Honour Among Thieves (11 page)

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 defence budget’. The blonde looked suitably impressed, even if
the
maitre 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
maitre d’
,
he agreed to try the house special, a chocolate souffle. 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 a 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
maitre
d’
returned, he had his MasterCard ready.

‘Your
guest has just arrived,’ said the
maitre
d’
, without indicating the slightest surprise.

‘My
guest...?’ began Scott.

‘Hello,
Scott. I’m sorry I’m a little late, but the President just was 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
maitre 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 consomme 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 emphasised her slim
figure even more. Her blonde hair now fell loosely on to 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
maitre
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 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 underrated and Bellini overrated?’ she enquired. Scott
realised 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
maitre
d’
reappeared by their side.

She
recommended the chocolate souffle, 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 honoured 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
maitre 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. Ten twenty-five. 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 round
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
maitre 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
maitre d’
bowed. Scott left the restaurant, took the lift 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 neglige, 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.’

B
UTTON 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 souffle needs time to rise.’

Angelo
watched as Dollar Bill transferred the two parchments carefully onto a table in
the centre 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 in 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 came out
positively, 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 fulfil his request, and the second to their contact in the
Lebanon to tell him that they could not deal with a man who had demanded that
ten per cent 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 recognised, 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 set 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.