each side of the long table, taking their places according to seniority.

When the Secretary of State reached his seat in the center of the table, in front of the American flag, he spotted Scott for the first time, and nodded an acknowledgment of his presence.

Once everyone was settled, the Secretary of State opened the meeting with a predictably banal speech of welcome, most of which could have been used for anyone from Yeltsin to Mitterrand. The Prime Minister of Israel responded in kind.

For the next hour they discussed a report on the meeting in Norway between representatives of the Israeli government and the PLO.

Rabin expressed his conviction that an agreement was progressing satisfactorily, but it remained vital that any further exchanges should continue in the utmost secrecy, as he feared that if his political opponents in Jerusalem got to hear of it, they could still scupper the whole plan before he was ready to make a public announcement.

Christopher nodded his agreement, and said it would be appreciated by the State Department if any such announcement could be made in Washington. Rabin smiled, but made no concession. The game of poker had begun. If he was to deliver the Americans such a public relations coup, he would expect something major in return. Only one more hand remained to be dealt before the home team discovered what that “something” was.

It was during “any other business” that Rabin raised the subject no one had anticipated. The Prime Minister circled around the problem for a few minutes, but Scott could see exactly where he was heading. Christopher was obviously being given the opportunity, if he wanted it, to kill any discussion stone dead before Rabin raised it officially.

Scott scribbled a note on a piece of paper and passed it over to Susan. She read his words, nodded, leaned across and placed the note on the blotting pad in front of the Secretary of State. He unfolded the single sheet, glanced at the contents but showed no sign of surprise. Scott assumed that Christopher had also worked out the size of the bombshell that was about to be dropped.

The Prime Minister had switched the discussion to the role of Israel in relation to Iraq, and reminded the Secretary of State three times that they had gone along with the Allied policy on Operation Desert Storm, when it was Tel Aviv and Haifa that were being hit by Scuds, not New York or Little Rock. It amused Scott that at the last meeting Rabin had said “New York or Kennebunkport.”

He went on to say he had every reason to believe that Saddam was, once again, developing a nuclear weapon, and Tel Aviv and Haifa still had to be the first candidates for any warhead.

“Try not to forget, Mr. Secretary, that we’ve already had to take out their nuclear reactors once in the past decade,” the Prime Minister said. “And if necessary, we’ll do so again.”

Christopher nodded, but made no comment.

“And were the Iraqis to succeed in developing a nuclear weapon,” continued Rabin, “no amount of compensation or sympathy would help us this time. And I’m not willing to risk the consequences of that happening to the Israeli people while I’m Prime Minister.”

Christopher still offered no opinion.

“For over two years since the Gulf War ended, we have waited for the downfall of Saddam Hussein, either at the hands of his own people or, at least, by some outside influence encouraged by you. As each month goes by, the Israeli people are increasingly wondering if Operation Desert Storm was ever a victory in the first place.”

Christopher still didn’t interrupt the Israeli Prime Minister’s flow.

“The Israeli Government feels it has waited long enough for others to finish the job.” He paused to allow the implications of his statement to sink in. “We have therefore prepared a plan to assassinate Saddam Hussein. We have at last discovered a way of breaching Saddam’s security and even possibly of being invited into his bunker. Even so, this will still be a more difficult operation than those which led to the capture of Eichmann and the rescue of hostages at Entebbe.”

The Secretary of State looked up. “And are you willing to share this knowledge with us?” he asked quietly.

Scott knew what the reply would be even before the Prime Minister spoke, and so, he suspected, did Christopher.

“No, sir, I am not,” replied Rabin, looking down at the page in front of him. “The only purpose of my statement is to ensure we do not clash with your colleagues from the CIA, since we have information which suggests that they are currently considering such a plan themselves.”

Dexter Hutchins thumped his knee with a clenched fist. Scott hastily wrote a two-word note and passed it across to Susan. She removed her glasses, read the message and looked back at him. Scott nodded firmly, so she once again leaned forward and placed the note in front of the Secretary of State. He glanced at Scott’s words, and this time he reacted immediately.

“We have no such plan,” said Christopher. “I can assure you, Prime Minister, that your information is not correct.” Rabin looked surprised. “And may I add that we naturally hope you will not consider any such action yourselves without keeping President Clinton fully informed.”

It was the first time the President’s name had been brought into play, and Scott admired the way the Secretary of State had applied pressure without any suggestion of a threat.

“I hear your request,” replied the Prime Minister, “but I must tell you, sir, that if Saddam is allowed to continue developing his nuclear arsenal, I cannot expect my people to sit by and watch.”

Christopher had reached the compromise he needed, and perhaps even gained a little time. For the next twenty minutes the Secretary of State tried to steer the conversation onto more friendly territory, but everyone in that room knew that once their guests had departed only one subject would come under discussion.

When the meeting was concluded the Secretary instructed his own staff to wait in the conference room while he accompanied the Prime Minister to his limousine. He returned a few minutes later with only one question for Scott.

“How can you be so sure Rabin was bluffing when he suggested we were also preparing a plan to eliminate Saddam? I watched his eyes and he gave away nothing,” said Christopher.

“I agree, sir,” replied Scott. “But it was the one sentence he delivered in two hours that he read word for word. I don’t even think he had written it himself. Some adviser had prepared the statement. And, more important, Rabin didn’t believe it.”

“Do you believe the Israelis have a plan to assassinate Saddam Hussein?”

“Yes, I do,” said Scott. “And what’s more, despite what Rabin says about restraining his people, I suspect it was his idea in the first place. I think he knows every detail, including the likely date and place.”

“Do you have any theories on how they might go about it?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” replied Scott.

Christopher turned to Susan. “I want to meet with Ed Djerijian and his senior Mideastern people in my office in one hour, and I must see the President before he departs for Houston.”

Christopher turned to leave, but as he reached the door, he glanced back. “Thank you, Scott. I’m glad you were able to get away from Yale. It looks as if we’re going to be seeing a lot more of you over the next few weeks.” The Secretary of State disappeared out of the room.

“May I add my thanks, too,” said Susan as she gathered up her papers and scurried after her boss.

“My pleasure,” said Scott, before adding, “Care to join me for dinner tonight? Jockey Club, eight o’clock?”

Susan stopped in her tracks. “You must do your research more thoroughly, Professor Bradley. I’ve been living with the same man for the past six years and—”

“—and I heard it wasn’t going that well lately,” interjected Scott. “In any case, he’s away at a conference in Seattle, isn’t he?”

She scribbled a note and passed it over to Dexter Hutchins. Dexter read the two words and laughed before passing it on to Scott: “He’s bluffing.”

When the two of them had been left alone, Dexter Hutchins also had one question that he needed answered.

“How could you be so sure that we aren’t planning to take Saddam out?”

“I’m not,” admitted Scott. “But I am certain that the Israelis don’t have any information to suggest we are.”

Dexter smiled and said, “Thanks for coming down from Connecticut, Scott. I’ll be in touch. I’ve got a hunch the plane to Washington is going to feel like a shuttle for you over the next few months.” Scott nodded, relieved that the term was just about to end and no one would expect to see him around for several weeks.

Scott took a cab back to the Ritz Carlton, returned to his room and began to pack his overnight case. During the past year he’d considered a hundred ways that the Israelis might plan to assassinate Saddam Hussein, but all of them had flaws because of the massive protection that always surrounded the Iraqi President wherever he went. Scott felt certain also that Prime Minister Rabin would never sanction such an operation unless there was a good chance that his operatives would get home alive. Israel didn’t need that sort of humiliation on top of all its other problems.

Scott flicked on the evening news. The President was heading to Houston to carry out a fund-raiser for Senator Krueger before the special May elections. His plane had been late taking off from Andrews. There was no explanation as to why he was running behind schedule — the new President was quickly gaining a reputation for working by Clinton Standard Time. All the White House correspondent was willing to say was that he had been locked in talks with the Secretary of State. Scott switched off the news and checked his watch. It was a little after seven, and his flight wasn’t scheduled until 9:40. Just enough time to grab a bite before he left for the airport. He’d only been offered sandwiches and a glass of milk all day, and figured that the CIA at least owed him a decent meal.

Scott went downstairs to the Jockey Club and was taken to a seat in the corner. A noisy congressman was telling a blonde half his age that the President had been locked in a meeting with Warren Christopher because “they were discussing my amendment to the defense budget.” The blonde looked suitably impressed, even if the maître d’ didn’t.

Scott ordered the smoked salmon, a sirloin steak and a half bottle of Mouton Cadet before once again going over everything the Israeli Prime Minister had said at the meeting. But he concluded that the shrewd politician had given no clues as to how or when — or even whether — the Israelis would carry out their threat.

On the recommendation of the maître d’, he agreed to try the house special, a chocolate soufflé. He convinced himself that he wasn’t going to be fed like this again for some time and, in any case, he could work it off in the gym the next day. When he had finished the last mouthful, Scott checked his watch: three minutes past eight — just enough time for coffee before grabbing a taxi to the airport.

Scott decided against a second cup, raised his hand and scribbled in the air to indicate that he’d like the check. When the maître d’ returned, he had his MasterCard ready.

“Your guest has just arrived,” said the maître d’, without indicating the slightest surprise.

“My guest...?” began Scott.

“Hello, Scott. I’m sorry I’m a little late, but the President just went on and on asking questions.”

Scott stood up and slipped his MasterCard back into his pocket before kissing Susan on the cheek.

“You did say eight o’clock, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, I did,” said Scott, as if he had simply been waiting for her.

The maître d’ reappeared with two large menus and handed them to her customers.

“I can recommend the smoked salmon and the steak,” she said without even a flicker of a smile.

“No, that sounds a bit too much for me,” said Susan. “But don’t let me stop you, Scott.”

“No, President Clinton’s not the only one dieting,” said Scott. “The consommé and the house salad will suit me just fine.” Scott looked at Susan as she studied the menu, her glasses propped on the end of her nose. She had changed from her well-cut dark blue suit into a calf-length pink dress that emphasized her slim figure even more. Her blonde hair now fell loosely onto her shoulders and for the first time in his memory she was wearing lipstick. She looked up and smiled.

“I’ll have the crab cakes,” she told the maître d’.

“What did the President have to say?” asked Scott, as if they were still in a State Department briefing.

“Not a lot,” she said, lowering her voice. “Except that if Saddam were to be assassinated he feels that he would automatically become the Iraqis’ number one target.”

“A human enough response,” suggested Scott.

“Let’s not talk politics,” said Susan. “Let’s talk about more interesting things. Why do you feel Ciseri is underestimated and Bellini overestimated?” she inquired. Scott realized Susan must have also read his internal file from cover to cover.

“So that’s why you came. You’re an art freak.”

For the next hour they discussed Bellini, Ciseri, Caravaggio, Florence and Venice, which kept them fully occupied until the maître d’ reappeared by their side.

She recommended the chocolate soufflé, and seemed disappointed that they both rejected the suggestion.

Over coffee, Scott told his guest about his life at Yale, and Susan admitted that she sometimes regretted she had not taken up an offer to teach at Stanford.

“One of the five universities you’ve honored with your scholarship.”

“But never Yale, Professor Bradley,” she said before folding her napkin. Scott smiled. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she added as the maître d’ returned with the check.

Scott signed it quickly, hoping she couldn’t see, and that the CIA accounts department wouldn’t query why it was a bill for three people.

When Susan went to the ladies’ room Scott checked his watch: 10:25. The last plane had taken off nearly an hour before. He walked down to the front desk and asked if they could book him in for another night. The receptionist pressed a few keys on the computer, studied the result and said, “Yes, that will be fine, Professor Bradley. Continental breakfast at seven and the Washington Post as usual?”

“Thank you,” he said as Susan reappeared by his side.

She linked her arm in his as they walked towards the taxis parked in the cobblestone driveway. The doorman opened the back door of the first taxi as Scott once again kissed Susan on the cheek.

“See you soon, I hope.”

“That will depend on the Secretary of State,” said Susan with a grin as she stepped into the back of the taxi. The doorman closed the door behind her and Scott waved as the car disappeared down Massachusetts Avenue.

Scott took a deep breath of Washington air and felt that after two meals a walk around the block wouldn’t do him any harm. His mind switched constantly between Saddam and Susan, neither of whom he felt he had the full measure of.

He strolled back into the Ritz Carlton about twenty minutes later, but before going up to his room he returned to the restaurant and handed the maître d’ a twenty-dollar bill.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I hope you enjoyed both meals.”

“If you ever need a day job,” Scott said, “I know an outfit in Virginia that could make good use of your particular talents.” The maître d’ bowed. Scott left the restaurant, took the elevator to the fifth floor and strolled down the corridor to room 505.

When he removed his key from the lock and pushed the door open he was surprised to find he’d left a light on. He took his jacket off and walked down the short passageway into the bedroom. He stopped and stared at the sight that met him. Susan was sitting up in bed in a rather sheer negligee, reading his notes on the afternoon’s meeting, her glasses propped on the end of her nose. She looked up and gave Scott a disarming smile.

“The Secretary of State told me that I was to find out as much as I possibly could about you before our next meeting.”

“When’s your next meeting?”

“Tomorrow morning, nine sharp.”

Chapter Eight

Button Gwinnett was proving to be a problem. The writing was spidery and small, and the “G” sloped forward. It was several hours before Dollar Bill was willing to transfer the signature onto the two remaining parchments. In the days that followed, he used fifty-six different shades of ink and subtle changes of pressure on the dozen nibs he tried out before he felt happy with Lewis Morris, Abraham Clark, Richard Stockton and Caesar Rodney. But he felt his masterpiece was undoubtedly John Hancock, in size, accuracy, shade and pressure.

The Irishman completed two copies of the Declaration of Independence forty-eight days after he had accepted a drink from Angelo Santini at a downtown bar in San Francisco.

“One is a perfect copy,” he told Angelo, “while the other has a tiny flaw.”

Angelo stood looking at the two documents in amazement, unable to think of the words that would adequately express his admiration.

“When William J. Stone was asked to make a copy back in 1820, it took him nearly three years,” said Dollar Bill. “And, more important, he had the blessing of Congress.”

“Are you going to tell me the one difference between the final copy you’ve chosen and the original?”

“No, but I will tell you it was William J. Stone who pointed me in the right direction.”

“So what’s next?” asked Angelo.

“Patience,” said the craftsman, “because our little soufflé needs time to rise.”

Angelo watched as Dollar Bill transferred the two parchments carefully onto a table in the center of the room where he had rigged up a water-cooled Xenon lamp. “This gives out a light similar to daylight, but of much greater intensity,” he explained. He flicked the switch on and the room lit up like a television studio. “If I’ve got my calculations right,” said Bill, “that should achieve in thirty hours what nature took over two hundred years to do for the original.” He smiled. “Certainly enough time to get drunk.”

“Not yet,” said Angelo, hesitating. “Mr. Cavalli has one more request.”

“And what might that be?” asked Dollar Bill in his warm Irish brogue.

He listened to Mr. Cavalli’s latest whim with interest. “I feel I ought to be paid double under the circumstances,” was the forger’s only response.

“Mr. Cavalli has agreed to pay you another ten thousand,” said Angelo.

Dollar Bill looked down at the two copies, shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

Thirty-six hours later, the chairman and the chief executive of Skills boarded a shuttle for Washington.

They had two assessments to make before flying back to New York. If both proved positive, they could then arrange a meeting of the executive team they hoped would carry out the contract.

If, however, they came away unconvinced, Cavalli would return to Wall Street and make two phone calls. One to Mr. Al Obaydi, explaining why it would be impossible to fulfill his request, and the second to their contact in Lebanon to tell him that they could not deal with a man who had demanded that ten percent of the money be lodged in a Swiss bank account in his name. Cavalli would even supply the number of the account they had opened in Al Obaydi’s name in Geneva, and thus the blame for failure would be shifted from the Cavallis to the Deputy Ambassador from Iraq.

When the two men stepped out of the main terminal, a car was waiting to ferry them into Washington. Crossing the 14th Street Bridge they proceeded east on Constitution Avenue where they were dropped outside the National Gallery, a building that neither of them had ever visited before.

Once inside the East Wing, they took a seat on a little bench against the wall just below the vast Calder mobile and waited.

It was the clapping that first attracted their attention. When they looked up to see what was causing the commotion, they watched as flocks of tourists quickly stood to one side, trying to make a clearing.

When they saw him for the first time, the Cavallis automatically stood. A group of bodyguards, two of whom Antonio recognized, was leading the man through a human passage while he shook hands with as many people as possible.

The chairman and the chief executive took a few paces forward to get a better view of what was taking place. It was remarkable: the broad smile, the gait and walk, even the same turn of the head. When he stopped in front of them and bent down to speak to a little boy for a moment they might, if they hadn’t known the truth, have believed it themselves.

When the man reached the front of the building, the bodyguards led him towards the third limousine in a line of six. In moments he had been whisked away, the sound of sirens fading into the distance.

“That two-minute exercise cost us one hundred thousand dollars,” said Tony as they made their way back towards the entrance. As he pushed through the revolving door a little boy rushed past him shouting at the top of his voice, “I’ve just seen the President. I’ve just seen the President!”

“Worth every penny,” said Tony’s father. “Now all we need to know is whether Dollar Bill also lives up to his reputation.”

Hannah received an urgent call asking her to attend a meeting at the embassy when there was still another four months of her course to complete. She assumed the worst.

In the exams which were conducted every other Friday, Hannah had consistently scored higher marks than the other five trainee agents who were still in London. She was damned if she was going to be told at this late stage that she wasn’t up to it.

The unscheduled appointment with the Councillor for Cultural Affairs, a euphemistic title for Colonel Kratz, Mossad’s top man in London, was for six that evening.

At her morning tutorial, Hannah failed to concentrate on the works of the Prophet Mohammed, and during the afternoon she had an even tougher time with the British occupation and mandate in Iraq, 1917–32. She was glad to escape at five o’clock without being assigned any extra work.

The Israeli Embassy had, for the past two months, been forbidden territory for all the trainee agents unless specifically invited. If you were summoned you knew it was simply to collect your return ticket home: “We no longer have any use for you. Goodbye,” and, if you were lucky, “Thank you.” Two of the trainees had already taken that route during the past month.

Hannah had only seen the embassy once, when she was driven quickly past it on her first day back in the capital. She wasn’t even sure of its exact location. After consulting an A-Z map of London, she discovered it was in Palace Green, Kensington, slightly back from the road.

Hannah stepped out of the South Kensington underground station a few minutes before six. She strolled up the wide sidewalk into Palace Green and on as far as the Philippine Embassy before turning back to reach the Israeli Mission just before the appointed hour. She smiled at the policeman as she climbed the steps up to the front door.

Hannah announced her name to the receptionist, and explained she had an appointment with the Councillor for Cultural Affairs. “Second floor. Once you reach the top of the stairs, it’s the green door straight in front of you.”

Hannah climbed the wide staircase slowly, trying to gather her thoughts. She felt a rush of apprehension as she knocked on the door. It was immediately opened with a flourish.

“A pleasure to meet you, Hannah,” said a young man she had never seen before. “My name is Kratz. Sorry to call you in at such short notice, but we have a problem. Please take a seat,” he added, pointing to a comfortable chair on the other side of a large desk. Not a man given to small talk, was Hannah’s first conclusion.

Hannah sat bolt upright in the chair and stared at the man opposite her, who looked far too young to be the Councillor for Cultural Affairs. But then she recalled the real reason for the Colonel’s posting to London. Kratz had a warm, open face, and if he hadn’t been going prematurely bald at the front, he might even have been described as handsome.

His massive hands rested on the desk in front of him as he looked across at Hannah. His eyes never left her and she began to feel unnerved by such concentration.

Hannah clenched her fist. If she was to be sent home, she would at least state her case, which she had already prepared and rehearsed.

The Councillor hesitated as if he were deciding how to express what needed to be said. Hannah wished he would get on with it. It was worse than waiting for the result of an exam you knew you had failed.

“How are you settling in with the Rubins?” Kratz inquired.

“Very well, thank you,” said Hannah, without offering any details. She was determined not to hold him up from the real purpose of their meeting.

“And how’s the course working out?”

Hannah nodded and shrugged her shoulders.

“And are you looking forward to going back to Israel?” asked Kratz.

“Only if I’ve got a worthwhile job to go back to,” Hannah replied, annoyed that she had lowered her guard. She wished Kratz would look away for just a moment.

“Well, it’s possible you may not be going back to Israel,” said Kratz.

Hannah shifted her position in the chair.

“At least not immediately,” added Kratz. “Perhaps I ought to explain. Although you have four more months of your course to complete” — he opened a file that lay on the desk in front of him—” your tutor has informed us that you are likely to perform better in the final exams than any of the other five remaining agents, as I’m sure you know.”

It was the first time she had ever been described as an agent.

“We have already decided you’ll be part of the final team,” Kratz said, as if anticipating her question. “But, as so often happens in our business, an opportunity has arisen which we feel you are the best-qualified person to exploit at short notice.”

Hannah leaned forward in her chair. “But I thought I was being trained to go to Baghdad.”

“You are, and in good time you will go to Baghdad, but right now we want to drop you into a different enemy territory. No better way of finding out how you’ll handle yourself under pressure.”

“Where do you have in mind?” asked Hannah, unable to disguise her delight.

“Paris.”

“Paris?” repeated Hannah in disbelief.

“Yes. We have picked up information that the head of the Iraqi Interest Section has asked his government to supply him with a second secretary. The girl has been selected and will leave Baghdad for Paris in ten days’ time. If you are willing to take her place, she will never reach Charles de Gaulle Airport.”

“But they’d know I was the wrong person within minutes.”

“Unlikely,” said Kratz, taking out a thicker file from a drawer of his desk and turning a few pages. “The girl in question was educated at Putney High School and then went on to Durham University to study English, both on Iraqi government grants. She wanted to remain in England but was forced to return to Baghdad when student visas were rescinded just over two years ago.”

“But her family...”

“Father was killed in the war with Iran and the mother has gone to live with her sister, just outside Karbala.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“A brother in the Republican Guard, no sisters. It’s all in the file. You’ll be given a few days to study the background before you have to make up your mind. Tel Aviv is convinced we’ve a good chance of dropping you in her place. Your detailed knowledge of Paris is an obvious bonus. We would only leave you there for three to six months at the most.”

“And then?”

“Back to Israel in final preparation for Baghdad. By the way, if you decide to take on this assignment, our primary purpose is not to use you as a spy. We already have several agents in Paris. We simply want you to assimilate everything around you and get used to living with Arabs and thinking like them. You must not keep any records, or even make notes. Commit everything to memory. You will be debriefed when we take you out. Never forget that your final assignment is far more important to the state of Israel than this could ever be.” He smiled for the first time. “Perhaps you’d like a few days to think it over.”

“No, thank you,” said Hannah. This time it was Kratz who looked anxious. “I’m happy to take on the job, but I have a problem.”

“What’s that?” asked Kratz.

“I can’t type, and certainly not in Arabic.”

The young man laughed. “Then we’ll have to lay on a crash course for you. You’d better leave the Rubins’ immediately and get yourself moved into the embassy by tomorrow night. They won’t ask you for an explanation, and don’t offer any. Meanwhile, study this.” He passed over a manila folder with the name “Karima Saib” written across the top in bold letters. “Within ten days you must know its contents by heart. The knowledge you retain may keep you alive.”

Kratz rose from his side of the desk and walked around to accompany Hannah to the door. “Just one more thing,” he said as he opened the door for her. “I believe this is yours.”

The Councillor for Cultural Affairs handed Hannah a small, battered suitcase.

In a car on the way to Georgetown, Cavalli explained to his father that within a hundred yards of the gallery the sirens would have been turned off and the limousines would peel away one after another as they reached the next six intersections, losing themselves in the normal morning traffic.

“And the actor?”

“With his wig removed and wearing dark glasses, no one would give Lloyd Adams a second look. He’ll be taking the Metroliner back to New York this afternoon.”

“Clever.”

“Once their license plates have been switched, the six limos will return to the city in a couple of days with their original New York plates.”

“You’ve done a highly professional job,” said his father.

“Yes, but that was only the dress rehearsal of a single scene. What we’re planning in five weeks’ time is to put on a three-act opera with the whole of Washington as our invited audience.”

“Try not to forget that we’re being paid one hundred million for our troubles,” the old man reminded him.

“If we deliver, it will be good value for money,” said Cavalli as the car drove past the Four Seasons Hotel. The chauffeur turned left down a side street and came to a halt outside a quaint old wooden house. Angelo was waiting by a little iron gate at the top of a small flight of stone steps. The chairman and chief executive got out of the car and followed Angelo down the steps at a brisk pace, without speaking.

The door at the bottom was already open. Once they were inside, Angelo introduced them to Bill O’Reilly. Bill led them down the corridor to his room. When he reached the locked door he turned the key as if they were about to enter Aladdin’s cave. He opened the door and paused for just a moment before switching on the lights, then led his little party to the center of the room, where the two manuscripts awaited their inspection. He explained to his visitors that only one was a perfect copy of the original.

Bill passed both men a magnifying glass, then took a pace backwards to await their judgment. Tony and his father were not quite sure where to start, and began studying both documents for several minutes without uttering a word. Tony took his time as he went over the opening paragraph, “When in the Course of human Events...,” while his father became fascinated by the signatures of Francis Lightfoot Lee and Carter Braxton, whose colleagues from Virginia had left them so little room at the foot of the parchment to affix their names.

After some time, Tony’s father stood up to his full height, turned towards the little Irishman and handed back the magnifying glass, and said, “Maestro, all I can say is that William J. Stone would have been proud to know you.”

Dollar Bill bowed, acknowledging the ultimate forger’s compliment.

“But which one is the perfect copy and which one has the mistake?” asked Cavalli.

“Ah,” said the forger. “It was also William J. Stone who pointed me in the right direction for solving that little conundrum.”

The Cavallis waited patiently for Dollar Bill to continue his explanation. “You see, when Timothy Matlack engrossed the original in 1776, he made three mistakes. Two he was able to correct by simple insertions.” Dollar Bill pointed to the word “represtative” where the letters “e” and “n” were missing, and then to the word “only,” which had been omitted several lines further down. Both of the corrections had been inserted with a Λ.

“But,” continued Dollar Bill, “Mr. Matlack also made one spelling mistake which he did not correct. On one of the copies, you will find I have.”

Chapter Nine

Hannah landed at Beirut Airport the night before she was due to fly back to Paris. No one from Mossad accompanied the new agent, to avoid the risk of compromising her. Any Israeli found in Lebanon is automatically arrested on sight.

Hannah had taken over an hour to be cleared by customs, but she finally emerged carrying a British passport, hand luggage and a few Lebanese pounds. Twenty minutes later she booked herself into the airport Hilton. She explained to the receptionist that she would only be staying one night and paid her bill in advance with the Lebanese pounds. She went straight to her room on the ninth floor and did not venture out again that evening.

She received just one phone call, at 7:20. To Kratz’s question she simply replied, “Yes,” and the line went dead.

She climbed into bed at 10:40, but couldn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time. She occasionally flicked on the television to watch spaghetti Westerns dubbed into Lebanese. In between she managed to catch moments of restless sleep. She rose at 6:50 the following morning, ate a slab of chocolate she found in the tiny fridge, brushed her teeth and took a cold shower.

She dressed in clothes taken from her hand luggage of a type which the file had indicated Karima favored, and sat on the corner of the bed staring at herself in the mirror. She didn’t like what she saw. Kratz had insisted that she crop her hair so that she looked like the one blurred photograph of Miss Saib they had in their possession. They also expected her to wear steel-rimmed spectacles, even if the glass in them didn’t magnify. She had worn the spectacles for the past week but still hadn’t got used to them, and often simply forgot to put them on or, worse, mislaid them.

At 8:19 she received a second phone call to let her know the plane had taken off from Amman with the “cargo” on board.

When Hannah heard the morning cleaners chatting in the corridor a few moments later, she opened the door and quickly switched the sign on the knob outside to “Do Not Disturb.” She waited impatiently in her room for a call saying either “Your baggage has been mislaid,” which meant she was to return to London because they had failed to kidnap the girl, or “Your baggage has been retrieved,” the code to show they had succeeded. If it was the second message she was to leave the room immediately, take the hotel minibus to the airport and go to the bookshop on the ground floor, where she was to browse until she was contacted.

A courier would then arrive at Hannah’s side and leave a small package containing Saib’s passport with the photograph changed, the airline ticket in Saib’s name and any baggage tickets and personal items that had been found on her.

Hannah was then to board the flight to Paris as quickly as possible with only the one piece of hand luggage she had brought with her from London. Once she had landed at Charles de Gaulle she was to pick up Karima Saib’s luggage from the carousel and get herself to the VIP parking lot. She would be met by the Iraqi Ambassador’s chauffeur, who would take her to the Jordanian Embassy, where the Iraqi Interest Section was currently located, the Iraqi Embassy in Paris being officially closed. From that moment, Hannah would be on her own, and at all times she was to obey the instructions given by the embassy staff, particularly remembering that in direct contrast to Jewish women, Arab women were subservient to men. She must never contact the Israeli Embassy or attempt to find out who any of the Mossad agents in Paris were. If it ever became necessary, one of their agents would contact her.

“What do I do about clothes if Saib’s don’t fit?” she had asked Kratz. “We know I’m taller than she is.”

“You must carry enough in your overnight bag to last for the first few days,” he had told her, “and then purchase what you will need for six months in Paris.” Two thousand French francs had been supplied for this purpose.

“It must be some time since you’ve been shopping in Paris,” she had told him. “That’s just about enough for a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts.” Kratz had reluctantly handed over another five thousand francs.

At 9:27 the phone rang.

When Tony Cavalli and his father entered the boardroom, they took the remaining chairs at each end of the table, as the chairman and chief executive of any distinguished company might. Cavalli always used the oak-paneled room in the basement of his father’s house on 75th Street for such meetings, but no one present believed they were there to conduct a normal board meeting. They knew there would be no agenda and no minutes.

In front of each of the six places where the board members were seated was a notepad, pencil and a glass of water, as there would have been at a thousand such meetings across America that morning. But at this particular gathering, in front of every place were also two long envelopes, one thin and one bulky, neither giving any clue as to its contents.

Tony’s eyes swept the faces of the men seated around the table. All of them had two things in common: they had reached the top of their professions, and they were willing to break the law. Two of them had served jail sentences, albeit some years before, while three of the others would have done so had they not been able to afford the finest lawyers available. The sixth was himself a lawyer.

“Gentlemen,” Cavalli began, “I’ve invited you to join me this evening to discuss a business proposition that might be described as a little unusual.” He paused before continuing, “We have been requested by an interested party to steal the Declaration of Independence from the National Archives.”

Tony paused for a moment, as uproar broke out immediately and the guests tried to outdo each other with one-liners.

“Just roll it up and take it away.”

“I suppose we could bribe every member of the staff.”

“Set the White House on fire. That would at least cause a diversion.”

“Write in and tell them that you won it on a game show.”

Tony was content to wait for his colleagues to run out of wisecracks before he spoke again.

“Exactly my reaction when we were first approached,” he admitted. “But after several weeks of research and preparation, I hope you will at least grant me an opportunity to present my case.”

They quickly came to order and began concentrating on Tony’s every word, though “skepticism” would have best described the expression on their faces.

“During the past weeks, my father and I have been working on a draft plan to steal the Declaration of Independence. We are now ready to share that knowledge with you, because I must admit that we have reached a point where we cannot advance further on this project without the professional abilities of everyone seated around this table. Let me assure you, gentlemen, that your selection has not been a random exercise.

“But first I would like you all to see the Declaration of Independence for yourself.” Tony pressed a button underneath the table and the doors behind him swung open. The butler entered the room carrying two thin sheets of glass, a parchment held between them. He placed the glass frame on the center of the table. The six skeptics leaned forward to study the masterpiece. It was several moments before anyone offered an opinion.

“Bill O’Reilly’s work, would be my guess,” said Frank Piemonte, the lawyer, as he leaned over to admire the fine detail of the signatures below the text. “He once offered to pay me in forged bills, and I would have accepted if I’d got him off.”

Tony nodded, and after they had all spent a little more time studying the parchment, he said, “So, allow me to reword my earlier statement. We are not so much planning to steal the Declaration of Independence as to replace the original with this copy.” A smile settled on the lips of two of the previously skeptical guests.

“You will now be aware,” said Tony, “of the amount of preparation that has gone into this exercise so far, and, indeed, the expense my father and I have been put to. But the reason we have continued is because we feel the rewards if we are successful far outweigh the risk of being caught. If you will open the thin envelopes in front of you, I believe the contents will make my point more clearly. Inside each envelope you will find a piece of paper on which is written the sum of money you will receive if you decide to become a member of the executive team.”

While the six men tore open the thinner of their two envelopes, Tony continued, “If you feel, on discovering the amount involved, that the reward does not warrant the risk, now is the time to leave. I trust that those of us who remain may have confidence in your discretion because, as you will be only too aware, our lives will be in your hands.”

“And theirs in ours,” said the chairman, speaking for the first time.

A ripple of nervous laughter broke out around the table as each of the six men eyed the unsigned check in front of him.

“That figure,” said Tony, “is the payment you will receive should we fail. If we succeed, the amount will be tripled.”

“So will the jail sentence if we get caught,” said Bruno Morelli, speaking for the first time.

“Summing up, gentlemen,” said Cavalli, ignoring the comment, “if you decide to join the executive team, you will receive ten percent of that payment in advance when you leave tonight, and the remaining sum within seven days of the contract being completed. This would be paid into any bank of your choice in any country of your choosing.

“Before you make your decision, there’s one further thing I’d like you all to see.” Once again Tony pressed a button under the table, and this time the doors opened at the far end of the room. The sight that greeted them caused two of the guests to immediately stand, one to gasp and the remaining three to simply stare in disbelief.

“Gentlemen, I am happy that you were able to join me today. I wanted to assure you all of my commitment to this project, and I hope you’ll feel able to be part of the executive team. I’ll have to leave you now, gentlemen,” said the man standing next to the chairman in the Ozark accent that had become so familiar to the American people during the past few months, “so that you can study Mr. Cavalli’s proposition in greater detail. You can be assured that I’ll do everything I can to help make the change this country needs. But for now, I have one or two pressing engagements. I feel sure you’ll understand.” The actor smiled and shook hands warmly with everyone around the table before strolling out of the boardroom.

Spontaneous applause broke out after the doors had closed behind him. Tony allowed himself a smile of satisfaction.

“Gentlemen, my father and I will now leave you for a few minutes to consider your decision.”

The chairman and chief executive rose without another word and left the room.

“What do you think?” asked Tony as he poured his father a whisky and water from the cabinet in his study.

“A lot of water,” he replied. “I have a feeling we may be in for a long night.”

“But did they buy it?”

“Can’t be certain,” replied the old man. “I was watching their faces while you were giving the presentation, and sure as hell, they didn’t doubt the work you’ve put in. They were all impressed by the parchment and Lloyd Adams’s performance, but other than Bruno and Frank they didn’t give much away.”

“Let’s start with Frank,” said Tony.

“First in then out, as Frank always is, but he likes money far too much to walk away from an offer as good as this.”

“You’re that confident?” said Tony.

“It’s not just the money,” replied his father. “Frank’s not going to have to be there on the day, is he? So he’ll get his share whatever happens. I’ve never yet met a lawyer who would make a good field commander. They’re too used to being paid whether they win or lose.”

“If you’re right, Al Calabrese may turn out to be the problem. He’s got the most to lose.”

“As our trade union leader, he’ll certainly have to be out there on center stage most of the day, but I suspect he won’t be able to resist the challenge.”

“And what about Bruno? If—” began the chief executive, but he was cut short as the doors swung open and Al Calabrese walked into the room. “We were just talking about you, Al.”

“Not too politely, I hope.”

“Well, that depends on—” said Tony.

“On whether I’m in?”

“Or out,” said the chairman.

“I’m in up to my neck is the answer,” said Al, smiling. “So you’d better have a foolproof plan to present to us.” He turned to face Tony. “Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as the man on top of America’s most wanted list.”

“And the others?” asked the chairman, as Bruno Morelli brushed past them without even saying goodnight.

Chapter Ten

Hannah nervously grabbed the ringing phone. “This is reception, madam. We were just wondering if you’ll be checking out before midday, or do you require the room for an extra night?”

“No, thank you,” said Hannah. “I’ll have left by twelve, one way or the other.”

Two minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Colonel Kratz. “Who were you speaking to a moment ago?”

“Reception was asking me when I would be checking out.”

“I see,” said Kratz. “Your baggage has been retrieved,” was all he added.

Hannah replaced the phone and stood up. She felt a shot of adrenaline go through her body as she prepared for her first real test. She picked up her overnight bag and left the room, switching the sign on the door to “Clean Me Please.”

Once she had reached the foyer, she had to wait only a few minutes before the hotel minibus returned from the airport on its circular journey. She sat alone in the back for the short trip to the departure area, then headed straight for the bookshop as instructed. She began to browse among the hardbacks, struck by how many American and British authors were obviously read by the Lebanese.

“Do you know where I can get some money changed, miss?” Hannah turned to find a priest smiling at her, who had spoken in Arabic with a slight mid-Atlantic accent. Hannah apologized and replied in Arabic that she didn’t know where the currency exchange was, but perhaps the girl at the counter could help him.

As she turned back, Hannah became aware of someone else standing by her side. He removed a copy of A Suitable Boy from the shelf and replaced it with a bulky package. “Good luck,” he whispered, and was gone even before she had seen his face. Hannah removed the package from the shelf and strolled slowly out of the bookshop. She began to search for the check-in counter for Paris. It turned out to be the one with the longest line.

When she reached the front, Hannah requested a nonsmoking seat. The girl behind the counter checked her ticket and then began tapping away on her computer terminal. She looked puzzled. “Were you unhappy with the seat previously allocated to you, Miss Saib?”

“No, it’s just fine.” said Hannah, cursing herself for having made such a simple mistake. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“The flight will be boarding at Gate 17 in about fifteen minutes,” the girl added with a smile.

A man pretending to read the Vikram Seth novel he had just purchased watched as the plane took off. Satisfied he had carried out his instructions, he went to the nearest phone booth and rang first Paris and then Colonel Kratz to confirm that “The bird has flown.”

The man in the priest’s surplice also watched Miss Saib board her plane, and he too made a phone call. Not to Paris or London, but to Dexter Hutchins in Langley, Virginia.

Cavalli and his father walked back into the room and once again resumed their places at each end of the table. One seat was empty.

“Too bad about Bruno,” said the chairman, licking his lips. “We’ll just have to find someone else to make the sword.”

Cavalli opened one of the six files in front of him. It was marked “Transport.” He passed a copy to Al Calabrese.

“Let’s start with the presidential motorcade, Al. I’m going to need at least four limos, six motorcycle cops, two or three staff cars, two vans with surveillance cameras and a counter-assault team in a black Chevy Suburban — all of them able to pass the most eagle eye. I’ll also want an additional van that would normally carry the White House media pool — the deathwatch. Don’t forget the motorcade will be under far more scrutiny than last week, when we only had to turn on the sirens at the last moment, and then for just a few seconds. There’s bound to be someone in the crowd who either works in government or is a White House junkie. It’s often children who spot the most elementary mistakes and then tell their parents.”

Al Calabrese opened his file to find dozens of photographs of the President’s motorcade leaving the White House on his way to the Hill. The photographs were accompanied by as many pages of notes.

“How long will it take you to have everything in place?” asked Cavalli.

“Three weeks, maybe four. I’ve got a couple of big ones in stock that would pass muster, and a bulletproof limo that the government often hires when minor heads of state are visiting the capital. I think the last crest we had to paint on the door was Uruguay, and the poor guy never even got to see the President — he ended up just getting twenty-five minutes with Warren Christopher.”

“But now for the hard part, Al. I need six outriders, riding police motorcycles, and all wearing the correct uniform.”

Al paused. “That could take longer.”

“We haven’t got any longer. A month’s going to be the outside for all of us.”

“It’s not that easy, Tony. I can’t exactly put an ad in the Washington Post asking for police—”

“Yes, you can. In a moment you’ll all see why. Most of you around this table must be wondering why we’ve been honored by the presence of Johnny Scasiatore, a man nominated for an Oscar for his direction of The Honest Lawyer.” What Cavalli didn’t add was that since the police had found Johnny in bed with a twelve-year-old girl, the studios hadn’t been in touch quite as frequently as in the past.

“I was beginning to wonder myself,” admitted Johnny.

The chief executive smiled. “The truth is, you’re the reason we’ll be able to pull this whole plan off. Because you’re going to direct the entire operation.”

“You’re going to steal the Declaration of Independence and make a movie of it at the same time?” asked Johnny in disbelief. Cavalli waited for the laughter that broke out around the table to die down.

“Not exactly. But everyone in Washington on that day is going to believe that you are making a movie, not of us stealing the Declaration of Independence, but of the President visiting Congress. The fact that he drops into the National Archives on the way to the Capitol is something they won’t ever need to know.”

“I’m lost already,” said Frank Piemonte, the team’s lawyer. “Can you take it a little slower?”

“Sure, Frank, because this is where you come in. I need a city permit to close down the route between the White House and Congress for one hour on any day I choose in the last week in May. Deal direct with the city’s motion picture and television office.”

“What reason do I give?” asked Piemonte.

“That Johnny Scasiatore, the distinguished director, wants to film the President of the United States on his way to the House of Representatives to address a joint session of Congress.” Piemonte looked doubtful. “Clint Eastwood managed it last year, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

“Then you’d better put $250,000 into the Fraternal Order of Police, Lodge Number 1,” suggested Piemonte. “And the Mayor will probably expect the same amount for her reelection fund.”

“You can bribe any city official you know,” continued Tony, “and I also want every member of the City Police Force on our books squared for the day — all they have to believe is we’re making a movie about the President.”

“Do you have any idea what mounting an operation like this is likely to cost?” asked Johnny Scasiatore.

“Looking at the budget of your last film, and the return we made on our investment, I’d say yes,” replied Tony. “And by the way, Al,” he added, turning his attention back to the old Teamsters Union boss, “sixty cops are due for retirement from the DCPD in April. You can employ as many of them as you need. Tell them it’s a crowd scene and pay them double.” Al Calabrese added a note to his file.

“Now, the key to the operation’s success,” continued Tony, “is the half-block from the intersection of 7th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue to the delivery entrance of the National Archives.” He unfolded a large map of Washington and placed it in the center of the table, then ran his finger along Constitution Avenue. “Once they leave you, Johnny, it’s for real.”

“But how do we get in and out of the Archives?”

“That’s not your problem, Johnny. Your contribution ends when the six motorcycles and the presidential motorcade turn right onto 7th Street. From then on, it’s up to Gino.”

Until that moment Gino Sartori, an ex-Marine who ran the best protection racket on the West Side, had not spoken. His lawyer had told him many times: “Don’t speak unless I tell you to.” His lawyer wasn’t present, so he hadn’t opened his mouth.

“Gino, you’re going to supply me with the heavy brigade. I need eight Secret Service agents to act as the counter-assault team, preferably government-trained and well-educated. I only plan to be in the building for about twenty minutes, but we’re going to have to be thinking on our feet for every second of that time. Debbie will continue to act as a secretary and Angelo will be dressed in naval uniform and carrying a small black case. I’ll be there as the President’s assistant, along with Dollar Bill as the President’s physician.”

His father looked up, frowning. “You’re going to be inside the National Archives building when the document is switched?”

“Yes,” replied Tony firmly. “I’ll be the only person who knows every part of the plan, and I’m sure not watching this one from the sidewalk.”

“A question,” said Gino. “If, and I say only if, I am able to supply the twenty or so people you need, tell me this: when we reach the National Archives, are they just going to open the doors, invite us in and then hand over the Declaration of Independence?”

“Something like that,” replied Cavalli. “My father taught me that the successful conclusion of any enterprise is always in the preparation. I still have one more surprise for you.” Once again he had their undivided attention. “We have our own Special Assistant to the President in the White House: his name is Rex Butterworth, and he’s on temporary assignment from the Department of Commerce for six months. He returns to his old job when the Clinton nominee has completed his contract in Little Rock and joins the President’s staff. That’s another reason why we have to go in May.”

“Convenient,” said Frank.

“Not particularly,” said Cavalli. “It turns out that the President has forty-six Special Assistants at any one time, and when Clinton made his interest in commerce clear, Butterworth volunteered for the job. He’s fixed a few overseas contracts for us in the past, but this will be the biggest thing he’s done for us yet. For obvious reasons, it will also have to be his last assignment.”

“Can he be trusted?” asked Frank.

“He’s been on the payroll for the last fifteen years, and his third wife is proving rather expensive.”

“Show me one who isn’t,” said Al.

“Butterworth’s looking for a big payday to get himself out of trouble, and this is it. And that brings me to you, Mr. Vicente, and your skills as one of the biggest tour operators in Manhattan.”

“That’s the legit side of my business,” replied the elderly man who sat on the right of the chairman, as befitted his oldest friend.

“Not for what I have in mind,” promised Tony. “Once we have the Declaration in our possession, we’ll need it kept out of sight for a few days and then smuggled abroad.”

“As long as no one realizes it’s been removed and I’m told well in advance where you want it delivered, that should be simple enough.”

“You’ll get a week,” said Cavalli.

“I’d prefer two,” said Vicente, raising an eyebrow.

“No, Nick, you get a week,” the chief executive repeated.

“Can you give me a clue what distance it will have to travel?” Vicente asked, turning the pages of the file Tony had passed across to him.

“Several thousand miles. And as far as you’re concerned it’s COD, because if you fail to deliver, none of us gets paid.”

“That figures. But I’ll still need to know how it has to be transported. For starters, will I have to keep the Declaration between two sheets of glass the whole time?”

“I don’t know myself yet,” replied Cavalli, “but I’m hoping you’ll be able to roll it up and deposit it in a cylindrical tube of some kind. I’m having one specially made.”

“Does that explain why I’ve got several sheets of blank paper in my file?” asked Nick.

“Yes,” said Tony. “Except those sheets aren’t paper but parchment, each one of them 293/4 inches by 241/4 inches, the exact size of the Declaration of Independence.”

“So now all I’ve got to hope is that every customs agent and coast guard patrol won’t be looking for it.”

“I want you to assume the whole world will be looking for it,” replied Cavalli. “You aren’t being paid this sort of money for doing a job I could handle with one call to Federal Express.”

“I thought you might say something like that,” said Nick. “Still, I had the same problem when you wanted the Vermeer of Russborough stolen, and Irish customs still haven’t worked out how I got the painting out of the country.”

Cavalli smiled. “So now we all know what’s expected of us. And I think in the future we should meet at least twice a week to start with, every Sunday at three o’clock and every Thursday at six, to make sure none of us falls behind schedule. One person out of synch and nobody else will be able to move.” Tony looked up and was greeted by nods of agreement.

It always fascinated Cavalli that organized crime needed to be as efficiently run as any public company if it hoped to show a dividend. “So we’ll meet again next Thursday at six?”

All five men nodded and made notes in their calendars.

“Gentlemen, you may now open the second of your two envelopes.” Once again, the five men ripped open their envelopes, and each pulled out a thick wad of thousand-dollar bills.

The lawyer began to count each note.

“Your down payment,” Tony explained. “Expenses will be met at the end of every week, receipts whenever possible. And, Johnny,” said Tony, turning to the director, “this is not Heaven’s Gate we’re financing.” Scasiatore managed a smile.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Tony, rising. “I look forward to seeing you all next Thursday at six o’clock.”

The five men rose and made their way to the door, each stopping to shake hands with Tony’s father before he left. Tony accompanied them to their cars. When the last one had been driven away, he returned to find his father had moved to the study and was toying with a whisky while staring at the perfect copy of the Declaration that Dollar Bill had intended to destroy.

Chapter Eleven

“Calder Marshall, Please.”

“The Archivist can’t be interrupted right now. He’s in a meeting. May I ask who’s calling?”

“It’s Rex Butterworth, Special Assistant to the President. Perhaps the Archivist would be kind enough to call me back when he’s free. He’ll find me at the White House.”

Rex Butterworth put the phone down without waiting to hear what usually happened once it was known the call had come from the White House: “Oh, I feel sure I can interrupt him, Mr. Butterworth, can you hold on for a moment?”

But that wasn’t what Butterworth wanted. No, the Special Assistant needed Calder Marshall to phone back himself, because once he had gone through the White House switchboard, Marshall would be hooked. Butterworth also realized that, as one of forty-six Special Assistants to the President, and in his case only on temporary assignment, the switchboard might not even recognize his name. A quick visit to the little room that housed the White House telephone operators had dealt with that problem.

He drummed his fingers on the desk and gazed down with satisfaction at the file in front of him. One of the President’s two schedulers had been able to supply him with the information he needed. The file revealed that the Archivist had invited each of the last three Presidents — Bush, Reagan and Carter — to visit the National Archives, but due to “pressing commitments” none of them had been able to find the time.

Butterworth was well aware that the President received, on average, 1,700 requests every week to attend some function or other. The latest letter from Mr. Marshall, dated January 22, 1993, had evoked the reply that although it was not possible for the President to accept his kind invitation at the present time, Mr. Clinton hoped to have the opportunity to do so at some date in the future — the standard reply that about 1,699 requests in the weekly mailbag were likely to receive.

But on this occasion, Mr. Marshall’s wish was about to be granted. Butterworth continued to drum his fingers on the desk as he wondered how long it would take Marshall to return his call. Less than two minutes would have been his guess. He allowed his mind to wander back over the events of the past week.

When Cavalli had first put the idea to him, he had laughed more loudly than any of the six men who had gathered around the table at 75th Street. But after studying the parchment for over an hour and still not being able to identify the mistake, and then later meeting with Lloyd Adams, he began to believe, like the other skeptics, that switching the Declaration might just be possible.

Over the years, Butterworth had served the Cavalli family well. Meetings had been arranged with politicians at a moment’s notice, words were dropped in the ears of trade officials from someone thought to be well placed in Washington and the odd piece of inside information had been passed on, ensuring that Butterworth’s income was commensurate with his own high opinion of his true worth.

As he lay awake that night thinking about the proposition, he also came to the conclusion that Cavalli couldn’t take the next step without him, and more important, his role in the deception would probably be obvious within minutes of the theft being discovered, in which case he would end up spending the rest of his life in Leavenworth. Against that possibility he had to weigh the fact that he was fifty-seven years old, had only three years to go before retirement, and had a third wife who was suing him for a divorce he couldn’t afford. Butterworth no longer dreamed of promotion. He was now simply trying to come to terms with the fact that he was probably going to have to spend the rest of his life alone, eking out some sort of existence on a meager government pension.

Cavalli was also aware of these facts, and the offer of a million dollars — a hundred thousand the day he signed up, a further nine hundred thousand on the day the exchange took place — and a first-class ticket to any country on earth, almost convinced Butterworth that he should go along with Cavalli’s proposition.

But it was Maria who tilted the balance in Cavalli’s favor.

At a trade conference in Brazil the previous year, Butterworth had met a local girl who answered most of his questions during the day and the rest of them at night. He’d phoned her the morning after Cavalli’s first approach. Maria seemed pleased to hear from him, a pleasure that became more vocal when she learned that he’d be leaving government service and, having come into “a reasonable inheritance,” was thinking of settling down somewhere abroad.

The President’s Special Assistant joined the team the following day.

He had spent most of the hundred thousand dollars by the end of the week, clearing his debts and getting up-to-date with his first two wives’ alimony. With only a few thousand left, there was now nothing to do but commit himself wholeheartedly to the plan. He didn’t give a moment’s thought to changing his mind, because he knew he could never hope to repay the money. He hadn’t forgotten that the man he had replaced on Cavalli’s payroll had once neglected to repay a far smaller sum after making certain promises. Once had been enough: Cavalli’s father had had him buried under the World Trade Center when he’d failed to secure the promised contract for the building. A similar departure did not appeal to Butterworth.

The phone rang on Butterworth’s desk, as he had predicted, in under two minutes, but he allowed it to continue ringing for some time before he picked it up. His temporary secretary announced that there was a Mr. Marshall on the line and asked if he wanted to take the call.

“Yes, thank you, Miss Daniels.”

“Mr. Butterworth?” inquired a voice.

“Speaking.”

“This is Calder Marshall over at the National Archives. I understand you phoned while I was in a meeting. Sorry I wasn’t available.”

“No problem, Mr. Marshall. It’s just that I wondered if it would be possible for you to drop by the White House. There’s a private matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Of course, Mr. Butterworth. What time would be convenient?”

“I’m up to my eyes the rest of this week,” Butterworth said, looking down at the blank pages in his calendar, “but the President’s away at the beginning of next week, so perhaps we could schedule something for then?”

There was a pause which Butterworth assumed meant Marshall was checking his calendar. “Would Tuesday, ten A.M. suit you?” the Archivist eventually asked.

“Let me check my other calendar,” said Butterworth, staring into space. “Yes, that looks fine. I have another appointment at ten-thirty, but I’m confident we’ll have covered everything I need to go over with you by then. Perhaps you would be kind enough to come to the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance of the Old Executive Office Building. There’ll be someone there to meet you and after you’ve cleared security they’ll bring you up to my office.”

“The Pennsylvania Avenue entrance,” said Marshall. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Mr. Marshall. I look forward to seeing you next Tuesday at ten o’clock,” said Butterworth before replacing the receiver.

The President’s Special Assistant smiled as he dialed Cavalli’s private number.

Scott promised Dexter Hutchins he would be around when Dexter’s son came to Yale for his admission interview.

“He’s allowing me to tag along,” said Dexter, “which will give me a chance to bring you up-to-date on our little problem with the Israelis. And I may even have found something to tempt you.”

“Dexter, if you’re hoping that I’ll get your son into Yale in exchange for a field job, I think I ought to let you know I have absolutely no influence with the Admissions Office.” Dexter’s laugh crackled down the phone. “But I’ll still be happy to show you both around the place and give the boy any help I can.”

Dexter Jr. could not have turned out to be more like his father: five foot ten, heavily built, a perpetual five o’clock shadow and the same habit of calling everything that moved “sir.” When, after an hour strolling around the grounds, he left his father for his interview with the head of the Admissions Office, the professor of constitutional law took the Deputy Director of the CIA back to his rooms.

Even before the door was closed, Dexter had lit up a cigar. After a few puffs he said, “Have you been able to make any sense of the coded message sent by our operative in Beirut?”

“Only that everyone who joins the intelligence community has some strange personal reason for wanting to do so. In my case, it’s because of my father and a Boy Scout determination to balance the books morally. In the case of Hannah Kopec, Saddam Hussein wipes out her family, so she immediately offers her talents to Mossad. With that powerful a motive, I wouldn’t want to cross her path.”

“But that’s exactly what I’m hoping you will do,” said Dexter. “You’re always saying you want to be tested in the field. Well, this could be your opportunity.”

“Am I hearing you properly?”

“Yale’s spring term is about to end, right?”

“Yes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a lot of work to do.”

“Oh, I see. A happy amateur twelve times a year when it suits you, but the moment you might have to get your hands dirty...”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well then, hear me out. First, we know Hannah Kopec was one of eight girls selected from a hundred to go to London for six months to study Arabic. This followed a year’s intensive physical course at Herzliyah, where they covered the usual self-defense, fieldcraft and surveillance work. The reports on her were excellent. Second, a chat with her host’s wife at Sainsbury’s in Camden Town, wherever the hell that is, and we discover that she left suddenly, despite the fact that she was almost certainly meant to return to Israel as part of the team that was working on the assassination of Saddam. That’s when we lose sight of her. Then we get one of those breaks that only come from good detective work. One of our agents who works at Heathrow spots her in duty-free, when she’s buying some cheap perfume.

“After she boards a plane for Lebanon he phones our man in Beirut, who shadows her from the moment she arrives. Not that easy, I might add. We lost her for several hours. Then, out of nowhere, up she pops again, but this time as Karima Saib, who Baghdad is under the impression is on her way to Paris as second secretary to the Ambassador. Meanwhile, the real Miss Saib is abducted at Beirut Airport and is now being held at a safe house somewhere across the border on the outskirts of Tel Aviv.”

“Where’s all this leading, Dexter?”

“Patience, Professor,” he said, relighting the stub of his cigar, which hadn’t been glowing for several minutes. “Not all of us are born with your academic acuity.”

“Get on with it,” said Scott with a smile, “because my academic acuity hasn’t been stretched yet.”

“Now I come to a bit you’re going to enjoy. Hannah Kopec has not been placed in the Iraqi Interest Section of the Jordanian Embassy in Paris to spy.”

“Then why bother to put her there in the first place? In any case, how can you be certain?” asked Scott.

“Because the Mossad agent in Paris — how shall I put it? — does a little work for us on the side, and he hasn’t even been informed of her existence.”

Scott scowled. “So why has the girl been placed in the embassy?”

“We don’t know, but we sure as hell would like to find out. We think Rabin can’t give the go-ahead to strike Saddam while Kopec is still in France, so the least we need to know is when she’s expected back in Israel. And that’s where you come in.”

“But we must have a man in Paris already.”

“Several, actually, but every one of them is known by Mossad at a hundred paces, and, I suspect, even by the Iraqis at ten. So if Hannah Kopec is in Paris without the Mossad sleeper knowing, I’d like you to be in Paris without our people knowing. That is, if you feel you can spare the time away from Susan Anderson.”

“She broke away from me the day her boyfriend returned from his conference. I don’t know what it is I do to women. She called me last week to tell me they’re getting married next month.”

“All the more reason for you to go to Paris.”

“On a wild goose chase.”

“This goose may just be about to lay us a golden egg, and in any case, I don’t want to read about another brilliant Israeli coup on the front page of the New York Times and then have to explain to the President why the CIA knew nothing about it.”

“But where would I even start?”

“In your own time, you try to make contact with her. Tell her you’re the Mossad agent in Paris.”

“But she would never believe—”

“Why not? She doesn’t know who the agent is, only that there is one. Scott, I need to know—”

The door swung open and Dexter Jr. came in.

“How did it go?” asked his father. The young man walked across the room and slumped into an armchair, but did not utter a word.

“That bad, eh son?”

“Mr. Marshall, how nice to meet you,” said Butterworth, thrusting out his hand to greet the Archivist of the United States.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Butterworth,” Calder Marshall replied nervously.

“Good of you to find the time to come over,” said Butterworth. “Do have a seat.”

Butterworth had booked the Roosevelt Room in the West Wing for their meeting. It had taken a lot of persuading of a particularly officious lady secretary who knew Mr. Butterworth’s station in life only too well. She reluctantly agreed to release the room for thirty minutes, and then only because he was seeing the Archivist of the United States. She also agreed to his second request, as the President would be out of town that day. The Special Assistant had placed himself at the head of a table that usually seated twenty-four, and beckoned Mr. Marshall to be seated on his right, facing Tade Stykal’s portrait of Theodore Roosevelt on Horseback.

The Archivist must have been a shade over six feet, and as thin as most women half his age would have liked to be. He was almost bald except for a semicircle of gray tufts around the base of his skull. He wore an ill-fitting suit that looked as if it normally experienced outings only on a Sunday morning. From his file, Butterworth knew the Archivist was younger than himself, but he vainly felt that if they had been seen together, no one would have believed it.

He must have been born middle-aged, thought Butterworth, but the Special Assistant had no such disparaging thoughts about the quality of the man’s mind. After graduating magna cum laude from Duke University, Marshall had written a book on the history of the Bill of Rights that was now considered the standard text for every undergraduate studying American history. It had made him a small fortune — not that one could have guessed it by the way he dressed, thought Butterworth.

On the table in front of him was a file stamped “Confidential,” and above that the name “Calder Marshall” in bold letters. Despite the fact that the Archivist was wearing horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses, Butterworth felt he could hardly have missed it.

Butterworth paused before he began a speech he’d prepared every bit as assiduously as the President had his inauguration address. Marshall sat, fingers intertwined, nervously waiting for Butterworth to proceed.

“You have, over the past sixteen years,” began the Special Assistant, “made several requests for the President to visit the National Archives.” Butterworth was pleased to observe that Marshall was looking hopeful. “And, indeed, this particular President wishes to accept your invitation.” Mr. Marshall’s smile broadened. “To that end, in our weekly meeting, President Clinton asked me to convey a private message to you, which he hoped you would understand must be in the strictest confidence.”

“In the strictest confidence. Of course.”

“The President felt sure he could rely on your discretion, Mr. Marshall. So I feel I can let you know that we’re trying to clear some time during the last week of this month for him to visit the Archives, but nothing, as yet, has been scheduled.”

“Nothing, as yet, has been scheduled. Of course.”

“The President expects to be in Washington that week, after returning from a whistle-stop tour for the special May elections, but as you can imagine, his schedule hasn’t been firmed up yet.”

“Firmed up yet. Of course.”

“President Clinton has also requested that it be a strictly private visit, which would not be open to the public or the press.”

“Not be open to the press. Of course.”

“After the bombing of the World Trade Center, one can’t be too careful.”

“Can’t be too careful. Of course.”

“And I would be obliged if you did not discuss any aspect of the visit with your staff, however senior, until we are able to confirm a definite date. These things have a habit of getting out and then, for security reasons, the visit might have to be canceled.”

“Have to be canceled. Of course. But if it’s to be a private visit,” said the Archivist, “is there anything the President particularly wants to see, or will it just be the standard tour of the building?”

“I’m glad you asked that question,” said Mr. Butterworth, opening the file in front of him. “The President has made one particular request, apart from which he will be in your hands.”

“In my hands. Of course.”

“He wants to see the Declaration of Independence.”

“The Declaration of Independence. That’s easy enough.”

“That is not the request,” said Butterworth.

“Not the request?”

“No. The President wishes to see the Declaration, but not as he saw it when he was a freshman at Georgetown, under a thick pane of glass. He wishes the frame to be removed so he can study the parchment itself. He hopes you will grant this request, if only for a few moments.”

This time the Archivist did not immediately say “Of course.” Instead he said, “Most unusual,” and added, “hopes I would grant him this request, if only for a few moments.” There was a long pause before he said, “I’m sure that will be possible, of course.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Butterworth, trying not to sound too relieved. “I know the President will be most appreciative. And, if I could impress on you again, not a word until we’ve been able to confirm the date.”

Butterworth rose and glanced at the long-case clock at the far end of the room. The meeting had taken twenty-two minutes. He would still be able to escape from the conference room before he was thrown out by the officious woman from scheduling.

The Special Assistant to the President guided his guest towards the door.

“The President wondered if you would like to see the Oval Office while you’re here?”

“The Oval Office. Of course, of course.”

Chapter Twelve

Hamid Al Obaydi was left alone in the center of the room. After two of the four guards had stripped him naked, the other two had expertly checked every stitch of his clothing for anything that might endanger the life of their President.

On a nod from the man who appeared to be the chief guard, a side door opened and a doctor entered the room, followed by an orderly who carried a chair in one hand and a rubber glove in the other. The chair was placed behind Al Obaydi, and he was invited to sit. He did so. The doctor first checked his nails and ears before instructing him to open his mouth wide while he tapped every tooth with a spatula. He then placed a clamp in his jaw so that it opened even wider, which allowed him slowly to look into every crevice. Satisfied, he removed the clamp. He then asked Al Obaydi to stand up, turn around and place his legs straight and wide while bending over until his hands touched the seat of the chair. Al Obaydi heard the rubber glove being placed on the doctor’s hand and felt a sudden burst of pain as two fingers were thrust up his rectum. He cried out and the guards facing him began to laugh. The fingers were extracted just as abruptly, repeating the jab of pain a second time.

“Thank you, Deputy Ambassador,” said the doctor, as if he had just checked Al Obaydi’s temperature for a mild dose of flu. “You can get dressed now.” Al Obaydi knelt down and picked up his pants as the doctor and the orderly left the room.

As he dressed, Al Obaydi couldn’t help wondering if each member of the Security Council went through the same humiliation every time Saddam called a meeting of the Revolutionary Command Council.

The order to return to Baghdad to give Sayedi an update on the latest position, as the Ambassador to the UN had described the summons, filled Al Obaydi with considerable apprehension, despite the fact that following his most recent meeting with Cavalli he felt he had the answers to any questions the President might put to him.

Once Al Obaydi had reached Baghdad after a seemingly endless journey through Jordan — direct flights having been suspended as part of the UN sanctions — he hadn’t been allowed to rest or even given the chance to change his clothes. He’d been driven direct to Ba’ath headquarters in a black Mercedes.

When Al Obaydi had finished dressing, he checked himself in a small mirror on the wall. His apparel was, on this occasion, modest compared with the outfits he’d left in his apartment in New York: Saks Fifth Avenue suits, Valentino sweaters, Church’s shoes and a solid gold Cartier watch. All this had been rejected in favor of the one set of cheap Arab clothing he retained in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe in Manhattan.

When Al Obaydi turned away from the mirror, one of the guards beckoned him to follow as the door at the end of the room opened for the first time. The contrast to the bare, almost barracks-room surroundings of the examination room took him by surprise. A thickly carpeted, ornately painted corridor was well lit by chandeliers that hung every few paces.

The Deputy Ambassador followed the guard down the corridor, becoming more aware with each step of the massive gold-painted door that loomed up ahead of him. But when he was only a few paces away, the guard opened a side door and ushered him into an anteroom that echoed the opulence of the corridor.

Al Obaydi was left alone in the room, but no sooner had he taken a seat on the large sofa than the door opened again. Al Obaydi jumped to his feet only to see a girl enter carrying a tray, in the center of which was a small cup of Turkish coffee.

She placed the coffee on a table beside the sofa, bowed and left as silently as she had come. Al Obaydi toyed with the cup, aware that he had fallen into the Western habit of preferring cappuccino. He drank the muddy black liquid simply out of a nervous desire to be doing something.

An hour passed slowly: he became increasingly nervous, with nothing in the room to read and only a massive portrait of Saddam Hussein to stare at. Al Obaydi spent the time going over every detail of what Cavalli had told him, wishing he could refer to the file in his small attaché case, which the guards had whisked away long before he’d reached the examination room.

During the second hour, his confidence began to drain away. During the third, he started to wonder if he would ever get out of the building alive.

Then suddenly the door swung open and Al Obaydi recognized the red-and-yellow flash of the uniform of one of Saddam’s Presidential Guards: the Hemaya.

“The President will see you now,” was all the young officer said, and Al Obaydi rose and followed him quickly down the corridor towards the gold-painted door.

The officer knocked, opened the massive door and stood to one side to allow the Deputy Ambassador to join a full meeting of the Revolutionary Command Council.

Al Obaydi stood and waited, like a prisoner in the dock hoping to be told by the judge that he might at least be allowed to sit. He remained standing, well aware that no one ever shook hands with the President unless invited to do so. He stared around at the twelve-man council, noticing that only two, the Prime Minister, Tariq Aziz, and the State Prosecutor, Nakir Farrar, were wearing suits. The other ten members were dressed in full military uniforms but did not wear sidearms. The only handgun, other than those worn by General Hamil, the Commander of the Presidential Guard, and the two armed soldiers directly behind Saddam, was on the table in front of the President, placed where other heads of state would have had a memo pad.

Al Obaydi became painfully aware that the President’s eyes had never left him from the moment he had entered the room. Saddam waved his Coheba cigar at the Deputy Ambassador to indicate that he should take the vacant seat at the opposite end of the table.

The Foreign Minister looked towards the President, who nodded. He then turned his attention to the man who sat nervously in the far chair.

“This, Mr. President, as you know, is Hamid Al Obaydi, our Deputy Ambassador at the United Nations, whom you honored with the responsibility of carrying out your orders to steal the Declaration of Independence from the American infidels. On your instructions, he has returned to Baghdad to inform you, in person, of what progress he has made. I have not had an opportunity to speak to him, Mr. President, so you will forgive me if I appear, like yourself, to be a seeker after information.”

Saddam waved his cigar again to let the Foreign Minister know that he should get on with it.

“Perhaps I could start, Deputy Ambassador” — Al Obaydi was surprised by such a formal address, since their two families had known each other for generations, but he accepted that to show friendship of any kind in front of Saddam was tantamount to an admission of conspiracy — “by asking you to bring us all up-to-date on the President’s imaginative scheme.”

“Thank you, Foreign Minister,” replied Al Obaydi, as if he had never met the man before. Al Obaydi turned back to face Saddam, whose black eyes remained fixed on him.

“May I begin, Mr. President, by saying what an honor it has been to be entrusted with this task, especially remembering the idea had emanated from Your Excellency personally.” Every member of the Council was now concentrating his attention on the Deputy Ambassador, but Al Obaydi noticed that from time to time each of them would glance in Saddam’s direction to see how he was reacting.

“I am happy to be able to report that the team led by Mr. Antonio Cavalli...”

Saddam raised a hand and looked towards the State Prosecutor, who opened a thick file in front of him.

Nakir Farrar was feared second only to Saddam in the Iraqi regime. Everyone knew of his reputation. A first-class honors degree in jurisprudence at Oxford. President of the Union, and a bencher at Lincoln’s Inn. That was where Al Obaydi had first come across him. Not that Farrar had ever acknowledged his existence. He had been tipped to be the first Queen’s Counsel Iraq had ever produced. But then came the invasion of the Nineteenth Province and the British expelled the high-flyer, despite several appeals from people in high places. Farrar returned to a city he had deserted at the age of eleven, and immediately offered his remarkable talent for Saddam Hussein’s personal use. Within a year Saddam had appointed him State Prosecutor. A title, it was rumored, he had selected himself. He stared down at the open file.

“Cavalli is a New York criminal, Mr. President, who, because he has a law degree and heads a private legal practice, creates a legitimate front for such an operation.” Saddam nodded and turned his attention back to Al Obaydi.

“Mr. Cavalli has completed the preparation stage and his team is now ready to carry out the President’s orders.”

“Do we have a date yet?” asked Farrar.

“Yes, State Prosecutor. May 25th. Clinton has a full day’s schedule at the White House, with his speechwriters in the morning, and his wife’s health-policy task unit in the afternoon, and he” — the Iraqi Ambassador to the UN had warned Al Obaydi never to refer to Clinton as “the President” — “will therefore not be involved in any public engagements that day which would have made our task impossible.”

“And tell me, Deputy Ambassador,” said the State Prosecutor, “did Mr. Cavalli’s lawyer succeed in getting a permit to close down the road between the White House and the National Archives during the time when Clinton will be involved in these internal meetings?”

“No, State Prosecutor, he did not,” came back Al Obaydi’s reply. “The Mayor’s Office did, however, grant a permit for filming to take place on Pennsylvania Avenue from 13th Street east. But the road can only be closed for forty-five minutes. It seems this Mayor was not as easy to convince as her predecessor.”

A few members of the Council looked puzzled. “Not as easy to convince?” asked the Foreign Minister.

“Perhaps ‘persuade’ would be a better word.”

“And what form did this persuasion take?” asked General Hamil, who sat on the right of the President and knew only one form of persuasion.

“A $250,000 contribution to her reelection fund.”

Saddam began to laugh, so the others around the table followed suit.

“And the Archivist, is he still convinced it’s Clinton who will be visiting him?” asked the State Prosecutor.

“Yes, he is,” said Al Obaydi. “Just before I flew out Cavalli had taken eight of his own men over the building posing as a Secret Service preliminary reconnaissance team, carrying out a site survey. The Archivist could not have been more cooperative, and Cavalli was given enough time to check out everything. That exercise should make the switching of the Declaration on May 25th far easier for him.”

“But if, and I say only if, they succeed in getting the original out, have they made arrangements for passing the document over to you?” asked the State Prosecutor.

“Yes,” replied Al Obaydi confidently. “I understand that the President wants the document to be delivered to Barazan Al-Tikriti, our venerated Ambassador to the United Nations in Geneva. When he has received the parchment, and not before, I will authorize the final payment.”

The President nodded his approval. After all, the venerated Ambassador in Geneva was his half brother. The State Prosecutor continued his questioning.

“But how can we be sure that what is handed to us will be the original, and not just a first-class copy?” he demanded. “What’s to prevent Cavalli from making a show of walking in and out of the National Archives, but not actually switching the documents?”

A smile appeared on Al Obaydi’s lips for the first time. “I took the precaution, State Prosecutor, of demanding such proof,” he replied. “When the fake replaces the original, it will continue to be displayed for the general public to view. You can be assured that I shall be among the general public.”

“But you have not answered my question,” said the State Prosecutor sharply. “How will you know ours is the original?”

“Because on the original document penned by Timothy Matlack, there is a simple spelling mistake, which has been corrected on the copy executed by Bill O’Reilly.”

The State Prosecutor reluctantly sat back in his chair, when his master raised a hand.

“Another criminal, Excellency,” explained the Foreign Minister. “This time a forger, who has been responsible for making the copy of the document.”

“So,” said the State Prosecutor, leaning forward once again, “if the incorrect spelling is still on the document displayed in the National Archives on May 25th, you will know we have a fake and therefore will not pay out another cent. Is that right?”

“Yes, State Prosecutor,” said Al Obaydi.

“Which word on the original has been incorrectly spelled?” demanded the State Prosecutor.

When the Deputy Ambassador told him, all Nakir Farrar said was, “How appropriate,” and then closed the file in front of him.

“However, it will still be necessary for me to have the final payment in hand,” continued Al Obaydi, “should I be satisfied that they have carried out their part of the bargain, and that we are in possession of the original parchment.”

The Foreign Minister looked towards Saddam who again nodded.

“The money will be in place by May 25th,” said the Foreign Minister. “I would also like the opportunity to go over some of the details with you before your return to New York. As long as that meets with the President’s approval?”

Saddam waved a hand to indicate that such a request was not important to him. His eyes remained fixed on Al Obaydi. The Deputy Ambassador wasn’t sure if he was meant to leave or await further questioning. He favored caution, and remained seated and silent. It was some time before anyone spoke.

“You must be curious, Hamid, about why I place such importance on this scrap of useless paper.” As the Deputy Ambassador had never met the President before, he was surprised to be called by his first name.

“It is not for me to question Your Excellency’s reasoning,” replied Al Obaydi.

“Nevertheless,” continued Saddam, “you would be less than human not to wonder why I am willing to spend one hundred million dollars and at the same time risk international embarrassment should you fail.”

Al Obaydi noted the word “you” with some discomfort.

“I would be fascinated to know, Sayedi, if you felt able to confide in such an unworthy soul.”

Twelve members of the Council looked towards the President to gauge his reaction to the Deputy Ambassador’s comment. Al Obaydi felt immediately that he had gone too far. He sat, terrified, during what felt like the longest silence in his life.

“Then I shall let you share my secret, Hamid,” said Saddam, his black eyes boring into the Deputy Ambassador. “When I captured the Nineteenth Province for my beloved people, I found myself at war not with the traitors we had invaded, but the combined strength of the Western world — and that despite an agreement previously reached with the American Ambassador. Why? I had to ask, when everyone knew that Kuwait was run by a few corrupt families who had little interest in the welfare of their own people. I’ll tell you why. In one word, oil. Had it been coffee beans that the Nineteenth Province was exporting, you would never have seen as much as an American rowboat armed with a catapult enter the Gulf.”

The Foreign Minister smiled and nodded.

“And who were the leaders who ganged up against me? Thatcher, Gorbachev and Bush. That was less than three years ago. And what has happened to them since? Thatcher was removed by a coup carried out by her own supporters; Gorbachev was deposed by a man he himself had sacked only a year before and whose own position now looks unstable; Bush suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of the American people. While I remain the Supreme Leader and President of my country.”

There followed a burst of applause which died instantly when Saddam began speaking again.

“That, of course, would be ample reward for most people. But not me, Hamid. Because Bush’s place has been taken by this man Clinton, who has learned nothing from his predecessor’s mistakes, and who now also wishes to challenge my supremacy. But this time it is my intention to humiliate him along with the American infidels long before they are given the opportunity to do so. And I shall go about this in such a way that will make it impossible for Clinton to recover any credibility in his lifetime. I intend to make Clinton and the American people the laughingstock of the world.”

The heads continued nodding.

“You have already witnessed my ability to turn the greed of their own people into a willingness to steal the most cherished document in their nation’s history. And you, Hamid, are the chosen instrument to ensure that my genius will be acknowledged.” Al Obaydi lowered his head.

“Once I am in possession of the Declaration I shall wait patiently until the Fourth of July, when the whole of America will be spending a peaceful Sunday celebrating Independence Day.” No one in the room uttered a word while the President paused.

“I shall also celebrate Independence Day, not in Washington or New York, but in Tahrir Square, surrounded by my beloved people. When I, Saddam Hussein, President of Iraq, will in front of the entire world’s media burn to a cinder the American Declaration of Independence.”

Hannah lay awake in her barracks-room bed, feeling not unlike the child she had been some fifteen years before when she had spent her first night at boarding school.

She had collected Karima Saib’s cases from the carousel at Charles de Gaulle Airport, dreading what she might find inside them.

A driver had picked her up as promised, but as he had been unwilling to make any attempt at conversation she had no idea what to expect when they pulled up outside the Jordanian Embassy. Hannah was surprised by its size.

The beautiful old house which was set back from the boulevard Maurice Barrès was formerly the home of the late Aga Khan. The Iraqi annex had been allocated two complete floors, tangible proof that the Jordanians did not wish to get on the wrong side of Saddam.

On entering the annex to the embassy, the first person she met was Abdul Kanuk, the Chief Administrator. He certainly didn’t look like a diplomat, and when he opened his mouth she realized he wasn’t. Kanuk informed her that the Ambassador and his senior secretary, Muna Ahmed, were tied up in meetings and that she was to unpack and then wait in her room until called for.

The cramped accommodation was just about large enough for a bed and two suitcases, and might, she thought, have been a storeroom before the Iraqi delegation moved in. When she eventually forced open one of Karima Saib’s suitcases she quickly discovered that the only things that fitted from her wardrobe were her shoes. Hannah didn’t know whether to be relieved, because of Saib’s taste, or anxious about how little of her own she had to wear.

Muna Ahmed, the senior secretary, joined her in the kitchen for supper later that evening. It seemed that secretaries in the embassy were treated on the same level as servants. Hannah managed to convince Muna that it was better than she had expected, especially as they were only able to use the annex to the Jordanian Embassy. Muna explained that as far as the Corps Diplomatique of France was concerned, the Iraqi Ambassador was to be treated only as a Head of Interest Section, although they were to address him at all times as “Your Excellency” or “Ambassador.”

During the first few days in her new job, Hannah sat in the room next to the Ambassador’s on the other side of Muna’s desk. She spent most of her time twiddling her fingers. Hannah quickly discovered that no one took much interest in her as long as she completed any work the Ambassador had left for her on his dictating machine. In fact that soon became Hannah’s biggest problem, since she had to slow down in order to make Muna look more efficient. The only thing Hannah ever forgot was to keep wearing her nonprescription glasses.

In the evenings, over supper in the kitchen, Hannah learned from Muna everything that was expected of an Iraqi woman abroad, including how to avoid the advances of Abdul Kanuk. By the second week, her learning curve had already slowed down, and increasingly Hannah found the Ambassador was relying on her skills. She tried not to show too much initiative.

Once they had finished their work, Hannah and Muna were expected to remain indoors, and were not allowed to leave the building at night unless accompanied by the Chief Administrator, a prospect that didn’t tempt either of them. As Muna had no interest in music, the theater or even going to cafés, she was happy to pass the time in her room reading the speeches of Saddam Hussein.

As the days slowly passed Hannah began to hope that the Mossad agent in Paris would contact her so that she could be pulled out and sent back to Israel to prepare for her mission — not that she had any clue who the Mossad agent was. She wondered if they had one in the embassy. Alone in her room, she often speculated. The driver? Too slow. The gardener? Too dumb. The cook? Certainly possible — the food was bad enough to believe it was her second job. Abdul Kanuk, the Chief Administrator? Hardly, since, as he pointed out at least three times a day, he was a cousin of Barazan Al-Tikriti, Saddam Hussein’s half brother and the UN Ambassador in Geneva. Kanuk was also the biggest gossip in the embassy, and supplied Hannah with more information about Saddam Hussein and his entourage in one night than the Ambassador managed in a week. In truth, the Ambassador rarely spoke of Sayedi in her presence, and when he did he was always guarded and respectful.

It was during the second week that Hannah was introduced to the Ambassador’s wife. Hannah quickly discovered that she was fiercely independent, partly because she was half Turkish, and didn’t consider that it was necessarily her duty always to stay inside the embassy compound. She did things that were thought extreme by Iraqi standards, like accompanying her husband to cocktail parties, and she had even been known to pour herself a drink without waiting to be asked. She also went — which was more important for Hannah — twice a week to swim at the nearby public baths in the boulevard Lannes. The Ambassador agreed, after a little persuasion, that it would be acceptable for the new secretary to accompany his wife.

Scott arrived in Paris on a Sunday. He had been given a key to a small flat on the avenue de Messine, and they had opened an account for him at the Société Générale on boulevard Haussmann in the name of Simon Rosenthal.

He was to telephone or fax Langley only after he had located the Mossad agent. No other operative had been informed of his existence, and he had been told not to make contact with any field agent he had worked with in the past who was now stationed in Europe.

Scott spent the first two days discovering the nine places from which he could observe the front door of the Jordanian Embassy without being seen by anyone in the building.

By the end of a week he had begun to realize for the first time what agents really meant by the expression “hours of solitude.” He even started to miss some of his students.

He developed a routine. Every morning before breakfast he would run for five miles in the Parc Monceau, before he began the morning shift. Every evening he would spend two hours in a gym on rue de Berne before cooking supper, which he ate alone in his flat.

Scott began to despair of the Mossad agent ever leaving the embassy compound, and to wonder if Miss Kopec was even in there. The Ambassador’s wife seemed to be the only woman to come and go as she pleased.

And then without warning, on the Tuesday of his second week, someone else left the building accompanying the Ambassador’s wife. Was it Hannah Kopec? He only caught a fleeting glimpse as the car sped away.

He followed the chauffeur-driven Mercedes, always remaining at an angle that would make it difficult for the Ambassador’s driver to spot him in his rearview mirror. The two women were dropped outside the swimming pool on the boulevard Lannes. He watched them get out of the car. In the photographs he had studied at Langley, Hannah Kopec had had long black hair. The hair was now cropped, but it was unquestionably the Mossad agent.

Scott drove a hundred yards further down the road, turned right and parked his car. He walked back, entered the building and purchased a spectator’s ticket at a cost of two francs. He strolled up to the balcony which overlooked the pool. By the time he had selected an obscure seat in the gallery Hannah Kopec was already swimming up and down. It only took moments for Scott to realize how fit she was, even if the Iraqi version of a swimsuit wasn’t all that alluring. Her pace only slowed when the Ambassador’s wife appeared at the edge of the pool, after which Kopec ventured the occasional dog paddle from one side to the other.

Some forty minutes later, when the Ambassador’s wife left the pool, Kopec immediately quickened her pace, covering each length in under a minute. When she had swum ten lengths she pulled herself out of the water and disappeared towards the changing room.

Scott returned to his car, and when the two women reappeared he allowed the Mercedes to overtake him before following them back to the embassy.

Later that night he faxed Dexter Hutchins at Langley to let him know he had seen her, and would now try to make contact.

The following morning, he bought a pair of swimming trunks.

It was on Thursday that Hannah first noticed him. He was doing the crawl at a steady rate, completing each length in about forty seconds, and looked as if he might once have been a useful athlete. She tried to keep up with his pace but could only manage five lengths before he stretched away. She watched him pull himself out of the water after another dozen lengths and head off in the direction of the men’s changing room.

On Monday morning the following week, the Ambassador’s wife informed Hannah that she wouldn’t be able to go for their usual swim the next day as she would be accompanying the Ambassador on his visit to Saddam Hussein’s half brother in Geneva. Hannah had already been told about the trip by the Chief Administrator, who seemed to know even the finest details.

“I can’t think why you haven’t been invited to join the Ambassador as well,” said the cook that evening. The Chief Administrator was silenced for about two minutes until Muna left the kitchen to go to her room. Then he revealed a piece of information that disturbed Hannah.

The following day Hannah was given permission to go swimming by herself. She was glad to have an excuse to get out of the building, especially as Kanuk was in charge of the delegation in the Ambassador’s absence. He had taken the Mercedes for himself, so she made her own way to the boulevard Lannes by Métro. She was disappointed to find that the man who swam so well was nowhere to be seen when she started off on her thirty lengths. Once she had completed her exercise she clung to the side, tired and slightly out of breath. Suddenly she was aware that he was swimming towards her in the outside lane. When he touched the end he turned smoothly and said distinctly, “Don’t move, Hannah, I’ll be back.”

Hannah assumed he must be someone who remembered her from her days as a model, and her immediate reaction was to make a run for it. But she continued to tread water as she waited for him to return, thinking he might just be the Mossad agent Kratz had referred to.

She watched him swimming towards her, and became more apprehensive with each stroke. When he touched the edge he came to a sudden halt and asked, “Are you alone?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“I thought I couldn’t see the Ambassador’s wife. She usually displaces a great deal of water without much forward motion. By the way, I’m Simon Rosenthal. Colonel Kratz instructed me to make contact. I have a message for you.”

Hannah felt stupid shaking hands with the man while they were both clinging to the edge of the pool.

“Do you know the avenue Bugeaud?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Good. See you at the Bar de la Porte Dauphine in fifteen minutes.”

He pulled himself out of the pool in one movement and disappeared in the direction of the men’s changing room before she had a chance to reply.

A little over fifteen minutes later Hannah walked into the Bar de la Porte Dauphine. She searched around the room and almost missed him perched behind one of the high-backed wooden chairs directly below a large, colorful mural.

He rose to greet her and then ordered another coffee. He warned her that they must spend only a few minutes together, because she ought to return to the embassy without delay. As she sipped the first real coffee she had tasted in weeks, Hannah took a closer look at him, and began to recall what it was like just to enjoy a drink with someone interesting. His next sentence snapped her back into the real world.

“Kratz plans to pull you out of Paris in the near future.”

“Any particular reason?” she asked.

“The date of the Baghdad operation has been settled.”

“Thank God,” said Hannah.

“Why do you say that?” asked Scott, risking his first question.

“The Ambassador is expecting to be called back to Baghdad to take up a new post. He intends to ask me to go with him,” replied Hannah. “Or that’s what the Chief Administrator is telling everyone, except Muna Ahmed.”

“I’ll warn Kratz.”

“By the way, Simon, I’ve picked up two or three scraps of information that Kratz might find useful.”

He nodded and listened as Hannah began to give him details of the internal organization of the embassy, and of the comings and goings of diplomats and businessmen who publicly spoke out against Saddam while at the same time trying to close deals with him. After a few minutes he stopped her and said, “You’d better leave now. They might begin to miss you. I’ll try and arrange another meeting whenever it’s possible,” he found himself adding.

She smiled, rose from the table and left, without looking back.

Later that evening, Scott sent a coded message to Dexter Hutchins in Virginia to let him know that he had made contact with Hannah Kopec.

A fax came back an hour later with only one instruction.

Chapter Thirteen

On May 25, 1993, the sun rose over the Capitol a few minutes after five. Its rays crept along the White House lawn and minutes later seeped unnoticed into the Oval Office. A few hundred yards away, Cavalli was slapping his hands behind his back.

Cavalli had spent the previous day in Washington, checking the finer details for what felt like the hundredth time. He had to assume that something must go wrong and, whatever it turned out to be, it would automatically become his responsibility.

Johnny Scasiatore walked over and handed Cavalli a steaming mug of coffee.

“I had no idea it could be this cold in Washington,” Cavalli said to Johnny, who was wearing a sheepskin jacket.

“It’s cold at this time of the morning almost everywhere in the world,” replied Johnny. “Ask any film director.”

“And do you really need six hours to get ready for three minutes of filming?” Cavalli asked incredulously.

“Two hours’ preparation for a minute’s work is the standard rule. And don’t forget, we’ll have to run through this particular scene twice, in somewhat unusual circumstances.”

Cavalli stood on the corner of 13th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue and eyed the fifty or so people who came under Johnny’s direction. Some were preparing a track along the sidewalk that would allow a camera to follow the six cars as they traveled slowly down Pennsylvania Avenue. Others were fixing up massive IK arc lights along the seven hundred yards that would eventually be powered by a 200-kilowatt generator which had been transported into the heart of the capital at four o’clock that morning. Sound equipment was being tested to make sure that it would pick up every kind of noise — feet walking on a sidewalk, car doors slamming, the rumble of the subway, even the chimes of the clock on the Post Office tower.

“Is all this expense really necessary?” asked Cavalli.

“If you want everyone except us to believe they’re taking part in a motion picture, you can’t afford to risk any shortcuts. I’m going to shoot a film that anybody watching us, professional or amateur, could expect to see one day in a movie theater. I’m even paying full Equity rates for all of the extras.”

“Thank God none of my people have a union,” commented Cavalli. The sun was now full on his face, twenty-one minutes after the President would have enjoyed its warmth over breakfast in the White House.

Cavalli looked down at the checklist on his clipboard. Al Calabrese already had all his twelve vehicles in place on the curbside, and the drivers were standing around in a huddle drinking coffee, sheltered from the wind by one of the walls of Freedom Plaza. The six limousines glistened in the morning sun as passersby, cleaners and janitors leaving offices and early-morning commuters coming up from the Federal Triangle Metro slowed to admire the spectacle. A painter was just touching up the Presidential Seal on the third car while a girl was unfurling a flag on the right-hand fender.

Cavalli turned to see a police truck, tailgate down, parked in front of the District Building. Barriers were being lifted off and carried onto the sidewalk to make sure innocent passersby did not stray onto the set during those crucial three minutes when the filming would be taking place.

Lloyd Adams had spent the previous day going over his lines one last time and dipping into yet another book on the history of the Declaration of Independence. That night he had sat in bed replaying again and again a video of Bill Clinton on his Georgia Avenue walk, noting the tilt of the head, the Razorback accent, the way he subconsciously bit his lower lip. The Monday before, Adams had purchased a suit that was identical to the one the President had worn to welcome the British Prime Minister in February — straight off the rack from Dillard’s Department Store. He chose a red, white and blue tie, a rip-off of the one Clinton wore on the cover of the March issue of Vanity Fair. A Timex Ironman had been the final addition to his wardrobe. During the past week a second wig had been made, this time a little grayer, which Adams felt more comfortable with. The director and Cavalli had taken him through a dress rehearsal the previous evening: word perfect — though Johnny had commented that his collapse at the end of the scene was a bad case of overacting. Cavalli felt the Archivist would be far too overwhelmed to notice.

Cavalli walked over to Al Calabrese and asked him to go over the breakdown of his staff yet again. Al tried not to sound exasperated, as he had gone over it in great detail during their last three board meetings: “Twelve drivers, six outriders,” he rattled off. “Four of them are ex-cops or military police and all of them have worked with me before. But as none of them are going into the National Archives, they’ve simply been told they’re involved in a movie. Only those working directly under Gino Sartori know what we’re really up to.”

“But are they fully briefed on what’s expected of them once they reach the Archives?”

“You’d better believe it,” replied Al. “We went over it at least half a dozen times yesterday, first on a map in my office, and then we came down here in the afternoon and walked the route. They drive down Pennsylvania Avenue at ten miles an hour while they’re being filmed and continue east until they reach 7th Street. Then they take a sharp right, when they’ll be out of sight of everyone involved in the filming, not to mention the police. Then they turn right again at the delivery entrance of the National Archives, where they’ll come to a halt in front of the loading dock. Angelo, Dollar Bill, Debbie, you and the counter-assault team leave their vehicles and accompany the actor into the building, where they’ll be met by Calder Marshall.

“Once your party has entered the building the cars will go back up the ramp and take a right on 7th Street, another right on Constitution Avenue and then right on 14th Street before returning to the location where the filming began. By then, Johnny will be ready for a second take. On the signal from you that the Declaration of Independence has been exchanged for our forgery, the second take will begin immediately, except this time we’ll be picking up the thirteen operatives we dropped outside the National Archives.”

“And, if all goes according to plan, the Declaration of Independence as well,” said Cavalli. “Then what happens?” he asked, wanting to be sure that nothing had changed since their final board meeting in New York.

“The limos leave Washington by six separate routes,” continued Al. “Three of them return to the capital during the afternoon, but not until they’ve changed their license plates; two others go on to New York, and one drives to a destination known only to you; that will be the vehicle carrying the Declaration.”

“If it all runs as smoothly as that, Al, you’ll have earned your money. But it won’t, and that’s when we’ll really find out how good you are.” He nodded as Al left to grab a mug of coffee and rejoin his men.

Cavalli checked his watch: 7:22. When he looked up he saw Johnny heading towards him, red in the face. Thank God I don’t have to work in Hollywood, thought Cavalli.

“I’m having trouble with a cop who says I can’t put my lighting equipment on the sidewalk until nine-thirty. That means I won’t be able to begin filming until well after ten, and if I’ve only got forty-five minutes to start with—”

“Calm down, Johnny,” said Cavalli, and checked his list of personnel. He looked up and began to search the crowd of workers that was flowing off Freedom Plaza onto the sidewalk. He spotted the man he needed. “You see the tall guy with gray hair practicing his charm on Debbie?” he said, pointing.

“Yeah,” said Johnny.

“That’s Tom Newbolt, ex-Deputy Chief of the DCPD, now a security consultant. We’ve hired him for the day. So go and tell him what your problem is, and then we’ll find out if he’s worth the five thousand dollars his company is charging me.”

Cavalli smiled as Johnny stormed off in Newbolt’s direction.

Angelo stood over the slumbering body. He leaned across, grabbed Dollar Bill’s shoulders and began to shake him furiously.

The little Irishman was belching out a snore that sounded more like an old tractor than a human being. Angelo leaned closer, only to find Dollar Bill smelled as if he had spent a night in the local brewery.

Angelo realized that he should never have left Bill the previous evening, even for a moment. If he didn’t get the bastard to the Archives on time, Cavalli would kill them both. He even knew who’d carry out the job, and the method she would use. He went on shaking, but Dollar Bill’s eyes remained determinedly closed.

At eight o’clock a Klaxon sounded and the film crew took a break for breakfast.

“Thirty minutes. Union regulations,” explained Johnny when Cavalli looked exasperated. The crew surrounded a parked trailer — another expensive import — on the sidewalk, where they were served eggs, ham and hash browns. Cavalli had to admit that the crowds gathered behind the police barriers and the passersby lingering on the sidewalk never seemed to doubt for a moment that this was a film crew getting ready for a shoot.

Cavalli decided to use the thirty-minute break to check for himself that, once the cars had turned right on 7th Street, they could not be seen by anyone involved in the filming back on Pennsylvania Avenue.

He strode briskly away from the commotion, and when he reached the corner of 7th Street he turned right. It was as if he’d entered a different world. He joined a group of people who were quite unaware of what was taking place less than half a mile away. It was just like Washington on a normal Tuesday morning. He was pleased to spot Andy Borzello sitting on the bench in the bus shelter near the loading dock entrance to the National Archives, reading the Washington Post.

By the time Cavalli had returned, the film crew was beginning to move back and start their final checks, no one wanted to be the person responsible for a retake.

The crowds at the barriers were growing thicker by the minute, and the police spent a considerable amount of their time explaining that a film was going to be shot, but not for at least another couple of hours. Several people looked disappointed at this information and moved on, only to allow others to take up the places they had vacated.

Cavalli’s cellular phone began ringing. He pressed the talk button and was greeted by the sound of his father’s Brooklyn vowels. The chairman was cautious over the phone, and simply asked if there were any problems.

“Several,” admitted Tony. “But none so far that we hadn’t anticipated or can’t overcome.”

“Don’t forget, cancel the entire operation if you’re not satisfied with the response to your nine o’clock phone call. Either way, he mustn’t be allowed to return to the White House.” The line went dead. Cavalli knew that his father was right on both counts.

Cavalli checked his watch again: 8:43. He strolled over to Johnny.

“I’m going across to the Willard. I don’t expect to be too long, so just keep things rolling. By the way, I see you got all your equipment on the sidewalk.”

“Sure thing,” said Johnny. “Once Newbolt talked to that cop, he even helped us carry the damn stuff.”

Cavalli smiled and began walking towards the National Theater on the way to the Willard Hotel. Gino Sartori was coming in the opposite direction.

“Gino,” Cavalli said, stopping to face the ex-Marine. “Are all your men ready?”

“Every one of the bastards.”

“And can you guarantee their silence?”

“Like the grave. That is, if they don’t want to end up digging their own.”

“So where are they now?”

“Coming from eight different directions. All of them are due to report to me by nine-thirty. Smart dark suits, sober ties and holsters that aren’t too obvious.”

“Let me know the moment they’re all signed in.”

“Will do,” said Gino.

Cavalli continued on his journey to the Willard Hotel, and after checking his watch again began to lengthen his stride.

He strolled into the lobby, and found Rex Butterworth marching nervously up and down the center of the hall as if his sole aim in life was to wear out the blue-and-gold carpet. He looked relieved when he saw Cavalli, and joined him as he strode towards the elevator.

“I told you to sit in the corner and wait, not parade up and down in front of every freelance journalist looking for a story.”

Butterworth mumbled an apology as they stepped into the elevator and Cavalli pressed button eleven. Neither of them spoke again until they were safely inside 1137, the room in which Cavalli had spent the previous night.

Cavalli looked more carefully at Rex Butterworth now that they were alone. He was sweating as if he had just finished a five-mile jog, not traveled up eleven floors in an elevator.

“Calm down,” said Cavalli. “You’ve played your part well so far. Only one more phone call and you’re through. You’ll be on the flight to Rio before the first outrider even reaches the National Archives. Now, are you clear about what you have to say to Marshall?”

Butterworth took out some handwritten notes, mouthed a few words and said, “Yes, I’m clear and I’m ready.” He was shaking like jelly.

Cavalli dialed the private number of the Archivist’s office half a mile away, and when he heard the first ring, passed the receiver over to Butterworth. They both listened to the continuing ringing. Eventually Cavalli put his hand out to take back the receiver. They would have to try again in a few minutes’ time. Suddenly there was a click and a voice said, “Calder Marshall speaking.”

Cavalli went into the bathroom and picked up the extension. “Good morning, Mr. Marshall. It’s Rex Butterworth at the White House, just checking everything’s all set up and ready at your end.”

“It certainly is, Mr. Butterworth. Every member of my staff has been instructed to be at his desk by nine o’clock sharp. In fact, I’ve seen most of them already, but only my Deputy and the Senior Conservator know the real reason I’ve asked them all not to be late this morning.”

“Well done,” said Butterworth. “The President is running on time and we anticipate he will be with you around ten, but I’m afraid he still has to be back at the White House by eleven.”

“By eleven, of course,” said the Archivist. “I only hope we can get him around the whole building in fifty minutes, because I feel certain there are many of my staff who would like to meet him.”

“We’ll just have to hope that fifty minutes is enough time to fit them all in,” said Butterworth. “Can I assume that there are still no problems with the President’s personal request?”

“None that I’m aware of,” said Marshall. “The Conservator is quite happy to remove the glass so that the President can study the parchment in its original form. We’ll keep the Declaration in the vault until the President has left the building. I hope to have the document back on view to the general public a few minutes after he departs.”

“It sounds to me as if you have everything under control, Mr. Marshall,” said Butterworth, the sweat pouring off his forehead. “I’m just off to see the President, so I’m afraid I’ll be out of contact for the rest of the morning, but let’s talk again this afternoon and you can tell me how it all went.”

Cavalli placed the phone on the side of the bath and bolted back into the bedroom, coming to a halt in front of the President’s Special Assistant. Butterworth looked terrified. Cavalli shook his head frantically from side to side.

“Actually, now that I look at my schedule, Mr. Marshall, I see you won’t be able to reach me again today because I promised my wife I’d leave the office a little earlier than usual to prepare for our annual vacation which begins tomorrow.”

“Oh. Where are you going?” asked Marshall, innocently.

“Off to see my mother in Charleston. But I feel confident that the President’s visit to the Archives will be a great success. Why don’t we get together as soon as I’m back?”

“I would enjoy that,” said Marshall. “And I do hope you have a pleasant break in South Carolina; the azaleas should still be blooming.”

“Yes, I suppose they will,” said Butterworth as he watched Cavalli pulling a finger across his throat. “My other line is ringing,” he added, and without another word put the phone down.

“You said too much, you fool. We don’t ever want him trying to contact you again.”

Butterworth looked apprehensive.

“How long will it be before the White House wonders where you are?” asked Cavalli.

“At least a week,” replied Butterworth. “I really am due for my vacation, and even my boss thinks I’m going to Charleston.”

“Well, that’s something you did right,” said Cavalli, as he handed Butterworth a one-way ticket to Rio de Janeiro and a letter of confirmation that the sum of nine hundred thousand dollars had been deposited in the Banco do Brazil.

“I have to get back to the set,” said Cavalli. “You stay put for ten minutes and then take a taxi to Dulles Airport. And when you get to Brazil, don’t spend all the money on a girl. And Rex, don’t even think about coming back. If you do, it won’t just be the Feds who are waiting for you at the airport.”

Angelo had somehow managed to get Dollar Bill dressed, but he still stank of Guinness, and he certainly didn’t look like the President’s personal physician — or anybody else’s physician for that matter.

“Sorry, lad. Sorry, lad,” Dollar Bill kept repeating. “I hope this won’t get you into any trouble.”

“It will if you don’t sober up in time to play your part and see that the parchment is transferred into the special cylinder. Because if Cavalli ever finds out I wasn’t with you last night, you’re dead, and more important, so am I.”

“Settle down, lad, and just make me a Bloody Mary. Two parts tomato juice and one part vodka. I’ll be as right as rain in no time, you’ll see.” Angelo looked doubtful as the little man’s head fell back on the pillow.

As Cavalli closed the door of room 1137, a woman pushing a large laundry basket passed him in the corridor.

He took the elevator to the ground floor and walked straight out of the hotel. The first thing he saw as he left the Willard and crossed the plaza that divided the hotel from Pennsylvania Avenue was that the morning traffic was backed up for half a mile down 15th Street.

Al and Johnny came running towards him from different directions. “What’s going on?” were Cavalli’s first words.

“Normal morning traffic coming in from Virginia, the police assure us, except we’re blocking a lane and a half with our twelve vehicles and six outriders.”

“Damn, my mistake,” said Cavalli. “I should have anticipated it. So what do you suggest, Al?”

“I send my boys over to Atlantic Garage on 13th and F until the police get the traffic on the move again, and then bring them back nearer the starting time.”

“It’s a hell of a risk,” said Johnny. “That permit only allows me to film for forty-five minutes, and they aren’t going to stretch it by a second.”

“But if my cars stay put you might never get started at all,” said Al.

“OK, Al, you get moving, but make sure you’re back on the grid by nine-fifty.” Cavalli checked his watch. “That’s twenty-seven minutes.” Al began running towards the parked cars.

Cavalli turned his attention to the director. “What time are you bringing the actor out?”

“Nine-fifty-five, or the moment the last car is back in place. He’s being made up in that trailer over there,” said Johnny, pointing.

Cavalli watched as the sixth limousine pulled away, and was relieved to see the traffic start to flow again.

“And Gino’s Secret Service agents, what will happen to them now that the cars have gone?”

“Most of them are hanging around with the extras, but they aren’t looking too convincing.”

Cavalli’s cellular phone began to ring. “I have to get back or you won’t have a film, real or otherwise,” said Johnny. Cavalli nodded and said, “Yes” into the mouthpiece as the director rushed away. Something caught Cavalli’s eye as he tried to concentrate on the voice on the other end of the line.

“The helicopter is all set to take off at ten o’clock sharp, boss; but it loses its slot at seven minutes past. The traffic cops won’t let it go up after that, however much you gave to the Fraternal Order of Police.”

“We’re still running on schedule, despite some problems,” said Cavalli, “so take her up at ten and just hover over the route. Marshall and his staff must be able to see and hear you when we arrive at the Archives. That’s all I care about.”

“OK, boss. Understood.”

Cavalli checked his watch again. It was 9:36 and the traffic was now flowing smoothly. He walked over to the officer coordinating the shoot for the city’s motion picture and television office.

“Don’t worry,” said the Lieutenant even before Cavalli had opened his mouth. “The traffic will be stopped and the detour signs in place by nine fifty-nine. We’ll have you moving on time, I promise.”

“Thank you, Officer,” said Cavalli, and quickly dialed Al Calabrese.

“I think you’d better start getting your boys back...”

“Number one has already left with two outriders. Number two’s just about to go; after that, they leave at twenty-second intervals.”

“You should have been an army general,” said Cavalli.

“You can blame the government for that. I just didn’t get the right education.”

Suddenly, Pennsylvania Avenue was ablaze with lights. Cavalli, like everyone else, shielded his eyes and then, just as suddenly, the lights were switched off, making the morning sun appear like a dim light bulb.

“Good sparks,” Cavalli heard the director shout. “I could only spot one that didn’t function. The seventh on the right.”

Cavalli stood on the sidewalk and looked towards the corner of 13th Street. He could see the first of Al’s limousines with two outriders edging its way back through the traffic. The sight of the shining black limo made him feel nervous for the first time.

A tall, well-built, bald man wearing dark glasses, a dark blue suit, white shirt and a red, white and blue striped tie was walking towards him. He stopped by Cavalli’s side as the first of the two outriders and the leading police car drew in to the curb.

“How are you feeling?” asked Cavalli.

“Like all first nights,” said Lloyd Adams. “I’ll be just fine once the curtain goes up.”

“Well, you sure knew your lines word perfect last night.”

“My lines aren’t the problem,” said Adams. “It’s Marshall’s I’m worried about.”

“What do you mean?” asked Cavalli.

“He’s not been able to attend any of our rehearsals, has he?” replied the actor. “So he doesn’t know his cues.”

The second car drew into line, accompanied by two more outriders, as Al came running across the sidewalk and Lloyd Adams strode off in the direction of the trailer.

“Can you still do it in eleven minutes?” asked Cavalli, looking at his watch.

“As long as Chief Thomas’s finest don’t foul things up like they do every other morning,” said Al. He headed towards the cars and immediately began to organize the unfurling of the presidential flag on the front of the third car before checking on any specks of dirt that might have appeared on the bodywork after one trip around the block.

The staff van drew up in line. Scasiatore immediately swung around on his high stool and, through a megaphone, told the actor, the secretary, the Lieutenant and the physician to be ready to climb into the third and fourth cars.

When the director asked for the Lieutenant and the physician, Cavalli suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen Dollar Bill or Angelo all morning. Perhaps they’d been waiting in the trailer.

The fourth limousine drew up as Cavalli’s eyes swept the horizon, searching for Angelo.

The Klaxon sounded again for several seconds, this time to warn the film crew that they had ten minutes left before shooting. The noise almost prevented Cavalli from hearing his phone ringing.

“It’s Andy reporting in, boss. I’m still outside the National Archives. Just to let you know it’s no busier than when you checked up an hour ago.”

“At least someone’s awake,” said Cavalli.

“There can’t be more than twenty or thirty people around at the moment.”

“Glad to hear it. But don’t call me again unless something goes wrong.” Cavalli flicked off the phone and tried to remember what it was that had been worrying him before it rang. Eleven vehicles and six outriders were now in place. One vehicle was still missing. But something else was nagging at the back of Cavalli’s mind. He became distracted when an officer standing in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue began shouting at the top of his voice that he was ready to stop the traffic whenever the director gave the word. Johnny stood up on his chair and pointed frantically to the twelfth car, which remained obstinately stuck in traffic a couple of hundred yards away.

“If you divert the traffic now,” shouted Johnny, “that one’s never going to end up in the motorcade.”

The officer remained in the middle of the road and waved the traffic through as fast as he could in the hope of getting the limousine there quicker, but it didn’t make a lot of difference.

“Extras on the street!” shouted Johnny, and several people whom Cavalli had supposed were members of the public strolled onto the sidewalk and began walking up and down professionally.

Johnny stood up on his chair again and this time turned to face the crowd huddled behind the barriers. An aide handed him a megaphone so that he could address them.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “this is a short cut for a movie about the President going to the Hill to address a joint session of Congress. I’d be grateful if you could wave, clap and cheer as if it were the real President. Thank you.” Spontaneous applause broke out, which made Cavalli laugh for the first time that morning. He hadn’t noticed that the former Deputy Police Chief had crept up behind him during the director’s address. He whispered in his ear, “This is going to cost you a whole lot of money if you don’t pull it off the first time.”

Cavalli turned to face the ex-policeman and tried not to show how anxious he felt.

“The holdup, I mean. If you don’t get the shoot done this morning, the authorities aren’t going to let you go through this charade again for one hell of a time.”

“I don’t need to be reminded of that,” snapped Cavalli. He turned his attention back to Johnny, who had climbed down from his chair and was walking over to take his seat on the tracking dolly, ready to move as soon as the twelfth vehicle was in place. Once again, the aide passed Johnny the megaphone. “This is a final check. Check your positions, please. This is a final check. Everyone ready in car one?” There was a sharp honk in reply. “Car two?” Another honk. “Car three?” Another sharp honk from the driver of Lloyd Adams’s car. Cavalli stared in through the window as the bald actor removed the top of his wig box. “Car four?” Not a sound came from car four.

“Is everyone in car four who should be in car four?” barked the director.

It was then that Cavalli remembered what had been nagging at him; he still hadn’t seen Angelo or Dollar Bill all morning. He should have checked earlier. He hurried towards the director as a naval Lieutenant jumped out of a car which he’d left stranded in the middle of the road. He was six feet tall, with short-cropped hair, wearing a white uniform with a sword swinging by his side and medals for service in Panama and the Gulf on his chest. In his right hand, he carried a black box. A policeman began chasing after him while Dollar Bill, carrying a small leather bag, followed a few yards behind at a slower pace. When Cavalli saw what had happened he changed direction and walked calmly out into the middle of the road, and the naval officer came to a halt by his side.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” barked Cavalli.

“We got held up in the traffic,” said Angelo lamely.

“If this whole operation fails because of you...”

Angelo turned the color of his uniform as he thought about what had happened to Bruno Morelli.

“And the sword?” snapped Cavalli.

“A perfect fit.”

“And our physician. Is he fit?”

“He’ll be able to do his job, I promise you,” Angelo said, looking over his shoulder.

“Which car are you both in?”

“Number four. Directly behind the President.”

“Then get in, and right now.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Dollar Bill said as he arrived, panting. “My fault, not Angelo’s. Sorry, sorry,” he repeated as the back door of car four was held open for him by the Lieutenant, who was gripping his sword. Once Dollar Bill was safely in, Angelo joined the would-be physician and slammed the door behind him.

The policeman who’d been chasing Angelo took his notebook out as Cavalli turned around looking for Tom Newbolt. Tom was already running across the road.

“Leave him to me,” was all he said.

The second van with surveillance cameras on board screeched to a halt to complete the line. The front window purred down. “Sorry, boss,” said the driver. “Some jerk just dumped his car right in front of me.”

The clock on the Old Post Office Tower struck ten. At that moment, on a signal from the coordinating officer, several policemen walked out into the road. Some held up the traffic coming down Pennsylvania Avenue while others placed diversion signs to direct the cars away from where the filming was taking place.

Cavalli turned his attention to the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue, a mere seven hundred yards away. It was still bumper to bumper with slow-moving traffic.

“Come on, come on!” he shouted out loud as he checked his watch and waited impatiently for the all-clear.

“Any moment now,” shouted back the officer, who was standing in the middle of the road.

Cavalli looked up to see the blue-and-white police helicopter hovering noisily overhead.

Neither he nor the officer spoke again until a couple of minutes later when they heard a sharp whistle blow three times from the far end of Pennsylvania Avenue. Cavalli checked his watch. They’d lost six precious minutes.

“I’ll kill Angelo,” he said. “If—”

“All clear!” shouted the coordinating officer. He turned to face Cavalli, who gave the director a thumbs-up sign.

“You’ve still got thirty-nine minutes,” bellowed the officer. “That should easily be enough time to complete the shoot twice.” But Cavalli didn’t hear the last few words as he ran to the car, pulled open the door and jumped into the seat next to the driver.

And then a nagging thought hit him. Looking out the side window, Cavalli began to scan the crowd once again.

“Lights!” screamed the director, and Pennsylvania Avenue lit up like Christmas Eve at Macy’s.

“OK, everybody, we’re going to shoot in sixty seconds.”

The limousines and motorcycles switched on their engines and began revving up. The extras strolled up and down while the police continued to divert the commuters away from the scene. The director leaned back over his chair to check the lights and see if the seventh in line was working.

“Thirty seconds.” Johnny looked at the driver of the first car and said through the megaphone, “Don’t forget to take it easy. My tracking dolly can only manage ten miles an hour going backwards. And walkers” — the director checked up and down the sidewalk — “please look as if you’re walking, not auditioning for Hamlet.”

The director turned his attention to the crowd. “Now, don’t let me down behind the barriers. Clap, cheer and wave, and please remember we’re going to do the whole exercise again in about twenty minutes, so stick around if you possibly can.

“Fifteen seconds,” said the director as he swung back to face the first car in line. “Good luck, everybody.”

Tony stared at Scasiatore, willing him to get on with it. They were now eight minutes late — which with this particular President, he had to admit, added an air of authenticity.

“Ten seconds. Rolling. Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one — action!”

The woman pushing the laundry basket down the corridor ignored the “Do Not Disturb” sign on room 1137 and walked straight in.

A rather overweight man, sweating profusely, was seated on the edge of the bed. He was jabbing out some numbers on the phone when he looked around and saw her.

“Get out, you dumb bitch,” he said, and turned back to concentrate on redialing the numbers.

In three silent paces she was behind him. He turned a second time just as she leaned over, took the phone cord in both hands and pulled it around his neck. He raised an arm to protest as she flicked her wrists in one sharp movement. He slumped forward and fell off the bed onto the carpet, just as the voice on the phone said, “Thank you for using AT&T.”

She realized that she shouldn’t have used the phone cord. Most unprofessional — but nobody called her a dumb bitch.

She replaced the phone on the hook and bent down, deftly hoisting the Special Assistant to the President onto her shoulder. She dropped him into the laundry basket. No one would have believed such a frail woman could have lifted such a heavy weight. In truth the only use she had ever made of a major in physics was to apply the principles of fulcrums, pivots and levers to her chosen profession.

She opened the door and checked the passageway. At this hour it was unlikely there’d be many people around. She wheeled the basket down the corridor until she reached the housekeepers’ elevator, faced the wall and waited patiently. When the elevator arrived she pressed the button that would take her to the garage.

When the elevator came to a halt on the lower ground floor she wheeled the basket out and over to the back of a Honda Accord. The second-most popular car in the United States.

Shielded by a pillar, she quickly transferred the Special Assistant from the basket into the trunk of the car. She then wheeled the basket back to the elevator, took off her baggy black uniform, dropped it into the laundry basket, removed her carrier bag with the long cord handle and dispatched the laundry basket to the twenty-fifth floor.

She straightened up her Laura Ashley dress before climbing into the car and placing her carrier bag under the front seat. She drove out of the parking lot onto F Street, and had only traveled a short distance before she was stopped by a traffic cop.

She rolled the window down.

“Follow the diversion sign,” he said, without even looking at her.

She glanced at the clock on her dashboard. It was 10:07.

Chapter Fourteen

As the lead police car moved slowly away from the curb, the director’s tracking dolly began running backwards at the same pace along its track. The crowds behind the barriers started to cheer and wave. If they had been making a real film the director would have called, “Cut” after twenty seconds because that fool of a coordinating officer was still standing in the middle of the road, hands on hips, oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t the star of the film.

Cavalli didn’t notice the officer as he concentrated on the road ahead of him. He phoned through to Andy, who he knew would still be seated on the bench on 7th Street reading the Washington Post.

“Not much action this end, boss. A little activity at the bottom of the ramp but no one on the street is showing any real interest. Is everything all right your end? You’re running late.”

“Yes, I know, but we should be with you in about sixty seconds,” said Cavalli, as the director reached the end of his private railroad track and put one thumb in the air to indicate that the cars could now accelerate to twenty-five miles per hour. Johnny Scasiatore jumped off the dolly and walked slowly back down Pennsylvania Avenue so he could prepare himself for the second take.

Cavalli flicked the phone off and took a deep intake of breath as the motorcade passed 9th Street; he stared at the FDR Monument that was set back on a grass plot in front of the main entrance of the Archives. The first car turned right on 7th Street; a mere half block remained before they would reach the driveway into the loading dock. The lead motorcycles sped up and when they were opposite Andy standing on the sidewalk, they swung right and drove down the ramp.

The rest of the motorcade formed a line directly opposite the delivery entrance, while the third limousine drove down the ramp, coming to a halt exactly opposite the loading dock.

The counter-assault team were the first onto the street, and eight of them quickly formed a circle facing outward around the third car.

After the eight men had stared in every direction for a few seconds, Cavalli jumped out of the second car, ran across to join them and opened the back door of the third car so that Lloyd Adams could get out.

Calder Marshall was waiting on the loading dock, and walked forward to greet the President.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Marshall,” said the actor, thrusting out his hand. “I’ve been looking forward to this occasion for some time.”

“As, indeed, have we, Mr. President. May I on behalf of my staff welcome you to the National Archives of the United States. Will you please follow me.”

Lloyd Adams and his entourage dutifully followed Mr. Marshall straight into the spartan freight elevator. As one of the Secret Service agents kept his finger on the “open” button, Cavalli gave the order for the motorcade to return to its starting point. Six motorcycles and the twelve vehicles moved off and began the journey back to rejoin the director and prepare for the second shoot.

The whole exercise of getting the actor into the building and the motorcade started on its return journey had taken less than two minutes, but Cavalli was dismayed to see that a small crowd had already gathered on the far side of the road by the Federal Trade Commission, obviously sensing something important was taking place. He only hoped Andy could deal with the problem.

Cavalli quickly slipped into the elevator, wedging himself behind Adams. Marshall had already begun a short history of how the Declaration of Independence had ended up in the National Archives. “Most people know that John Adams and Thomas Jefferson drafted the Declaration that was approved by Congress on July 4th, 1776. Few, however, know that the second and third Presidents died on the same day, July 4th, 1826 — fifty years to the day after the official signing.” The elevator doors opened on the ground floor and Marshall stepped out into a marble corridor and led them in the direction of his office.

“The Declaration had a long and turbulent journey, Mr. President, before it ended up safely in this building.”

When they reached the fifth door on the left, Marshall guided the President and his staff into his office, where coffee awaited them. Two of the Secret Service agents stepped inside while the other six remained in the corridor.

Lloyd Adams sipped his coffee as Marshall ignored his in favor of continuing the history lesson. “After the signing ceremony, on August 2nd, 1776, the Declaration was filed in Philadelphia, but because of the danger of the document being captured by the British, the engrossed parchment was taken to Baltimore in a covered wagon.”

“Fascinating,” said Adams in a soft drawl. “But had it been captured by the British infantry, copies would still have been in existence, no doubt?”

“Oh certainly, Mr. President. Indeed, we have a good example of one in this building executed by William J. Stone. However, the original remained in Baltimore until 1777, when it was returned to the relative safety of Philadelphia.”

“In another wagon?” asked the President.

“Indeed,” said Marshall, not realizing his guest was joking. “We even know the name of the man who drove it, a Mr. Samuel Smith. Then, in 1800, by direction of President Adams, the Declaration was moved to Washington, where it first found a home in the Treasury Department, but between 1800 and 1814 it was moved all over the city, eventually ending up in the old War Office Building on 17th Street.”

“And, of course, we were still at war with Britain at that time,” said the actor.

Cavalli admired the way Adams had not only learned his lines, but done his research so thoroughly.

“That is correct, Mr. President,” said the Archivist. “And when the British fleet appeared in Chesapeake Bay, the Secretary of State, James Monroe, ordered that the document be moved once again. Because, as I am sure you know, Mr. President, it is the Secretary of State who is responsible for the safety of the parchment, not the President.”

Lloyd Adams did know, but wasn’t sure if the President would have, so he decided to play safe. “Is that right, Mr. Marshall? Then perhaps it should be Warren Christopher who is here today to view the Declaration, and not me.”

“The Secretary of State was kind enough to visit us soon after he took office,” Marshall replied.

“But he didn’t want the document moved again,” said the actor. Marshall, Cavalli, the Lieutenant and the physician dutifully laughed before the Archivist continued.

“Monroe, having spotted the British advancing on Washington, dispatched the Declaration on a journey up the Potomac to Leesburg, Virginia.”

“August 24th,” said Adams, “when they razed the White House to the ground.”

“Precisely,” said Marshall. “You are well informed, sir.”

“To be fair,” said the actor, “I’ve been well briefed by my Special Assistant, Rex Butterworth.”

Marshall showed his recognition of the name, but Cavalli wondered if the actor was being just a little too clever.

“That night,” continued Marshall, “while the White House was ablaze, thanks to Monroe’s foresight the Declaration was stored safely in Leesburg.”

“So when did they bring the parchment back to Washington?” asked Adams, who could have told the Archivist the exact date.

“Not for several weeks, sir. On September 17th, 1814, to be precise. With the exception of a trip to Philadelphia for the Centennial celebrations and its time in Fort Knox during World War II, the Declaration has remained in the capital ever since.”

“But not in this building,” said Adams.

“No, Mr. President, you’re right again. It had several other homes before ending up here, the worst being the Patent Office, where it hung opposite a window and was for years exposed to sunlight, causing the parchment irreparable damage.”

Bill O’Reilly stood in the corner, thinking how many hours of work he had had to do and how many copies he had had to destroy during the preparation stage because of that particular piece of stupidity. He cursed all those who had ever worked in the Patent Office.

“How long did it hang there?” asked Adams.

“For thirty-five years,” said Marshall, with a sigh that showed he was every bit as annoyed as Dollar Bill that his predecessors had been so irresponsible. “In 1877 the Declaration was moved to the State Department library. Not only was smoking common at the time, but there was also an open fireplace in the room. And, I might add, the building was damaged by fire only months after the parchment had been moved.”

“That was a close one,” said Adams.

“After World War II was over,” continued Marshall, “the Declaration was taken from Fort Knox and brought back to Washington in a Pullman carriage before it was housed in the Library of Congress.”

“I hope it wasn’t exposed to the light once again,” said Adams as Cavalli’s phone rang.

Cavalli slipped into the corner and listened to the director tell him, “We’re back on the starting line, ready to go whenever you are.”

“I’ll call when I need you,” was all Cavalli said. He switched his phone off and returned to listen to the Archivist’s disquisition.

“...in a Thermapane case equipped with a filter to screen out damaging ultraviolet light.”

“Fascinating. But when did the document finally reach this building?” asked Adams.

“On December 13th, 1952. It was transported from the Library of Congress to the National Archives in a tank under the armed escort of the U.S. Marine Corps.”

“First a covered wagon, and finally a tank,” said the actor, who noticed that Cavalli kept glancing at his watch. “Perhaps the time has come for me to see the Declaration in its full glory.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” said the Archivist.

Marshall led the way back into the corridor, followed by the actor and his entourage.

“The Declaration can normally be seen by the public in the rotunda on the ground floor, but we shall view it in the vault where it is stored at night.” When they reached the end of the corridor the Archivist led the President down a flight of stairs while Cavalli kept checking over the route that would allow them the swiftest exit if any trouble arose. He was delighted to find that the Archivist had followed his instructions and kept the corridors clear of any staff.

At the bottom of the steps, they came to a halt outside a vast steel door at which an elderly man in a long white coat stood waiting. His eyes lit up when he saw the actor.

“This is Mr. Mendelssohn,” said Marshall. “Mr. Mendelssohn is the Senior Conservator and, I confess, the real expert on anything to do with the parchment. He’ll be your guide for the next few minutes before we visit the rest of the building.”

The actor stepped forward, and once again thrust out his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Mendelssohn.”

The elderly man bowed, shook the actor’s hand and pushed the steel door open.

“Please follow me, Mr. President,” he said in a mid-European accent. Once inside the tiny vault, Cavalli watched his men spread out in a small circle, their eyes checking everything except the President. Bill O’Reilly, Angelo and Debbie also took their places as they had rehearsed the previous evening.

Cavalli quickly glanced at Dollar Bill, who looked as if it was he who might be in need of a physician.

Mendelssohn guided the actor towards a massive block of concrete that took up a large area of the far wall.

He patted the slab of concrete and explained that the protective shell had been built at a time when the nation’s greatest fear had been a nuclear attack.

“The Declaration is covered in five tons of interlocking leaves of metal, embedded in the fifty-five-ton concrete steel vault you see before you. I can asssure you, Mr. President,” Mendelssohn added, “if Washington was razed to the ground, the Declaration of Independence would still be in one piece.”

“Impressive,” said Adams, “most impressive.”

Cavalli checked his watch, it was 10:24, and they’d already been inside the building for seventeen minutes. Although the limousines were waiting, he had no choice but to allow the Conservator to carry on at his own pace. After all, their hosts were aware of the limitations on the President’s time if they were still hoping to show him around the rest of the building.

“The entire system, Mr. President,” continued the Conservator enthusiastically, “is worked electronically. At the press of a button, the Declaration, which is always exhibited and stored in an upright position, travels up from this level through interlocking doors which open before the document finally comes to rest in a case of solid bronze, protected by ballistically tested glass and plastic laminate. Ultraviolet filters in the laminate give the inner layer a slightly greenish hue.” The actor looked lost, but Mr. Mendelssohn continued, quite unconcerned, “We are presently standing some twenty-two feet below the exhibit hall, and as the mechanics can be worked manually, I am able to stop the machinery at any time. With your permission, Mr. Marshall.”

The Archivist nodded, and the Conservator touched a button that neither the actor nor Cavalli had spotted until that moment. The five-ton leaves began to slide apart above their heads, and a sudden whirling and clanking sounded as the massive brass frame that housed the parchment began its daily journey towards the ceiling. When the frame had reached desk height, Mr. Mendelssohn pressed a second button, and the whirling sound instantly ceased. He then raised an open palm in the direction of the casing.

Lloyd Adams took a step forward and stared across at the nation’s most important historic document.

“Now, remembering your personal wish, Mr. President, we in turn have a small request of you.”

The actor seemed uncertain what his lines were meant to be, and glanced towards Cavalli in the wings.

“And what might that request be?” prompted Cavalli, apprehensive of any change of plan at this late stage.

“Simply,” said Mr. Mendelssohn, “that while the Archivist and I are removing the outer casing of the Declaration, your men will be kind enough to turn and face the wall.”

Cavalli hesitated, aware that the Secret Service would never allow a situation to arise where they could not see the President at all times.

“Let me make it easier for you, Mr. Mendelssohn,” said Adams. “I’ll be the first to comply with your request.” The actor turned away from the document, and the rest of the team followed suit.

In the brief space of time that the team was unable to see what was going on behind them, Cavalli heard twelve distinct clicks and the exaggerated sighs of two men not used to moving heavy weights.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” said Calder Marshall. “I hope that didn’t put you to too much inconvenience.”

The thirteen intruders turned around to face the massive frame. The bronze casing had been lifted over to leave the impression of an open book.

Lloyd Adams, with Cavalli and Dollar Bill a pace behind, stepped forward to admire the original while Marshall and the Conservator continued to stare at the old parchment. Suddenly, without warning, the actor reeled back, clutching his throat, and collapsed to the ground. Four of the Secret Service agents immediately surrounded Adams while the other four bundled the Archivist and the Conservator out of the vault and into the corridor before they could utter a word. Tony had to admit Johnny was right — it had been a bad case of overacting.

Once the door was closed, Cavalli turned to see Dollar Bill already staring at the parchment, his eyes alight with excitement, the Lieutenant by his side.

“Time for us to get to work, Angelo,” said the Irishman. He stretched his fingers out straight. The Lieutenant removed a pair of thin rubber gloves from the doctor’s bag and pulled them over his hands. Dollar Bill wiggled his fingers like a concert pianist about to begin a recital. Once the gloves were in place, Angelo bent down again and lifted a long, thin knife out of the bag, placing the handle firmly in Dollar Bill’s right hand.

While these preparations were being carried out, Dollar Bill’s eyes had never once left the document. Those who remained in the room were so silent that it felt like a tomb as the forger leaned over towards the parchment and placed the blade of the knife gently under the top right-hand corner. It peeled slowly back, and he transferred the knife to the left-hand corner, and that too came cleanly away. Dollar Bill passed the knife back to Angelo before he began rolling the parchment up slowly and as tightly as he could without harming it.

At the same time, Angelo flicked back the handle of his dress sword and held the long shaft out in front of him. Cavalli took a step forward and slowly pulled out Dollar Bill’s counterfeit copy from the specially constructed chamber where the sword’s blade would normally have lodged.

Cavalli and Dollar Bill exchanged their prizes and reversed the process. While Cavalli slid the original Declaration inch by inch down the scabbard of the dress sword, Dollar Bill began to unroll his fake carefully onto the backplate of the laminated glass, the moist chemical mixture helping the document to remain in place. The counterfeiter sniffed loudly. The strong smell suggested thymol to his sensitive nose. Dollar Bill gave his copy one more long look, checked the spelling correction and then took a step backwards, reluctantly leaving his masterpiece to the tender care of the National Archives and its concrete prison.

Once he had completed his task Dollar Bill walked quickly over to the side of Lloyd Adams. Debbie had already undone his collar, loosened his tie and applied a little pale foundation to his face. The forger bent down on one knee, took off the rubber gloves and dropped them into a physician’s bag full of makeup as Cavalli dialed a number on his cellular phone.

It was answered even before he heard a ring, but Cavalli could only just make out a faint voice.

“Take two,” said Cavalli firmly, and rang off before pointing at the door. One of the Secret Service agents swung the steel grid wide open and Cavalli watched carefully as Mr. Mendelssohn came charging through the gap and headed straight to the brass encasement, while Marshall, who was pale and quivering, went immediately to the side of the President.

Cavalli was relieved to see a smile come across the lips of the Conservator as he leaned over the fake Declaration. With the help of Angelo, he pulled the brass casing across and gave the manuscript a loving stare before fixing the lid back into place, then quickly tightened the twelve locks around the outside of the casing. He pressed one of the buttons and the whirling and clanking noise began again as the massive brass frame slowly disappeared back into the ground.

Cavalli turned his attention to the actor and watched as two of the Secret Service agents helped him to his feet, while Dollar Bill fastened his physician’s bag.

“What chemical is it that protects the parchment?” asked Dollar Bill.

“Thymol,” replied the Archivist.

“Of course, I should have guessed. With the President’s allergy problem, I might have expected this reaction. Don’t panic. As long as we get him out in the fresh air as quickly as possible, he’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“Thank God for that,” said Marshall, who hadn’t stopped shaking.

“Amen,” said the little Irishman as the actor was helped towards the door.

Marshall quickly rushed to the front and led them back up the stairs, with the Secret Service agents following as close behind as possible.

Cavalli left Lloyd Adams stumbling behind him while he caught up with the Archivist. “No one, I repeat, no one, must hear about this incident,” he said, running by Marshall’s side. “Nothing could be more damaging to the President when he has only been in office for such a short time, especially remembering what Mr. Bush went through after his trip to Japan.”

“After his trip to Japan. Of course, of course.”

“If any of your staff should ask why the President didn’t complete his tour of the building, stick to the line that he was called back to the White House on urgent business.”

“Called back on urgent business. Of course,” said Marshall, who was now whiter than the actor.

Cavalli was relieved to find his earlier orders about no staff being allowed in the lower corridor while the President was in the building still remained in force.

Once they had reached the freight elevator, and all the group was inside, they descended to the level of the loading dock. Once the doors opened, Cavalli sprinted ahead of them up the ramp and onto 7th Street.

He was annoyed to find that there was still a small crowd on the far sidewalk, and no sign of the motorcade. He looked anxiously to his right, where Andy was now standing on the bench, pointing towards Pennsylvania Avenue. Cavalli turned to look in the same direction and saw the first motorcycle escort turning right into 7th Street.

He ran back down the ramp to find Lloyd Adams next to a Federal Express pickup box, being propped up by two Secret Service agents.

“Let’s make it snappy,” said Cavalli. “There’s a small crowd out there and they’re beginning to wonder what’s going on.” He turned to face the Archivist, who was standing next to the Conservator on the loading dock.

“Please remember, the President was called back to the White House on urgent business.” They both nodded vigorously as four of the Secret Service agents rushed forward just as the third car, engine running, pulled up to the loading dock at the bottom of the ramp.

Cavalli opened the door of the third limousine and frantically waved the actor in. The lead riders on the motorcycles held up the traffic as the final car came to a halt at the mouth of the delivery entrance. As Lloyd Adams was assisted into the limousine, the small crowd on the other side of the road began pointing and clapping.

One of the Secret Service agents nodded back in the direction of the building. Angelo ran forward and jumped into the second car, still clinging to the sword, while Dollar Bill and the secretary piled into the fourth. By the time Cavalli had joined Angelo in the back of the second car and given the signal to move, the motorcycle escort was already in the middle of 7th Street holding up the traffic to allow the motorcade to proceed towards Constitution Avenue.

As the sirens blared and the limousines began their journey down 7th Street, Cavalli looked back and was relieved to see there was no longer any sign of Marshall or Mendelssohn.

He quickly switched his attention to the east side of 7th Street, where Andy was explaining to the crowd that it had not been the President but simply a rehearsal for a movie, nothing more. Most of the onlookers showed their obvious disappointment and quickly began to disperse.

Then he thought he saw him again.

As Cavalli’s car sped down Constitution Avenue, the lead police car was already turning right into 14th Street, accompanied by two of the outriders. The sirens had been turned off, and the rest of the motorcade peeled off one by one as they reached their allotted intersections.

The first car swung right on 9th Street and right again back onto Pennsylvania Avenue before heading away in the direction of the Capitol. The third continued on down Constitution Avenue, keeping to the center lane, while the fourth turned left onto 12th Street and the sixth right at 13th.

The fifth turned left on 23rd Street, crossing Memorial Bridge and following the signs to Old Town, while the second car turned left at 14th Street and headed towards the Jefferson Memorial and onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway.

Cavalli, who was seated in the back of the second car, dialed the director. When Johnny answered the phone, the only words he heard were, “It’s a wrap.”

Chapter Fifteen

Scott prayed that the Ambassador’s wife would be unable to get away on Thursday, or might still be in Geneva. He remembered Dexter Hutchins saying, “Patience is not a virtue when you work for the CIA, it’s nine-tenths of the job.”

When he stopped at the end of the pool Hannah told him that the Ambassador’s wife hadn’t returned from Switzerland. They didn’t bother to swim another length, and agreed to meet later at the amusement park in the boi de Vincennes.

The moment he saw her walking across the road he wanted to touch her. There were no instructions in any of the CIA handbooks on how to deal with such a situation, and no agent had ever raised the problem with him during the past nine years.

Hannah briefed him on everything that was happening at the embassy, including “something big” taking place in Geneva that she didn’t yet know the details of. Scott told her in reply to her question that he had reported back to Kratz, and that it wouldn’t be long before she was taken out. She seemed pleased.

Once they began to talk of other things, Scott’s training warned him that he ought to insist she return to the embassy. But this time he left Hannah to make the decision as to when she should leave. She seemed to relax for the first time, and even laughed at Scott’s stories about the macho Parisians he met up with in the gym every evening.

As they strolled around the amusement park, Scott discovered it was Hannah who won the teddy bears at the shooting gallery and didn’t feel sick on the Big Dipper.

“Why are you buying cotton candy?” he asked.

“Because then no one will think we’re agents,” she replied. “They’ll assume we’re lovers.”

When they parted two hours later he kissed her on the cheek. Two professionals behaving like amateurs. He apologized. She laughed and disappeared.

Shortly after ten o’clock, Hamid Al Obaydi joined a small crowd that had formed on the sidewalk opposite a back entrance of the National Archives. He had to wait some twenty minutes before the door opened again and Cavalli came running up the ramp just as the motorcade reappeared on the corner of 7th Street. Cavalli gave a signal and they all came rushing out to the waiting cars. Al Obaydi couldn’t believe his eyes. The deception completely fooled the small crowd, who began waving and cheering.

As the first car disappeared around the corner, a man who had been there all the time explained that it was not the President but simply the rehearsal for a film.

Al Obaydi smiled at this double deception while the disappointed crowd drifted away. He crossed 7th Street and joined a long line of tourists, schoolchildren and the simply curious who had formed a line to see the Declaration of Independence.

The thirty-nine steps of the National Archives took as many minutes to ascend, and by the time the Deputy Ambassador entered the rotunda the river of people had thinned to a tributary which flowed on across the marble hall to a single line up a further nine steps, ending in a trickle under the gaze of Thomas Jefferson and John Hancock. Before him stood the massive brass frame that housed the Declaration of Independence.

Al Obaydi noted that when a person reached the parchment he was only able to spend a few moments gazing at the historic document. As his foot touched the first of the steps his heart started beating faster, but for a different reason from everyone else waiting in the line. He removed from his inside pocket a pair of spectacles whose glass could magnify the smallest writing by a degree of four.

The Deputy Ambassador walked across to the center of the top step and stared at the Declaration of Independence. His immediate reaction was one of horror. The document was so perfect it must surely be the original. Cavalli had fooled him. Worse, he had succeeded in stealing ten million dollars by a clever deception. Al Obaydi checked that the guards on each side of the encasement were showing no particular interest in him before putting on the spectacles.

He leaned over so that his nose was only an inch from the glass as he searched for the one word that had to be spelled correctly if they expected to be paid another cent.

His eyes widened in disbelief when he came to the sentence: “Nor have we been wanting in attentions to our British brethren.”

The Ambassador’s wife returned from Geneva with her husband the following Friday. Hannah and Scott had managed to steal a few hours together that morning.

It had been less than three weeks since he had first seen her in the public baths in the boulevard Lannes. Just over a week since that first hastily arranged meeting at the little café on the avenue Bugeaud. That was when the lies had begun; little ones to start with, that grew larger until they had spun themselves into an intricate web of deceit. Now Scott longed to tell her the truth, but as each day passed it became more and more impossible.

Langley had been delighted with the coded messages, and Dexter had congratulated him on doing such a first-class job. “As good a junior field officer as I can remember,” Dexter admitted. But Scott had discovered no code to let the Deputy Director know he was falling in love.

He had read Hannah’s file from cover to cover, but it gave no clue as to her real character. The way she laughed — a smile that could make you smile however sad or angry you were. A mind that was always fascinating and fascinated by what was happening around her. But most of all a warmth and gentleness that made their time apart seem like an eternity.

And whenever he was with her, he was suddenly no more mature than his students. Their clandestine meetings had rarely been for more than an hour, perhaps two, but it made each occasion all the more intense.

She continued to tell him everything about herself with a frankness and honesty that belied his deceit, while he told her nothing but a string of lies about being a Mossad agent whose front, while he was stationed in Paris, was writing a book, a travel book, which would never be published. That was the trouble with lies — each one created the next in a never-ending spiral. And that was the trouble with trust; she believed his every word.

When he returned home that evening, he made a decision he knew Langley would not approve of.

As the car edged its way into the left lane of the George Washington Memorial Parkway bound for the airport the driver checked the rearview mirror and confirmed no one was following them. Cavalli breathed a deep sigh of relief, though he had two alternative plans worked out if they were caught with the Declaration. He’d realized early on that it would be necessary to get as far away from the scene of the crime as quickly as possible. It had always been a crucial part of the plan that he would hand over the document to Nick Vicente within two hours of its leaving the National Archives.

“So let’s get on with it,” said Cavalli, turning his attention to Angelo, who was seated opposite him. Angelo unbuckled the sword that hung from the belt around his waist. The two men then faced each other like Japanese sumo wrestlers, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Angelo placed the sword firmly between his legs, the handle pointing towards his boss. Cavalli leaned over and snapped the top back. Then, with the nail of his right thumb and forefinger, he extracted the thin black cylinder from its casing. Angelo pressed the handle back in place and hitched the sword onto his belt.

Cavalli held the twenty-six-inch-long slim plastic cylinder in his hands.

“It must be tempting to have a look,” said Angelo.

“There are more important things to do at the moment,” said Cavalli, placing the cylinder on the seat next to him. He picked up the carphone, pressed a single digit followed by “Send” and then waited for a response.

“Yes?” said a recognizable voice.

“I’m on my way, and I’ll have something to declare when I arrive.” There was a long silence, and Cavalli wondered if he had lost the connection.

“You’ve done well,” came back the eventual reply. “But are you running on schedule?”

Cavalli looked out of the window. The exit sign for Route 395 South flashed past. “I’d say we’re about a couple of minutes from the airport. As long as we make our allocated time slot, I still hope to be with you around one o’clock.”

“Good, then I’ll have Nick join us so that the contract can be picked up and sent on to our client. We’ll expect you around one.”

Cavalli replaced the phone and was amused to find Angelo was dressed only in a vest and underpants. He smiled and was about to comment when the phone rang. Cavalli picked it up.

“Yes,” he said.

“It’s Andy. I thought you’d like to know it’s back on display to the general public and the lines are as long as ever. By the way, an Arab stood around in the crowd the whole time you were in the building, and then joined the line to see the Declaration.”

“Well done, Andy. Get yourself back to New York. You can fill me in on the details tomorrow.”

Cavalli put the phone down and considered Andy’s new piece of information as Angelo was completing a Windsor knot on a tie no lieutenant would have been seen dead in. He still didn’t have his trousers on.

The smoked glass between the driver and the passengers slid down.

“We’re just coming up to the terminal, sir. No one has followed us at any point.”

“Good,” said Cavalli as Angelo hurriedly pulled on his trousers. “Once you’ve changed your license plates, drive back to New York.”

The driver nodded as the limousine came to a halt outside Signature Flight Support.

Cavalli grabbed the plastic tube, jumped out of the car, ran through the terminal and out onto the tarmac. His eyes searched for the white Learjet. When he spotted it, a door opened and the steps were lowered to the ground. Cavalli ran towards them as Angelo followed him, trying to pull on his jacket in the high wind.

The Captain was waiting for them on the top step. “You’ve just made it in time for us to keep our slot,” he told them. Cavalli smiled, and once they had both clicked on their seatbelts, the Captain pressed a button to allow the steps to swing back into place.

The plane lifted off seventeen minutes later, banking over the Kennedy Center, but not before the steward had served them each a glass of champagne. Cavalli rejected the offer of a second glass as he concentrated on what still needed to be done before he could consider his role in the operation completed. His thoughts turned once again to Al Obaydi, and he began to wonder if he’d underestimated him.

When the Learjet landed at La Guardia fifty-seven minutes later, Cavalli’s driver was waiting by his car, ready to whisk them into the city.

As the driver continually switched lanes and changed direction on the highway that would eventually take them west over the Triborough Bridge, Cavalli checked his watch. They were now lost in a sea of traffic heading into Manhattan, only eighty-seven minutes after leaving Calder Marshall outside the delivery entrance of the National Archives. Roughly the time it would take a Wall Street banker to have lunch, Cavalli thought.

Cavalli was dropped outside his father’s 75th Street brownstone just before one, leaving Angelo to go on to the Wall Street office and monitor the checking-in calls as each member of the team filed his report.

The butler held open the front door of number 23 as Tony stepped out of the car.

“Can I take that for you, sir?” he asked, eyeing the plastic tube.

“No, thank you, Martin,” said Tony. “I’ll hold on to it for the moment. Where’s my father?”

“He’s in the boardroom with Mr. Vicente, who arrived a few minutes ago.”

Tony jogged down the staircase that led to the basement and continued across the corridor. He strode into the boardroom to find his father sitting at the head of the table, deep in conversation with Nick Vicente. The chairman stood up to greet his son, and Tony passed him the plastic tube.

“Hail, conquering hero,” were his father’s first words. “If you’d pulled off the same trick for George III, he would have made you a knight. ‘Arise, Sir Antonio.’ But as it is, you’ll have to be satisfied with a hundred million dollars’ compensation. Is it permissible for an old man to see the original before Nick whisks it away?”

Cavalli laughed and removed the cap from the top of the cylinder before slowly extracting the parchment and placing it gently on the boardroom table. He then unrolled two hundred years of history. The three men stared down at the Declaration of Independence and quickly checked the spelling of “British.”

“Magnificent,” was all Tony’s father said as he began licking his lips.

“Interesting how the names on the bottom were left with so little space for their signatures,” observed Nick Vicente after he had studied the document for several minutes.

“If they’d all signed their names the same size as John Hancock, we would have needed a Declaration of twice the length,” added the chairman as the phone on the boardroom table started to ring.

The chairman flicked a button on his intercom. “Yes, Martin?”

“There’s a Mr. Al Obaydi on the private line, says he would like to have a word with Mr. Tony.”

“Thank you, Martin,” said the chairman, as Tony leaned over to pick up the call. “Why don’t you take it in my office, then I can listen in on the extension.”

Tony nodded and left the room to go next door, where he picked up the receiver on his father’s desk. “Antonio Cavalli,” he said.

“Hamid Al Obaydi here. Your father suggested I call back around this time.”

“We are in possession of the document you require,” was all Cavalli said.

“I congratulate you, Mr. Cavalli.”

“Are you ready to complete the payment as agreed?”

“All in good time, but not until you have delivered the document to the place of our choosing, Mr. Cavalli, as I’m sure you will recall was also part of the bargain.”

“And where might that be?” asked Cavalli.

“I shall come to your office at twelve o’clock tomorrow, when you will receive your instructions.” He paused. “Among other things.” The line went dead.

Cavalli put the phone down and tried to think what Al Obaydi could possibly mean by “Among other things.” He walked slowly back to the boardroom to find his father and Nick poring over the Declaration. Tony noticed that the parchment had been turned around.

“What do you think he meant by ‘Among other things’?” Tony asked.

“I’ve no idea,” replied his father as he gave the parchment one last look and then began slowly to roll it up.

“No doubt I’ll find out tomorrow,” said Tony as the chairman handed the document to his son, who carefully slipped it back into its plastic container.

“So where’s its final destination to be?” asked Nick.

“I’ll be given the details at twelve o’clock tomorrow,” said Tony, a little surprised that his father hadn’t reported the phone conversation with Al Obaydi to his oldest friend.

Chapter Sixteen

He lay watching her, his head propped up in the palm of his hand, as the first sunlight of the morning crept into the room. She stirred but didn’t wake as Scott began to run a solitary finger down her spine. He couldn’t wait for her to open her eyes and revive his memories of the previous night.

When Scott had, in those early days, watched Hannah walking from the Jordanian Embassy, dressed in those drab clothes so obviously selected with Karima Saib’s tastes in mind, he thought she still looked stunning. Some packages, when you remove the brightly colored wrapping, fail to live up to expectation. When Hannah had first taken off the dowdy little two-piece suit she had been wearing that day, he had stood there in disbelief that anyone could be so beautiful.

He pulled back the single sheet that covered her and admired the sight that had taken his breath away the night before. Her short-cropped hair; he wondered how the long flowing strands would look when they fell on her shoulders as she wanted them to. The nape of her neck, the smooth olive skin of her back and the long, shapely legs.

His hands were like a child’s that had opened a stocking full of presents and wanted to touch everything at once. He ran his fingers down her shoulders to the arch of her back, hoping she would turn over. He moved a little closer, leaned across and began to circle her firm breasts with a single finger. The circles became smaller and smaller until he reached her soft nipple. He heard her sigh, and this time she did turn and fall into his arms, her fingers clinging to his shoulders as he pulled her closer.

“It’s not fair, you’re taking advantage of me,” she said drowsily as his hand moved up the inside of her thigh.

“I’m sorry,” he said, removing his hand and kissing her cheek.

“Don’t be sorry. For heaven’s sake, Simon, I want you to take advantage of me,” she said, pulling his body closer to her. He continued to stroke her skin, all the time discovering new treasures.

When he entered her, she sighed a different sigh, the sigh of morning love, calmer and more gentle than the demands of the night, but every bit as enjoyable.

For Scott it had been a new experience. Although he had made love many more times than he cared to remember, it had never been with the same excitement.

When they finished making love, she rested her head on his shoulder and he brushed a hair from her cheek, praying the next hour would go slowly. He hated the thought of her returning to the embassy that morning as he knew she eventually must. He didn’t want to share her with anybody.

The room was now bathed in the morning sun, which only made him wonder when he’d next be allowed to spend a whole night with her.

The Head of Interest Section had been called straight back to Geneva on urgent business, and had taken only one secretary with him, leaving Hannah in Paris on her own for the weekend. She only wished she could tell Simon what it was all about, so he could pass the information on to Kratz.

She had double-locked her room and left the embassy compound by the fire escape. Hannah told him that she had felt like a schoolgirl creeping out of her dormitory to join a midnight feast.

“Better than any feast I can remember,” were his last words before they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The day had begun when they had gone shopping together in the boulevard Saint-Michel and bought clothes she couldn’t wear and a tie he would never have considered before he met her. They’d had lunch at a corner café and taken two hours to eat a salad and drink a bottle of wine. They had strolled down the Champs Élysées, hand in hand as lovers should, before joining the line to see the Clodion exhibition at the Louvre. A chance to teach her something he thought he knew about, only to find it was he who did the learning. He bought her a floppy tourist hat in the little shop at the base of the Eiffel Tower and was reminded that she always looked stunning whatever she wore.

They had dinner at Maxim’s but only ate one course, as they both knew by then that all they really wanted to do was return to his little flat on the Left Bank.

He remembered how he had stood there mesmerized as Hannah removed each garment until she became so embarrassed that she began to take off his clothes. It was almost as if he didn’t want to make love to her, because he hoped the anticipation might go on forever.

Of all the women, including the occasional promiscuous student, with whom he had had one-night stands, casual affairs, even sometimes what he had imagined was love, he had never known anything like this. And afterwards, he discovered something else he had never experienced before: the sheer joy of just lying in her arms was every bit as exhilarating as making love.

His finger ran down the nape of her neck. “What time do you have to be back?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

“One minute before the Ambassador.”

“And when’s he expected?”

“His flight’s due in from Geneva at eleven-twenty. So I’d better be at my desk before twelve.”

“Then we still have time to make love once more,” he said as he placed a finger on her lips.

She bit the finger gently.

“Ow,” he said mockingly.

“Only once?” she replied.

Debbie brought the Deputy Ambasador through to Cavalli’s office at twenty past twelve. Neither man commented on the fact that Al Obaydi was late. Cavalli indicated the chair on the other side of his desk, and waited for the visitor to be seated. For the first time, he felt strangely uneasy about the Arab.

“As I mentioned yesterday,” Cavalli began, “we are now in possession of the document you require. We are therefore ready to exchange it for the sum agreed.”

“Ah, yes, the ninety million dollars,” said the Iraqi, placing the tips of his fingers together just below his chin while he considered his next statement. “Cash on delivery, if I remember correctly.”

“You do,” said Cavalli. “So now all we need to know is where and when.”

“We require the document to be delivered to Geneva by twelve o’clock next Tuesday. The recipient will be a Monsieur Pierre Dummond of the bankers Dummond et cie.”

“But that only gives me six days to find a safe route out of the country and—”

“Your God created the world in that time, if I remember Genesis correctly. Such a fatuous story,” added Al Obaydi, “that I didn’t bother with Exodus.”

“The Declaration will be in Geneva by Tuesday midday,” said Cavalli.

“Good,” said Al Obaydi. “And if Monsieur Dummond is satisfied that the document is authentic, he has been given instructions to release the sum of ninety million dollars by wire transfer to any bank of your choice in the world. If, on the other hand, you fail to deliver, or the document proves to be a fake, we will have lost ten million dollars, with nothing to show for it but a three-minute film made by a world-famous director. In that eventuality, a package similar to this one will be posted to the Director of the FBI and the Commissioner of the IRS.”

Al Obaydi removed a thick envelope from his inside pocket and tossed it across the table. Cavalli’s expression did not change as the Deputy Ambassador rose, bowed and walked out of the room without another word.

Cavalli felt sure he was about to discover what “among other things” meant.

He ripped open the bulky yellow envelope and allowed the contents to spill out onto his desk. Photographs, dozens of them, and documents with bank note serial numbers attached to them. He glanced at the photographs of himself in deep conversation with Al Calabrese on the sidewalk in front of the National Café, another of himself with Gino Sartori in the center of Freedom Plaza and yet another with the director sitting on the dolly as they talked to the former Deputy Chief of the D.C. Police Department. Al Obaydi had even taken a photograph of Rex Butterworth entering the Willard Hotel and of the actor, baldheaded, sitting in the third car, and later getting into the limo outside the Archives’ loading dock.

Cavalli began drumming his fingers on the table. It was then that he remembered the nagging doubt at the back of his mind. It was Al Obaydi he had seen in the crowd the previous day. He had underestimated the Iraqi. Perhaps the time had come to call their man in Lebanon and inform him of the Swiss bank account he had opened in the Deputy Ambassador’s name.

No. That would have to wait until after the ninety million had been paid in full.

“What do I do, Simon, if he offers me the job?”

Scott hesitated. He had no idea what Mossad would expect her to do. He knew exactly what he wanted her to do. It was no use putting the question to Dexter Hutchins in Virginia, because they wouldn’t have hesitated to tell him to continue using Hannah for their own purposes.

Hannah turned towards what Scott laughingly described as the kitchen. “Perhaps you could ask Colonel Kratz what I should do,” she suggested when he didn’t reply. “Explain to him that the Ambassador wants me to take Muna’s place, but that another problem has arisen.”

“What’s that?” asked Scott anxiously.

“The Ambassador’s term of office comes to an end early next month. He may well be asked to stay in Paris, but the Chief Administrator is telling everyone that he’s going to be called back to Baghdad and promoted to Deputy Foreign Minister.”

Scott still didn’t offer an opinion.

“What’s the matter, Simon? Are you incapable of making a decision at this time in the morning?” Scott still said nothing. “You’re just as pathetic on your feet as you are in bed,” she teased.

Scott decided the time had come to tell her everything. He wasn’t going to wait another minute. He walked out of the kitchen, took her in his arms and stroked her hair. “Hannah, I need to—” he began, when the phone rang. He broke away to answer it.

He listened for a few moments before saying to Dexter Hutchins, “Yes, sure. I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve had time to think about it.” What was the man doing up in the middle of the night, wondered Scott as he replaced the receiver.

“Another lover, lover?” Hannah asked with a smile.

“My publishers wanting to know when the manuscript will be finished. It’s already overdue.”

“And what will your answer be?”

“I’m currently distracted.”

“Only currently?” she said, pressing her finger on his nose.

“Well, perhaps permanently,” he admitted.

She kissed him gently on the cheek and whispered, “I must get back to the embassy, Simon. Don’t come down with me, it’s too risky.”

He held her in his arms and wanted to protest but settled for “When will I see you again?”

“Whenever the Ambassador’s wife feels in need of a swim,” Hannah said. She broke away. “But I’ll keep on reminding her how good it is for her figure, and that perhaps she ought to be taking even more exercise.” She laughed and left without another word.

Scott stood by the window, waiting for her to reappear. He hated the fact that he couldn’t just phone, write or make contact with her whenever he felt like it. He longed to send her flowers, letters, cards and notes to let her know how much he loved her.

Hannah ran out onto the sidewalk, a smile on her face. She looked up and blew Scott a kiss before she vanished around the corner.

Another man, who was cold and tired from hours of waiting, also watched her, not from a window in a warm room but from a doorway on the opposite side of the road.

The moment Scott disappeared from sight, the man stepped out of the shadows and followed the Ambassador’s second secretary back to the embassy compound.

Chapter Seventeen

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

“I fear that the truth of the matter is you don’t want to believe me,” said Kratz, who had flown from London that morning.

“But he can’t be working for any enemy of Israel.”

“If that’s the case, perhaps you can explain why he passed himself off as a Mossad agent?”

For the last two hours Hannah had tried to think of a logical reason why Simon would have deceived her, but had to admit that she had been unable to come up with a convincing answer.

“Have you told us everything you passed on to him?” Kratz demanded.

“Yes,” she said, suddenly feeling ashamed. “But have you checked with all the friendly agencies?”

“Of course we have,” said Kratz. “No one in Paris has ever heard of the man. Not the French, not the British and certainly not the CIA. Their Head of Station told me personally that they have never had anyone on their books called Simon Rosenthal.”

“So what will happen to me now?” asked Hannah.

“Do you wish to continue working for your country?”

“You know I do,” she said, glaring back at him.

“And are you still hoping to be included in the team for Baghdad?”

“Yes, of course I am. Why would I have put myself through all this in the first place if I didn’t want to be part of the final operation?”

“Then you will also want to abide by the oath you swore in the presence of your colleagues in Herzliyah.”

“Nothing would make me break that oath. You know that. Just tell me what you expect me to do.”

“I expect you to kill Rosenthal.”

Scott was delighted when Hannah confirmed on Thursday afternoon that she would be able to slip away for dinner on Friday evening, and might even find it possible to stay overnight. It seemed that the Ambassador had been called away to Geneva again. Something big was happening, but she still couldn’t find out exactly what.

Scott had already decided that three things were going to take place when they next met. First, he would cook the meal himself, despite Hannah’s comments about his inadequate kitchen. Second, he was going to tell her the truth about himself, whatever interruptions occurred. And third...

Scott felt more relaxed than he had in weeks once he had decided to “come clean,” as his mother had described it whenever he’d tried to get away with something. He knew that he would be recalled to the States once he had informed Dexter of what had happened, and that a few weeks later he would be quietly discharged. But that was no longer of any significance, because third, and most important of all, he was going to ask Hannah to come back to America with him as his wife.

Scott spent the afternoon shopping in the market for freshly baked bread, the finest wild mushrooms, succulent lamb chops and tiny ripe oranges. He returned home to prepare a feast he hoped she would never forget. He had also prepared a speech he believed she would, in time, find possible to forgive.

During the evening, Scott found himself looking up at the kitchen clock every few moments. He felt robbed if she was ever more than a few minutes late. She had failed to turn up for their previous meeting, though he accepted that she had no way of letting him know when something unexpected came up. He was relieved to see her walk through the door soon after the clock had struck eight.

Scott smiled when Hannah removed her coat, and he saw she was wearing the dress he had chosen for her when they’d gone shopping together for the first time. A long blue dress that hung loosely off the shoulders, and made her appear both elegant and sexy.

He immediately took her in his arms, and was surprised by her response. She seemed distant, almost cold. Or was he being oversensitive? Hannah broke away and stared at the table laid for two with its red-and-white check tablecloth and two sets of unmatching cutlery.

Scott poured her a glass of the white wine he had selected to go with the first course before he disappeared into the kitchen to put the final touches to his culinary efforts, aware that he and Hannah always had so little time together.

“What are you cooking?” she asked, in a dull, flat voice.

“Wait and see,” he replied. “But I can tell you the starter is something I learned when—” He stopped himself. “Many years ago,” he added rather lamely.

He didn’t see her grimace at his failure to finish the original sentence.

Scott returned to join her a few moments later, carrying two plates of piping-hot wild mushrooms, with a small slice of garlic bread. “But not too much garlic,” he promised her, “for obvious reasons.” No witty or sharp response came flying back, and he wondered if she was unable to stay overnight. He might have questioned her more closely had he not been concentrating on the dinner as well as wanting to get his speech over with.

“I wish we could get out of Paris and see Versailles, like normal people,” said Scott as he dug his fork into a mushroom.

“That would be nice,” she said.

“And even better...” She looked up and stared at him.

“A weekend at the Colmendor. I promised myself long ago when I first read the life of Matisse at...” He hesitated once again, and she lowered her head. “And that’s only France,” he said, trying to recover. “We could take a lifetime over Italy. They have a hundred Colmendors.”

He looked hopefully towards her but her eyes remained staring at the half-empty plate.

What had he done? Or was she fearful of telling him something? He dreaded the thought of learning that she was going to Baghdad when all he wanted to do was take her to Venice, Florence and Rome. If it was Baghdad that was making her anxious, he would do everything in his power to change her mind.

Scott cleared away the plates to return a few moments later with the succulent lamb Provençal. “Madam’s favorite, if I remember correctly.” But he was rewarded only with a weak smile.

“What is it, Hannah?” he asked as he took the seat opposite her. He leaned across to touch her hand, but she removed it quickly from the table.

“I’m just a little tired,” she replied unconvincingly. “It’s been a long week.”

Scott tried to discuss her work, the theater, the Clodion exhibition at the Louvre and even Clinton’s attempts to bring the three living Beatles together, but with each new effort he received the same bland response. They continued to eat in silence until his plate was empty.

“And now we shall end on my pièce de résistance.” He expected to be playfully chastised about his efforts as a chef: instead he received only the flicker of a smile and a distant, sad look from those dark, beautiful eyes. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned immediately, carrying a bowl of freshly sliced oranges with a touch of Cointreau. He placed the delicate morsels in front of her, hoping they would change her mood. But while Scott continued with his monologue Hannah remained an unreceptive audience.

He removed the bowls, his empty, hers hardly touched, and returned moments later with coffee, hers made exactly as she liked it: black, with a touch of cream floating across the top, and no sugar. His black, steaming, with too much sugar.

Just as he sat down opposite her, determined this was the moment to tell her the truth, she asked for some sugar. Scott jumped up, somewhat surprised, returned to the kitchen, tipped some sugar into a bowl, grabbed a teaspoon and came back to see her snapping closed her tiny evening bag.

After he had sat down and placed the sugar on the table he smiled at her. He had never seen such sadness in those eyes before. He poured them both a brandy, whirled his around the balloon, took a sip of his coffee and then faced her. She had not touched her coffee or brandy, and the sugar she had asked for remained in the center of the table, its little mound undented.

“Hannah,” Scott began softly, “I have something important to tell you, and I wish I had told you a long time ago.” He looked up, to find her on the verge of tears. He would have asked her why, but feared that if he allowed her to change the subject he might never tell her the truth.

“My name is not Simon Rosenthal,” he said quietly. Hannah looked surprised, but not in the way he had expected — more anxious than curious. He took another sip of coffee and then continued. “I have lied to you from the day we met, and the more deeply I fell in love with you, the more I lied.”

She didn’t speak, for which he was grateful, because on this occasion, like his lectures, he needed to proceed without interruption. His throat began to feel a little dry, so he sipped his coffee again.

“My name is Scott Bradley. I am an American, but not from Chicago as I told you when we first met. I’m from Denver.” A puzzled look came into Hannah’s eyes, but she still didn’t interrupt him. Scott plowed on.

“I am not Mossad’s agent in Paris writing a travel book. Far from it, though I confess the truth is much stranger than the fiction.” He held her hand and this time she didn’t try to remove it. “Please, let me explain, and then perhaps you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.” His throat suddenly felt drier. He finished his coffee and quickly poured himself another cup, taking an extra teaspoonful of sugar. She still hadn’t touched hers. “I was born in Denver, where I went to school. My father was a local lawyer who ended up in jail for fraud. I was so ashamed that when my mother died, I took a post at Beirut University because I could no longer face anyone I knew.” Hannah looked up and her eyes began to show sympathy. It gave Scott the confidence to continue.

“I do not work for Mossad in any capacity, nor have I ever done so.” Her lips formed a straight line. “My real job is nowhere near as romantic as that. After Beirut I returned to America to become a university professor.” She looked mystified, and then her expression suddenly changed to one of anxiety.

“Oh, yes,” he said, his words beginning to sound slightly slurred, “this time I’m telling the truth. I teach constitutional law at Yale. Let’s face it, no one would make up a story like that,” he added, trying to laugh.

He drank more coffee. It tasted less bitter than the first cup.

“But I am also what they call in the trade a part-time spy, and as it’s turned out, not a very good one. Despite many years of training and lecturing other people on how it should be done.” He paused. “But that was only in the classroom.”

She looked more anxious.

“You need have no fears,” he said, trying to reassure her. “I work for the good side, though I suppose even that depends on where you’re looking from. I’m currently a temporary field officer with the CIA.”

“The CIA?” she stammered in disbelief. “But they told me—”

“What did they tell you?” he asked quickly.

“Nothing,” she said, and lowered her head again.

Had she already known about his background, or perhaps guessed his original story didn’t add up? He didn’t care. All he wanted to do was tell the woman he loved everything about himself. No more lies. No more deceit. No more secrets. “Well, as I’m confessing, I mustn’t exaggerate,” he continued. “I go to Virginia twelve times a year to discuss with agents the problems they’ve faced while working in the field. I was full of bright ideas to assist them in the peace and comfort of Langley, but I’ll treat them with more respect now that I’ve experienced some of the problems they come up against, especially having made such a mess of things myself.”

“It can’t be true,” she said suddenly. “Tell me you’re making it up, Simon.”

“I’m afraid not, Hannah. This time it’s all true,” he said. “You must believe me. I only ended up in Paris after years of demanding to be tested in the field, because, with all my theoretical knowledge, I assumed I’d be a whiz if they just gave me the chance to prove myself. Scott Bradley, professor of constitutional law. Infallible in the eyes of his adoring students at Yale and the senior CIA operatives at Langley. There’ll be no standing ovation after this performance, of that we can both be sure.”

Hannah stood and stared down at him. “Tell me it’s not true, Simon,” she said. “It mustn’t be true. Why did you choose me? Why me?”

He stood and took her in his arms. “I didn’t choose you, I fell in love with you. They chose me. My people, my people needed to find out why Mossad had put you, put you in the Jordanian Embassy attached to the Iraqi Interest Section.” He was finding it difficult to remain coherent, and couldn’t understand why he felt so sleepy.

“But why you?” she asked, clinging to him for the first time that evening. “Why not a regular CIA agent?”

“Because, because they wanted to put someone in, someone who wouldn’t be recognized by any of the professionals.”

“Oh, my God, who am I meant to believe?” she said, breaking away. She stared helplessly at him.

“You can believe me, because I’ll prove...prove all I’ve said is true.” Scott began to move away from the table. He felt unsteady as he walked slowly over to the sideboard, bent down to pull open the bottom drawer and after some rummaging around removed a small leather case with the initials “S.B.” printed in gold on the top right-hand corner. He smiled a triumphant smile and turned back. He attempted to steady himself by resting one hand on the sideboard. He looked towards the blurred figure of the woman he loved, but could no longer see the desperate look on her face. He tried to remember how much he had already told her and how much she still needed to know.

“Oh, my darling, what have I done?” she said, her eyes now pleading.

“Nothing, it’s all been my fault,” said Scott. “But we’ll have the rest of our lives to laugh about it. That, by the way, was a proposal. Feeble, I agree, but I couldn’t love you any more than I do. You must surely realize that,” he added as he tried to take a pace towards her. She stood staring at him helplessly as he lurched forward before attempting to take a second step. Then he tried again, but this time he stumbled and collapsed across the table, finally landing with a thud on the floor at her feet.

“I can’t blame you if you don’t feel the same way as...” were his final words, as the leather case burst open, disgorging its contents all around a body that was suddenly still.

Hannah fell on her knees and took his head in her hands. She began to sob uncontrollably. “I love you, of course I love you, Simon. But why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me the truth?”

Her eyes rested on a small photo lodged between his fingers. She snatched it from his grasp. Written on the back were the words “Katherine Bradley — Summer ’66.” It must have been his mother. She grabbed the passport that lay by the side of his head and quickly turned the pages, trying to read through her tears. Male. Date of birth: 11/7/56. Profession: University Professor. She turned another page and a photo from Paris Match fell out. She stared at herself modeling an Ungaro suit from the spring collection of 1990.

“No, no. Don’t let it be true,” Hannah said as she lifted him back into her arms. “Let it be just more lies.”

And then her eyes settled on the envelope simply addressed “Hannah.” She lowered his body gently to the ground, picked up the envelope and ripped it open.

“No!” she screamed, “No!” almost unable to read his words through her tears.

“Please, God, no,” she wept as her head fell on his chest. “I love you too, Simon, I love you so much.”

“No, no, no...” Hannah cried as she bent down to kiss him. She suddenly leaped up and rushed over to the phone. She dialed 17 and screamed, “Please God, let one pill not be enough. Answer, answer, answer!” she shrieked at the phone as the doors of Scott’s apartment flew open. Hannah turned to see Kratz and another man whom she didn’t recognize come bursting in.

She dropped the phone on the floor and ran towards them, throwing herself at Kratz and knocking him to the ground.

“You bastard, you bastard!” she screamed. “You made me kill the only person I ever really loved! I hope you rot in hell!” she said as her fists pumped down into his face.

The unknown man moved quickly across and threw Hannah to one side, before the two of them picked up Scott’s limp body and carried him out of the room.

Hannah lay in the corner, weeping.

An hour passed, maybe two, before she crawled back to the table, opened her bag and removed the second pill.

Chapter Eighteen

“White House.”

“Mr. Butterworth, please.”

There was a long silence. “I don’t show anyone by that name, sir. Just a moment and I’ll put you through to Personnel.”

The Archivist waited patiently, made aware as each second passed that the new telephone system ordered by the Clinton administration was clearly overdue.

“Personnel office,” said a female voice. “How can I help you?”

“I’m trying to locate Mr. Rex Butterworth, Special Assistant to the President.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Marshall, Calder Marshall, Archivist.”

“Of—?”

“Of the United States of America.”

There was another long silence.

“The name Butterworth rings no bells with me, sir, but I’m sure you realize there are more than forty Special and Deputy Assistants to the President.”

“No, I didn’t realize,” admitted Marshall. There followed another long silence.

“According to our records,” said the female voice, “he seems to have returned to the Department of Commerce. He was a Schedule A — just here on temporary assignment.”

“Would you have a number where I might reach him?”

“No, I don’t. But if you call the department locator at the Commerce Department, I’m sure they will find him for you.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“Glad to have been of assistance, sir.”

Hannah could never recall how long she had lain huddled up in the corner of Simon’s room. She couldn’t think of him as Scott, she would always think of him as Simon. An hour, possibly two. Time no longer had any relevance for her. She could remember crawling back to the center of the room, avoiding overturned chairs and tables that would have looked more appropriate in a nightclub that had just experienced a drunken brawl.

She removed the pill from her bag and flushed it down the toilet, the automatic action of any well-drilled agent. She then began to search among the debris for any photographs she could find and, of course, the letter addressed simply to “Hannah.” She stuffed these few mementoes into her bag and tried, with the help of a fallen chair, to get back on her feet.

Later that night she lay in her bed at the embassy, staring up at the blank white ceiling, unable to recall her journey back, the route she had taken or even if she had climbed the fire escape or entered by the front door. She wondered how many nights it would be before she managed to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. How much time would have to pass before he wasn’t her every other thought?

She knew Mossad would want to take her out, hide her, protect her — as they saw it — until the French police had completed their investigation. Governments would have their diplomatic arms twisted up their diplomatic backs. The Americans would expect a lot in return for killing one of their agents, but eventually a bargain would be struck. Hannah Kopec, Simon Rosenthal and Professor Scott Bradley would become closed files. For all three of them were numbers: interchangeable, dispensable and, of course, replaceable.

She wondered what they would do with his body, the body of the man she loved. An honorable but anonymous grave, she suspected. They would argue that it must be in the interest of the greater good. Wherever they buried him, she knew they would never allow her to find his grave.

She wouldn’t have dropped the pill in the coffee in the first place if Kratz hadn’t talked again and again of the thirty-nine Scuds that had landed on the people of Israel, and in particular of the one which had killed her mother, her brother and her sister.

She might even have drawn back at the last moment if they hadn’t threatened to carry out the job themselves, should she refuse. They promised her that if that was the case, it would be a far more unpleasant death.

Just as Hannah was about to take the first pill out of her bag, she had asked Simon for some sugar, one last lifeline. Why hadn’t he grabbed at it? Why didn’t he question her, tease her about her weight, do anything that would have made her have second thoughts? But then why, why had he waited so long to tell her the truth?

If he had only realized that she had things to tell him, too. The Ambassador had been called back to Iraq — a promotion, he explained. He was, as Kanuk had been telling everyone, to become Deputy Foreign Minister, which meant that in the absence of Muhammad Saeed Al-Zahiaf, he would be working directly with Saddam Hussein.

His place at the embassy was to be taken by a Hamid Al Obaydi, the number two at the United Nations, who had recently rendered some great service for Iraq, of which she would eventually learn. The Ambassador had offered her the choice of remaining in Paris to serve under Al Obaydi, or returning to Iraq and continuing to work with him. Only days before, Mossad would have considered such an offer an irresistible opportunity.

Hannah so wanted to tell Simon that she no longer cared about Saddam, that he had made it possible for her to overcome her hatred of the Scuds, even made the death of her family a wound that might in time be healed. She knew that she was no longer capable of killing anyone, as long as she had someone to live for.

But now that Simon was dead, her desire for revenge was even stronger than before.

“Department of Commerce.”

“Rex Butterworth, please.”

“What agency?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” said the Archivist.

“What agency is Mr. Butterworth with?” asked the operator, pronouncing each word slowly, as if she were addressing a four-year-old.

“I have no idea,” admitted the Archivist.

“We don’t show anyone by that name.”

“But the White House told me—”

“I don’t care what the White House told you. If you don’t know which agency—”

“May I have the Personnel Office?”

“Just a minute.” It turned out to be far longer than a minute.

“Office of Personnel.”

“This is Calder Marshall, Archivist of the United States. May I speak to the Director?”

“I’m sorry, but he’s not available. Would you like to speak to his Executive Assistant, Alex Wagner?”

“Yes. That would be just fine,” said Marshall.

“She’s not in today. Could you call again tomorrow?”

“Yes,” said Marshall with a sigh.

“Glad to have been of assistance, sir.”

When Kratz’s car screeched to a halt outside the Centre Cardiovasculaire on bois Gilbert there were three doctors, two orderlies and a nurse waiting for them on the hospital steps. The embassy must have pulled out every stop.

The two orderlies ran forward and lifted the body gently but firmly out of the back seat of the car, carrying Scott quickly up the steps before placing him on a waiting gurney.

Even as the gurney was being wheeled down the corridor the three doctors and the nurse surrounded the body and began their examination. The nurse quickly removed Scott’s shirt and trousers while the first doctor opened his mouth to check his breathing. The second, a consultant, lowered his ear onto Scott’s chest and tried to listen for a heartbeat, while the third checked his blood pressure; none of them looked hopeful.

The consultant turned to the Mossad leader and said firmly, “Don’t waste any time with lies. How did it happen?”

“We poisoned him, but he turned out not to be—”

“I’m not interested,” he said. “What poison did you administer?”

“Ergot alkaloid,” said Kratz.

The consultant switched his attention to one of his assistants. “Ring the Hospital Widal and get me details of its action and the correct antidote, fast,” he said as the orderlies crashed through the rubber doors and into a private operating theater.

The first doctor had managed to keep Scott’s mouth open during the short journey and create an airway. He had already pressed down the tongue to leave a clear passageway to the larynx. Once the gurney had come to a stop in the theater he inserted a clear angled plastic tube of about five inches in length to ensure the tongue could not be swallowed.

The nurse then placed a mask over Scott’s nose and mouth that was connected to an oxygen supply on the wall. Attached to the side of the mask was a rubber bag, which she began pumping regularly every three or four seconds with her left hand as she held his head steady with her right. Scott’s lungs were immediately filled with oxygen.

The consultant placed an ear over Scott’s heart again. He could still hear nothing. He raised his head and nodded to an orderly who began rubbing paste on different parts of Scott’s chest. Another nurse followed him, placing small electronic discs on the paste marks. The wires from the discs were connected to a heart monitor machine that stood on a table by the side of the gurney.

The fine line that ran across the machine and registered the strength of the heartbeat produced a weak signal.

The consultant smiled below his mask, as the nurse continued to pump oxygen into the patient’s mouth and nose.

Suddenly, without warning, the heart machine gave out a piercing sound. Everyone in the operating room turned to face the monitor, which was now showing a thin, flat line running from one side of the screen to the other.

“Cardiac arrest!” shouted the consultant. He jumped forward and placed the heel of his hand over Scott’s sternum, and with both arms firmly locked he began to rock backwards and forward as he tried to push a volume of blood from the heart to resuscitate his patient. Like a proficient weightlifter, he was able to pump away with his arms at a rate of forty to fifty times a minute.

An intern wheeled forward the defibrillator. The consultant placed two large electric clamps onto the front and side of Scott’s chest.

“Two hundred joules,” said the consultant. “Stand clear.” They all took a pace back as a shock was transferred from the electric discharge machine and ran through Scott’s body.

They stared at the monitor as the consultant jumped forward again and continued to pump Scott’s chest with the palms of his hands, but the thin green line did not respond. “Two hundred joules, stand clear,” he repeated firmly, and they all stood back again to watch the effect of the electric shock. But the line remained obstinately flat. The consultant quickly returned to pumping Scott’s chest with his hands.

“Three hundred and sixty joules, stand clear,” said the consultant in desperation, but the nurse who raised the number on the dial knew the patient was already dead.

The consultant pressed a button, and they all watched the highest shock allowed pass through Scott’s body, assuming that must be the end. They turned their attention to the monitor.

“We’ve lost him,” was on the consultant’s lips, when to their astonishment they saw the line begin to show a faint flicker. He leaped forward and began pumping away with the palms of his hands as the flicker continued to show irregular fibrillation. “Three hundred and sixty joules, stand clear,” he said once again. The button was pressed and their attention returned to the monitor. Fibrillation returned to a normal rhythm. The youngest doctor cheered.

Another doctor rushed into the room and, facing his superior, said, “The antidote is GTN.”

The consultant quickly located a vein in Scott’s left arm and jabbed a needle directly into it, leaving a cannula sticking out to which a saline drip was quickly attached.

A nurse went straight over to the poisons cabinet and extracted a vial of glyceryl trinitrate, which she passed to the consultant, who had a syringe ready. He extracted the blue liquid from the vial, shot a little into the air to be sure it was flowing freely, then pumped the antidote into a side valve of the intravenous drip. He turned to watch the monitor. The flicker maintained a constant rhythm.

The consultant turned to the senior nurse and said, “Do you believe in miracles?”

“No,” she replied. “I’m a Jew. Miracles are only for Christians.”

Hannah began to form a plan, a plan that would brook no interference from Kratz. She had made the decision to accept the job as senior secretary to the Ambassador, and to accompany him back to Iraq.

As the hours passed, her plan began to take shape. She was aware there would be problems. Not from the Iraqi side, but from her own people. Hannah knew that she would have to circumvent Mossad’s attempts to take her out, which meant that she could never leave the embassy, even for one moment, until the time came for the Ambassador to return to Iraq. She would use all the techniques they had taught her over the past two years to defeat them.

When she was in Iraq, Hannah would make herself indispensable to the Ambassador, bide her time and, once she had achieved her objective, happily die a martyr’s death.

She had been left with only one purpose in life now that Simon was dead. To assassinate Saddam Hussein.

“Department of Commerce.”

“Alex Wagner, please,” said the Archivist.

“Who?”

“Alex Wagner. Office of Personnel.”

“Just a minute.” Another stretched minute.

“Personnel.”

“This is Calder Marshall, Archivist of the United States. I called yesterday for Ms. Wagner and you told me to try again today.”

“I wasn’t here yesterday, sir.”

“Well, it must have been one of your colleagues. Is Ms. Wagner available?”

“Just a minute.”

This time the Archivist waited several minutes.

“Alex Wagner,” said a brisk female voice.

“Ms. Wagner, my name is Calder Marshall. I’m the Archivist of the United States, and it’s extremely important that I contact Mr. Rex Butterworth, who was recently detailed to the White House by the Commerce Department.”

“Are you a former employer of Mr. Butterworth’s?” asked the brisk voice.

“No, I am not,” replied Marshall.

“Are you a relative?”

“No.”

“Then I’m afraid I cannot help you, Mr. Marshall.”

“Why’s that?” asked the Archivist.

“Because the Privacy Act prohibits us from giving out any personal information about government employees.”

“Can you tell me the name of the Commerce Secretary, or is that covered by the Privacy Act too?” the Archivist asked.

“Dick Fielding,” said the voice abruptly.

“Thank you for your assistance,” said the Archivist.

The phone went dead.

When Scott woke, his first memory was of Hannah. And then he slept.

When he woke a second time, all he could make out were blurred figures who appeared to be bending over him. And then he slept.

When he woke again, the blurs began to take some shape. Most of them seemed to be dressed in white. And then he slept.

When he woke the next time it was dark and he was alone. He felt so weak, so limp, as he tried to remember what had happened. And then he slept.

When he woke, for the first time he could hear their voices, soothing, gentle, but he could not make out the words, however hard he tried. And then he slept.

When he woke again, they had propped him up in bed. They were trying to feed him a warm, tasteless liquid through a plastic straw. And then he slept.

When he woke, a man in a long white coat, with a stethoscope and a warm smile, was asking in a pronounced accent, “Can you hear me?” He tried to nod, but fell asleep.

When he woke, another doctor — this time he could see him clearly — was listening attentively as Scott attempted his first words. “Hannah. Hannah,” was all he said. And then he slept.

He woke again, and an attractive woman with short dark hair and a caring smile was leaning over him. He returned her smile and asked the time. It must have sounded strange to her, but he wanted to know.

“It’s a few minutes after three in the morning,” the nurse told him.

“How long have I been here?” he managed.

“Just over a week, but you were so close to death. I think in English you have the expression ‘touch and go.’ If your friends had been a moment—” And then he slept.

When he woke, the doctor told Scott that when he’d first arrived they thought it was too late, and twice he’d been pronounced technically dead. “Antidotes and electrostimulation of the heart, combined with a rare determination to live and one nurse’s theory that you might be a Gentile, defied the technical pronouncement,” he declared with a smile.

Scott asked if someone called Hannah had been to see him. The doctor checked the board at the end of his bed. There had been only two visitors that he was aware of, both of them men. They came every day. And then Scott slept.

When he woke, the two men the doctor had mentioned were standing one on each side of his bed. Scott smiled at Dexter Hutchins, who was trying not to cry. Grown men don’t cry, he wanted to say, especially when they work for the CIA. He turned to the other man. He had never seen a face so full of shame, so ridden with guilt or eyes so red from not sleeping. Scott tried to ask what had caused him such unhappiness. And then he slept.

When he woke, both men were still there, now resting on uncomfortable chairs, half asleep.

“Dexter,” he whispered, and they both woke immediately. “Where’s Hannah?”

The other man, who Scott noticed was recovering from a black eye and a broken nose, took some time answering his question. And then Scott slept, never wanting to wake again.

Chapter Nineteen

“Department of Commerce.”

“The Director, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Marshall, Calder Marshall.”

“Is he expecting your call?”

“No, he is not.”

“Mr. Fielding only takes calls from people who have previously booked to speak to him.”

“What about his secretary?” asked Marshall.

“She never takes calls.”

“So how do I get a booking with Mr. Fielding?”

“You have to speak to Miss Zelumski in reservations.”

“Can I be put through to Miss Zelumski, or do I have to make a reservation to speak to her as well?”

“There is no need to be sarcastic, sir. I’m only doing my job.”

“I’m sorry. Perhaps you’d put me through to Miss Zelumski.”

Marshall waited patiently.

“Miss Zelumski speaking.”

“I’d like to reserve a call to speak to Mr. Fielding.”

“Is it domestic, most-favored status or foreign?” asked a bored-sounding voice.

“It’s personal.”

“Does he know you?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Then I can’t help. I only deal with domestic, most-favored status or foreign.”

The Archivist hung up before Miss Zelumski was given the chance to say “Glad to have been of assistance, sir.”

Marshall tapped his fingers on the desk. The time had come to play by new rules.

Cavalli had checked into the Hôtel de la Paix in Geneva the previous evening. He had booked a modest suite overlooking the lake. Neither expensive nor conspicuous. After he had undressed, he climbed into bed and tuned in to CNN. He watched for a few moments, but found that the news of Bill Clinton having his hair cut on board Air Force One while it was parked on a runway at Los Angeles airport was getting more coverage than the Americans shooting down a plane in the no-fly zone over Iraq. It seemed the new President was determined to prove to Saddam that he was every bit as tough as Bush.

When he woke in the morning, he jumped out of bed, strolled across to the window, drew the curtains and admired the fountain in the center of the lake whose water spouted like a gushing well high into the air. He turned to see that an envelope had been pushed under the door. He tore it open to discover a note confirming his appointment to “take tea” with his banker, Monsieur Franchard, at eleven o’clock that morning. Cavalli was about to drop the card into the wastepaper basket when he noticed some words scribbled on the bottom.

After a light breakfast in his room, Cavalli packed his suitcase and suitbag before going downstairs. The doorman answered his questions in perfect English, and confirmed the directions to Franchard et cie. In Switzerland hall porters know the location of banks, just as their London counterparts can direct you to theaters or football grounds.

As Cavalli left the hotel and started the short walk to the bank, he couldn’t help feeling something wasn’t quite right. And then he realized that the streets were clean, the people he passed were well-dressed, sober and silent. A contrast in every way to New York.

Once he reached the front door of the bank, Cavalli pressed the discreet bell under the equally discreet brass plate announcing “Franchard et cie.”

A doorman responded to the call. Cavalli walked into a marble-pillared hall of perfect proportions.

“Perhaps you would like to go straight to the tenth floor, Mr. Cavalli? I believe Monsieur Franchard is expecting you.”

Cavalli had only entered the building twice before in his life. How did they manage it? And the porter turned out to be as good as his word, because when Cavalli stepped out of the elevator, the chairman of the bank was waiting there to greet him.

“Good morning, Mr. Cavalli,” he said. “Shall we go to my office?”

The chairman’s office was a modest, tastefully decorated room, Swiss bankers not wishing to frighten away their customers with a show of conspicuous wealth.

Cavalli was surprised to see a large brown parcel placed in the center of the boardroom table, giving no clue as to its contents.

“This arrived for you this morning,” the banker explained. “I thought it might have something to do with our proposed meeting.”

Cavalli smiled, leaned over and pulled the parcel towards him. He quickly ripped off the brown-paper covering to find a packing case with the words “TEA: BOSTON” stamped across it.

With the help of a heavy silver letter-opener which he picked up from a side table, Cavalli prized the wooden lid slowly open. He didn’t notice the slight grimace that came over the chairman’s face.

Cavalli stared inside. The top of the box was filled with Styrofoam packing material, which he cupped out with his hands and scattered all over the boardroom table.

The chairman quickly placed a wastepaper basket by his side, which Cavalli ignored as he continued to dig into the box until he finally came to some objects wrapped in tissue paper.

He removed a piece of the tissue paper to reveal a teacup in the Confederate colors of the First Congress.

It took Cavalli several minutes to unwrap an entire tea set, which he laid out on the table in front of the puzzled banker. Once it was unpacked, Cavalli also appeared a little mystified. He dug into the box again, and retrieved an envelope. He tore it open and began reading the contents out loud.

The letter had been signed and verified by the present chairman, H. William Pearson VI.

Cavalli burst out laughing as he dug deeper into the wooden box, removing yet more packing material until he came across a thin plastic cylinder. He had to admire the way Nick Vicente had fooled the U.S. Customs into allowing him to export the original. The banker’s expression remained one of bafflement. Cavalli placed the cylinder in the center of the table, before going over in considerable detail how he wanted the meeting at twelve to be conducted.

The banker nodded from time to time, and made the occasional note on the pad in front of him.

“I would also like the plastic tube placed in a strongbox for the time being. The key to the box should be handed over to Mr. Al Obaydi when, and only when, you have received the full payment by wire transfer. The money should then be deposited in my No. 3 account in your Zurich branch.”

“And are you able to tell me the exact sum you anticipate receiving from Mr. Al Obaydi?” asked the banker.

“Ninety million dollars,” said Cavalli.

The banker didn’t raise an eyebrow.

The Archivist looked up the name of the Commerce Secretary in his government directory, then picked up his phone and pressed one button. 482-2000 was now programmed into his speed dial.

“Department of Commerce.”

“Dick Fielding, please.”

“Just a moment.”

“Office of the Director.”

“This is Secretary Brown.”

The Archivist had to wait only a few seconds before the call was put through.

“Good morning, Mr. Secretary,” said an alert voice.

“Good morning, Mr. Fielding. This is Calder Marshall, Archivist of the United States of America.”

“I thought...”

“You thought...?”

“I guess they must have misunderstood. How may I help you, Mr. Marshall?”

“I’m trying to trace a former employee of yours. Rex Butterworth.”

“I can’t help you on that one.”

“Why? Are you also bound by the Privacy Act?”

Fielding laughed. “I only wish I was.”

“I don’t understand,” said the Archivist.

“Last week we sent Butterworth a merit bonus, and it was returned, ‘No forwarding address.’”

“But he has a wife.”

“She got the same response to her last letter.”

“And his mother in South Carolina?”

“She’s been dead for years.”

“Thank you,” said Calder Marshall, and put the phone down. He knew exactly whom he had to call next.

Dummond et cie is one of Geneva’s more modern banking establishments, having been founded as late as 1781. Since then the bank has spent over two hundred years handling other people’s money, without religious or racial prejudice. Dummond et cie had always been willing to deal with Arab sheik or Jewish businessman, Nazi Gauleiter or British aristocrat, in fact anyone who required their services. It was a policy that had always reaped dividends in every trading currency throughout the world.

The bank occupied twelve floors of a building just off the place de la Fusterie. The meeting that had been arranged that Tuesday at noon was scheduled to take place in the boardroom on the eleventh floor, the floor below the chairman’s office.

The chairman of the bank, Pierre Dummond, had held his present position for the past nineteen years, but even he had rarely experienced a more unlikely coupling than that between an educated Arab from Iraq and the son of a former Mafia lawyer from New York.

The boardroom table could seat sixteen, but on this occasion it was only occupied by four. Pierre Dummond sat in the center of one of the long sides under a portrait of his uncle, the former chairman, François Dummond. The present chairman wore a dark suit of elegant cut and style that would not have looked out of place had it been worn by any of the chairmen of the forty-eight banks located within a square mile of the building. His shirt was of a shade of blue that was not influenced by Milan fashions, and his tie was so discreet that, moments after leaving the room, only a remarkably observant client would have been able to recall its color or pattern.

On Monsieur Dummond’s right sat his client, Mr. Al Obaydi, whose dress, although slightly more fashionable, was nonetheless equally conservative.

Opposite Monsieur Dummond sat the chairman of Franchard et cie, who, any observer would have noticed, must have shared the same tailor as Monsieur Dummond. On Franchard’s left sat Antonio Cavalli, wearing a double-breasted Armani suit, making him look as if he had dropped in on the wrong meeting.

The little carriage clock that sat on the Louis-Philippe mantelpiece behind Monsieur Dummond completed twelve strokes. The chairman cleared his throat and began the proceedings.

“Gentlemen, the purpose of this meeting, which was called at our instigation but with your agreement, is to exchange a rare document for an agreed sum of money.” Monsieur Dummond pushed his half-moon spectacles further up his nose. “Naturally, I must begin, Mr. Cavalli, by asking if you are in possession of that document?”

“No, he is not, sir,” interjected Monsieur Franchard, as prearranged with Cavalli, “because he has entrusted the document’s safekeeping to our bank. But I can confirm that, as soon as the agreed sum has been transferred, I have been given power of attorney to release the document immediately.”

“But that is not what we agreed,” interrupted Dummond, who leaned forward, feigning shock, before adding, “My client’s government has no intention of paying another penny without full scrutiny of the document. You agreed to deliver it here by midday, and in any case we still have to be convinced of its authenticity.”

“That is understood by my client,” said Monsieur Franchard. “Indeed, you are most welcome to attend my office at any time convenient to you in order to carry out such an inspection. Following that inspection, the moment you have transferred the agreed amount the document will be released.”

“This is all very well,” countered Monsieur Dummond, pushing his half-moon spectacles back up his nose, “but your client has failed to keep to his original agreement, which in my view allows my client’s government” — he emphasized the word “government” — “to reconsider its position.”

“My client felt it prudent, under the circumstances, to protect his interest by depositing the document in his own bank for safekeeping,” came back the immediate reply from Monsieur Franchard.

Anyone watching the two bankers sparring with each other might have been surprised to learn that they played chess together every Saturday night, which Monsieur Franchard invariably won, and tennis after lunch on Sunday, which he regularly lost.

“I cannot accept this new arrangement,” said Al Obaydi, speaking for the first time. “My government has charged me to pay only a further forty million dollars if the original agreement is breached in any way.”

“But this is ridiculous!” said Cavalli, his voice rising with every word. “We are quibbling over a matter of a few hours at the most and a building less than half a mile away. And as you well know, the figure agreed on was ninety million.”

“But you have since broken our agreement,” said Al Obaydi, “so the original terms can no longer be considered valid by my government.”

“No ninety million, no document!” said Cavalli, banging his fist on the table.

“Let us be realistic, Mr. Cavalli,” said Al Obaydi. “The document is no longer of any use to you, and I have a feeling you would have settled for fifty million in the first place.”

“That is not the—”

Monsieur Franchard touched Cavalli’s arm. “I would like a few minutes alone with my client.”

“Of course,” said Monsieur Dummond, rising from his place. “We will leave you. Please press the button under the table the moment you wish us to return.”

Monsieur Dummond and his client left the room without another word.

“He’s bluffing,” said Cavalli. “He’ll pay. I know it.”

“I don’t think so,” said Franchard.

“What makes you say that?”

“The use of the words ‘my government.’”

“What does that tell us that we didn’t already know?”

“The expression was repeated four times,” said Franchard, “which suggests to me that the financial decision has been taken out of the hands of Mr. Al Obaydi, and only forty million has been deposited by his government with Dummond et cie.”

Cavalli began pacing round the room, but suddenly stopped by the phone which rested on a small side table.

“I presume that’s bugged,” said Cavalli, pointing at the phone.

“No, Mr. Cavalli, it is not.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked his client.

“Monsieur Dummond and I are currently involved in several transactions, and he would never allow our relationship to suffer for the sake of one deal. And in any case, he sits on the opposite side of the table from you today but, like every Swiss banker, that won’t stop him from thinking of you as a potential customer.”

Cavalli checked his watch. It was 6:20 A.M. in New York. His father would have been up for at least an hour. He jabbed out the fourteen numbers and waited.

His father answered the phone, sounding wide awake, and after preliminary exchanges listened carefully to his son’s account of what had taken place in the bank’s boardroom. Cavalli also repeated Monsieur Franchard’s view of the situation. The chairman of Skills didn’t take long considering what advice he should give his son, advice which took Cavalli by surprise.

He replaced the phone and informed Monsieur Franchard of his father’s opinion.

Monsieur Franchard nodded as if to show he agreed with the older man’s judgment.

“Then let’s get on with it,” said Cavalli reluctantly. Monsieur Franchard pressed the button under the boardroom table.

Monsieur Dummond and his client entered the room a few moments later and returned to the seats they had previously occupied. The old banker pushed his half-moon spectacles up his nose once again and stared over the top of them as he waited for Monsieur Franchard to speak.

“If the transaction is completed within one hour, we will settle for forty million dollars. If not, the deal is off and the document will be returned to the United States.”

Dummond removed his spectacles and turned to glance at his client. He was pleased that Franchard had picked up the significance of “my government,” a phrase he had recommended Mr. Al Obaydi should repeat as often as possible.

“White House?”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I speak to the President’s scheduler, please?”

“Can I ask who’s calling?”

“Marshall, Calder Marshall, Archivist of the United States. And before you ask, yes, I do know her, and yes, she is expecting my call.”

The line went dead. Marshall wondered if he had been cut off.

“Patty Watson speaking.”

“Patty, this is Calder Marshall. I’m the—”

“Archivist of the United States.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, yes, I’m a great fan of yours, Mr. Marshall. I’ve even read your book on the history of the Constitution, the Bill of Rights and the Declaration. How can I help you? Are you still there, Mr. Marshall?”

“Yes, Patty, I am. I only wanted to check on the President’s schedule on the morning of May 25th this year.”

“Certainly, sir. I’ll just be a moment.”

The Archivist did not have long to wait.

“Ah yes, May 25th. The President spent the morning in the Oval Office with his speech writers, David Kusnet and Carolyn Curiel. He was preparing the text for his address on the GATT at the Chicago Council on Foreign Relations. He took a break to have lunch with Senator Mitchell, the Majority Leader. At three, the President—”

“Did President Clinton remain in the White House the whole morning?”

“Yes, sir. He didn’t leave the White House all day. He spent the afternoon with Mrs. Clinton in discussions with her health-policy task unit.”

“Could he have slipped out of the building without even you knowing, Patty?”

The scheduling secretary laughed. “That’s not possible, sir. If he had done that, the Secret Service would have informed me immediately.”

“Thank you, Patty.”

“Glad to have been of assistance, sir.”

Once the meeting at Dummond et cie had broken up, Cavalli returned to his hotel room to wait for Franchard to call and confirm that the sum of forty million dollars had been deposited in his No. 3 account in Zurich.

As long as the transaction was closed within the hour, he would still have easily enough time to catch the 4:45 out of Geneva for Heathrow and make the early-evening connection to New York.

Cavalli began to get a little anxious after thirty minutes passed and there had been no call, and even more so after forty. After fifty, he found himself pacing around the room, staring out at the fountain and checking his watch every few moments.

When the phone eventually rang, he grabbed it.

“Mr. Cavalli?” inquired a voice.

“Speaking.”

“Franchard here. The document has been verified and taken away. It might interest you to know that Mr. Al Obaydi studied one word on the parchment for some time before he agreed to transfer the money. The agreed sum has been credited to your No. 3 account in Zurich as you specified.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Franchard,” said Cavalli without further comment.

“My pleasure, as always, Mr. Cavalli. And is there anything else we can do for you while you’re here?”

“Yes,” replied Cavalli. “I need to transfer a quarter of a million dollars to a bank in the Cayman Islands.”

“The same name and account as the last three transactions?” asked the banker.

“Yes,” replied Cavalli. “And the Zurich account, presently registered in the name of Mr. Al Obaydi: I want to withdraw one hundred thousand dollars from it and...”

Monsieur Franchard listened carefully to his client’s further instructions.

“State Department.”

“Can I speak to the Secretary of State?”

“Just a moment.”

“Office of the Secretary.”

“This is Calder Marshall. I’m the Archivist of the United States. It’s vitally important that I speak with Secretary Christopher.”

“I’ll put you through to his Executive Assistant, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Marshall, and waited for a short time.

“This is Jack Leigh. I’m Executive Assistant to the Secretary. How may I help you, sir?”

“To start with, Mr. Leigh, how many Executive Assistants does the Secretary of State have?”

“Five, sir, but there is only one senior to me.”

“Then I need to speak to the Secretary of State urgently.”

“Right now he’s out of the office. Perhaps the Deputy Secretary can help?”

“No, Mr. Leigh, he cannot help.”

“Well, I’ll certainly let Secretary Christopher know you called, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Leigh. And perhaps you’d be kind enough to pass a message on to him?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Would you let him know that my resignation will be on his desk tomorrow morning by nine A.M. This call is simply to apologize for the harm it will undoubtedly do to the President, particularly given the short period of time he has been in office.”

“You haven’t spoken to anyone from the media about this, have you, sir?” asked the Executive Assistant, sounding anxious for the first time.

“No, I have not, Mr. Leigh, and I shall not do so until noon tomorrow, which should give the Secretary ample time in which to prepare answers to any questions that he and the President will undoubtedly be asked by the press when they learn my reason for resigning.”

“I’ll have the Secretary get back to you as quickly as I can, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Leigh.”

“Glad to have been of assistance, sir.”

She flew into the Cayman Islands that morning and took a taxi to Barclays Bank in Georgetown. She checked her account to find it had been credited with three payments of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. One on March 9th, another on April 27th, and a further one on May 30th.

There was one still to come. But, to be fair, Cavalli might not learn of the death of T. Hamilton McKenzie until he had returned from Geneva.

“And we have another package for you, Miss Webster,” said the smiling West Indian behind the counter.

Far too familiar, she thought. Once again the time had come to move her account to another bank in another country, in another name. She dropped the package into her carrier bag, threw it over her shoulder and left without a word.

She didn’t attempt to open the thick brown envelope until she had called for coffee at the end of an unhurried meal at a hotel she would never book into. She then carefully slit open the top of the bulky package with her bread knife, allowing the contents to spill out onto the table.

The usual photos, from every angle, plus addresses past and present, and the daily habits and haunts of the intended victim. Cavalli never left any room for mistakes.

She studied the photos of a little fat man sitting on a bar stool. He looked harmless enough. The contract was always the same. To be carried out within fourteen days. Payment two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to account specified.

It wasn’t Columbus or Washington this time, but San Francisco. She hadn’t been to the West Coast in years, and she tried to remember if they had a Laura Ashley store.

“National Archives.”

“Mr. Marshall please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Christopher. Warren Christopher.”

“And you’re with which agency?”

“I have a feeling he’ll know.”

“I’ll put you through, sir.” The Secretary waited patiently.

“Calder Marshall speaking.”

“Calder, it’s Warren Christopher.”

“Good morning, Mr. Secretary.”

“Good morning, Calder. I’ve just received your letter of resignation.”

“Yes, sir. I thought it was the only course of action I could take under the circumstances.”

“Very commendable, I feel sure, but have you let anyone else into your confidence?”

“No, sir. I intended to brief my staff at eleven, and hold a press conference at twelve, as stated in my letter. I hope that doesn’t inconvenience you, sir.”

“Well, I wondered if before you did that, you might find the time to have a meeting with the President and myself?”

Marshall hesitated only because the request had taken him by surprise.

“Of course. What time would suit you?”

“Shall we say ten o’clock?”

“Yes, sir. Where would you like me to come?”

“The North Entrance of the White House.”

“The North Entrance, of course.”

“Jack Leigh, my Executive Assistant, will meet you in the West Wing reception area and accompany you to the Oval Office.”

“The Oval Office.”

“And Calder...”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary?”

“Please do not mention your resignation to anyone until you’ve seen the President.”

“Until I’ve seen the President. Of course.”

“Thank you, Calder.”

“Glad to have been of assistance, sir.”

Chapter Twenty

“I’d like to begin by thanking you all for attending this meeting at such short notice,” said the Secretary of State. “And, in particular, Scott Bradley, who has only recently recovered from—” Christopher hesitated for a moment, “a near-tragic accident. I know we are all delighted by the speed of his recovery. I should also like to welcome Colonel Kratz, who is representing the Israeli Government, and Dexter Hutchins, the Deputy Director of the CIA.

“Only two of my staff are with me today: Jack Leigh, my executive assistant, and Susan Anderson, one of my senior Middle East advisers. The reason for numbers being limited on this occasion will become all too obvious to you. The issue we are about to discuss is so sensitive that the fewer people who are aware of it, the better. To suggest in this instance that silence is golden would be to underestimate the value of gold.

“Perhaps, at this juncture, I could ask the Deputy Director of the CIA to bring us up-to-date on the latest situation. Dexter.”

Dexter Hutchins unlocked his briefcase and removed a file marked “For the Director’s Eyes Only.” He placed the file on the table in front of him and turned its cover.

“Two days ago, Mr. Marshall, the Archivist of the United States, reported to the Secretary of State that the Declaration of Independence had been stolen from the National Archives; or, to be more accurate, had been switched for a quite brilliant copy that had passed not only the scrutiny of Mr. Marshall, but also that of the Senior Conservator, Mr. Mendelssohn.

“It was only when Mr. Marshall attempted to recontact a Mr. Rex Butterworth, who had been temporarily assigned to the White House as a Special Assistant to the President, that he became worried.”

“If I could just interject, Mr. Hutchins,” said Jack Leigh, “and point out that though Mr. Butterworth was a former employee of the Commerce Department, should the press ever get hold of this you can be certain they would only refer to him as a ‘Special Assistant to the President.’ ” Warren Christopher nodded his agreement.

“When Calder Marshall discovered that Butterworth hadn’t returned after his vacation,” continued Dexter Hutchins, “and that he had also left without giving a forwarding address, he naturally became suspicious. Under the circumstances, he considered it prudent to ask Mr. Mendelssohn to check and see if the Declaration had in any way been tampered with. After putting the parchment through several preliminary tests — a separate memorandum has been sent to all of you on this — he came to the conclusion that they were still in possession of the original document.

“But Mr. Marshall, a cautious man, remained skeptical, and contacted the President’s scheduler, Miss Patty Watson — details also enclosed. Following that conversation, he asked the Conservator to carry out a more rigorous scrutiny.

“Mr. Mendelssohn spent several hours alone that evening going over the parchment word by word with a magnifying glass. It was when he came to the sentence, ‘Nor have we been wanting in attention to our British brethren,’ that the Conservator realized that the word ‘British’ had been spelled correctly, and not with two t’s as in the original Declaration executed by Timothy Matlack. When this piece of news was imparted to Mr. Marshall, he immediately offered his resignation to the Secretary of State, a copy of which you all have.”

“If I could come in here, Dexter,” said Secretary Christopher. “Just for the record, the President and I saw Mr. Marshall in the Oval Office yesterday. He could not have been more cooperative. He assured us that he and his colleague, Mr. Mendelssohn, will say and do nothing in the immediate future. He did add, however, his feeling of disgust at continuing to display a counterfeit copy of the Declaration to the general public. He made us both, that is to say the President and myself, agree that should we fail to recover the original document before its disappearance becomes common knowledge, we would confirm that his resignation had been dated May 25th, 1993 and accepted on that date by myself as custodian of the Declaration. He wished it confirmed in writing that he had in no way connived to deceive his staff or the nation he served. ‘I am not in the habit of being deceitful,’ were his final words before leaving the Oval Office.

“If it is possible,” continued Christopher, “for a public servant to make the President and the Secretary of State feel morally inferior, Mr. Marshall achieved it with considerable dignity. However, that does not change the fact that if we don’t get the original parchment back before its theft becomes public knowledge, the media are going to roast the President and me slowly over a spit. One thing’s also for sure: the Republicans, led by Dole, will happily wash their collective hands in public. Carry on, Dexter.”

“Under the Secretary of State’s instructions, we immediately formed a small task force at Langley to profile every aspect of the problem we are facing. But we quickly discovered that we were working under some severe restrictions. To begin with, because of the sensitivity of the subject and the people involved, we could not do what we automatically would have done in normal circumstances, namely consult the FBI and liaise with the D.C. Police Department. That, we felt, would have guaranteed us the front page of the Washington Post, and probably the following morning. We mustn’t forget that the FBI is still smarting over the Waco siege, and they would like nothing better than for the CIA to replace them on the front pages.

“The next problem we faced was having to tiptoe around people we’d usually bring in for questioning, for fear that they too might discover our real purpose. However, we have been able to come up with several leads without talking to any members of the public. Following a routine check of permit records at the DCPD, we discovered that a movie was being made in Washington on the same day as the document was stolen. The director of that movie was Johnny Scasiatore, who is currently out on bail facing an indecency charge. Three others involved in the enterprise turn out to have criminal records. And some of those people fit the descriptions Mr. Marshall and Mr. Mendelssohn have given us of the group who arrived at the National Archives posing as the Presidential party. They include a certain Bill O’Reilly, a well-known forger who has spent several years in more than one of our state penitentiaries, and an actor who played the President so convincingly that both Mr. Marshall and Mr. Mendelssohn accepted it was him without question.”

“Surely we can discover who that was,” said Christopher.

“We already have, sir. His name is Lloyd Adams. But we don’t dare bring him in.”

“How did you find him?” asked Leigh. “After all, there are quite a few actors who can manage a passable resemblance to Clinton.”

“Agreed,” said the Deputy Director, “but only one who’s been operated on by America’s leading plastic surgeon within the past few months. We have reason to believe that the ringleaders killed the surgeon and his daughter, which is why his wife reported everything she knew to the local Chief of Police.

“However, the whole operation would never have got off the ground without the inside help of Mr. Rex Butterworth, who was last seen on the morning of May 25th and has since disappeared off the face of the earth. He booked a flight to Brazil, but he never showed. We have agents across the globe searching for him.”

“None of this is of any importance if we are no nearer to finding out where the original Declaration is at this moment, and who took it,” said Christopher.

“That’s the bad news,” replied Dexter. “Our agents spend hours on routine investigations that many American citizens consider a waste of taxpayers’ money. But just now and then, it pays off.”

“We’re all listening,” said Christopher.

“The CIA keeps under surveillance several foreign diplomats who work at the United Nations. Naturally, they would be outraged if any of them could prove what we were up to, and if we ever think they’re onto us we back off immediately. In the case of Iraqis at the UN, we have people shadowing them around the clock. Our problem is that we can’t operate within the UN complex itself, because if we were caught inside that building it would cause an international outcry. So occasionally their representatives are bound to slip our net.

“But we believe it was not a coincidence that Iraq’s Deputy Ambassador to the United Nations, a Mr. Hamid Al Obaydi, was in Washington on the day the Declaration was switched, and took several photographs of the bogus filming that was taking place. The agent who was tracking Al Obaydi at the time also reported that, at ten thirty-seven, after the Declaration had gone back on display in the National Archives, Al Obaydi, waited in line over an hour to view the parchment. But here’s the clincher. He studied the document once, and then he looked at it a second time, with glasses.”

“Perhaps he’s nearsighted,” said Susan.

“Our agent reports that he’s never before or since seen him wearing glasses of any kind,” replied Dexter Hutchins. “Now for the really bad news,” he continued.

“That wasn’t it?” said Christopher.

“No, sir. Al Obaydi flew on to Geneva a week later and was spotted by our local station officer leaving a bank.” Dexter referred to his notes. “Franchard et cie. He was carrying a plastic cylinder, and I quote, ‘a little over two feet in length and about two inches in diameter.’ ”

“Who’s going to tell the President?” said Christopher, putting his hands over his eyes.

“He took this cylinder by car straight to the Palais des Nations, and it hasn’t been seen since.”

“And Barazan Al-Tikriti, Saddam’s half brother, is the Iraqi Ambassador to the United Nations in Geneva,” said Susan.

“Don’t remind me,” said Christopher. “But what I want to know is, why the hell didn’t your man jump Al Obaydi when it was obvious what he was carrying? I would have found a way of keeping the Swiss in line.”

“We would have done so if we’d known what he was carrying, but at that stage we weren’t even aware the Declaration had been stolen, and our surveillance was just routine.”

“So what you’re telling us, Mr. Hutchins, is that the Declaration could well be in Baghdad by now,” said Leigh. “Because if it was sent through the diplomatic pouch, the Swiss wouldn’t have let us get anywhere near it.”

No one spoke for several moments.

“Let’s work on the worst-case scenario,” said the Secretary of State finally. “The Declaration is already in Saddam’s possession. So what’s his next move going to be? Scott, you’re our man of logic. Can you anticipate what he might get up to?”

“No, sir, Saddam’s not a man you can second-guess, especially after his failed attempt in Kuwait on Bush’s life. Although the world accused him of being behind the plot, how did he react? Not with the usual bellicose shouting and screaming about American imperialism but with a reasoned, coherent statement from his Ambassador at the UN denying any involvement. Why? The press tells us it’s because Saddam is hoping Clinton will be more reasonable in the long term than Bush. I don’t believe it. I suspect Saddam realizes that Clinton’s position doesn’t differ greatly from that of his predecessor. I don’t think that’s his reasoning at all. No, I suspect he believes that with the Declaration in his possession, he has a weapon so powerful that he can humiliate the United States, and in particular the new President, as and when he pleases.”

“When and how, Scott? If we knew that...”

“I have two theories on that, sir,” replied Scott.

“Let’s hear them both.”

“Neither is going to make you feel any happier, Mr. Secretary.”

“Nevertheless...”

“First he sets up a press conference, inviting the world’s media to attend. He selects some public place in Baghdad where he is safely surrounded by his own people, and then he tears up, burns, destroys, does whatever he likes to the Declaration. I have a feeling it would make prime-time television.”

“But we’d bomb Baghdad to the ground if he tried that,” said Dexter Hutchins.

“I doubt it,” said Scott. “How would our allies, the British, the French, not to mention the other friendly Arab nations, react to our bombing innocent civilians because Saddam had stolen the Declaration of Independence from right under our eyes?”

“You’re right, Scott,” said Warren Christopher. “The President would be vilified as a barbarian if he retaliated by bombing innocent Iraqis after what a lot of the world would consider nothing more than a public relations coup, though I must tell you, in the strictest confidence, that we do have plans to bomb Baghdad if Saddam continues to undermine the UN inspection teams’ attempts to examine Iraqi nuclear installations.”

“Has a date been decided on?” asked Scott.

Christopher hesitated. “Sunday June 27th,” he said.

“The timing might well turn out to be unfortunate for us,” said Scott.

“Why? When do you think Saddam is likely to move?” asked Christopher.

“That’s not so easy to answer, sir,” replied Scott, “because you have to think the way he thinks. What makes that almost impossible is that he’s capable of changing his mind from hour to hour. But if he thinks the problem through logically, my guess is he’ll be considering two alternatives. Either on some symbolic date, maybe an anniversary associated with the Gulf War, or...”

“Or...?” said Christopher.

“Or he intends to hold on to it as a bargaining chip so he can retake the oilfields in Kuwait. After all, he’s always claimed he had an agreement with us on that in the first place.”

“Either scenario is too horrific to contemplate,” said the Secretary of State. Turning to the Deputy Director, he asked, “Have you begun to form any plan for getting the document back?”

“Not at the moment, sir,” replied Dexter Hutchins, “as I suspect the parchment will be every bit as well protected as Saddam himself, and frankly we only learned of its likely destination last night.”

“Colonel Kratz,” said Christopher, turning his attention to the Mossad man, who had not uttered a word. “Your Prime Minister informed us a few weeks ago that he was considering a plan to take out Saddam at some time in the near future.”

“Yes, sir, but he recognizes your present dilemma, and all our activities have been shelved until the problem over the Declaration has been resolved, one way or the other.”

“I have already informed Mr. Rabin how much I appreciate his support, especially as he can’t even tell his own cabinet the true reason for his change of heart.”

“But we have our own problem, sir,” said the Israeli.

“Make my day, Colonel.”

“The burst of laughter that followed helped to ease the tension for a moment — but only for a moment.

“We have been training an agent who was going to be part of the team for the final operation to eliminate Saddam, a Hannah Kopec.”

“The girl who...” said Christopher, half-glancing towards Scott.

“Yes, sir. She was totally blameless. But that is not the problem. After she returned to the Iraqi Embassy that evening, we were unable to get anywhere near Miss Kopec to let her know what had happened, because during the next few days she never once left the building, night or day. She and the Iraqi Ambassador have since returned to Baghdad under heavy guard. However, Agent Kopec remains under the misapprehension that she has killed Scott Bradley, and we suspect her only interest now is to eliminate Saddam.”

“She’ll never get anywhere near him,” said Leigh.

“I wish I believed that,” said Scott quietly.

“She is a bold, imaginative and resourceful young woman,” said Kratz. “And, worse, she has the assassin’s greatest weapon.”

“Namely?” said Christopher.

“She no longer cares about her own survival.”

“Can this get any worse?” asked Christopher.

“Yes, sir. She knows nothing about the disappearance of the Declaration, and we have no way of contacting her to let her know.”

The Secretary of State paused for a moment, as if he was coming to a decision. “Colonel Kratz, I want to put something to you which is likely to stretch your personal loyalty.”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” said Kratz.

“This plan to assassinate Saddam. How long have you been working on it?”

“Nine months to a year,” replied Kratz.

“And it obviously entailed your getting a person or persons into Saddam’s palace or bunker?”

Kratz hesitated.

“Yes or no will suffice,” said Christopher.

“Yes, sir.”

“My question is extremely simple, Colonel. May we therefore take advantage of the year’s preparation you’ve already carried out and — dare I suggest — steal your plan?”

“I would have to take advice from my government before I could consider...”

Christopher took an envelope from his pocket. “I will be happy to let you see Mr. Rabin’s letter to me on this subject, but first allow me to read it to you.”

The Secretary opened the envelope and extracted the letter. He placed his glasses on the end of his nose and unfolded the single sheet.

Christopher turned the letter around and pushed it across the table.

“Colonel Kratz, let me assure you on behalf of the United States Government that I believe such information as you have in your possession may make the difference between success and failure.”