Honour Among Thieves (32 page)

‘Thirty
days,’ said the judge, without raising his head.

‘Next.’

Two
people in the courtroom were stunned by the judge’s decision. One of them
reluctantly loosened her grip on the rope handle of her holdall, while the
other stammered out, ‘Bail, Your Honour?’

‘Denied.’

T
HE TWO MEN
REMAINED SILENT until David Kratz had come to the end of his outline plan.

Dexter
was the first to speak. ‘I must admit, Colonel, I’m impressed. It just might
work.’

Scott
nodded his agreement, and then turned to the Mossad man who only a few weeks
before had given Hannah the order that he should be killed. Some of the guilt
had been lifted since they had been working so closely with each other, but the
lines on the forehead and the prematurely grey hair of the Israeli leader
remained a perpetual reminder of what he had been through. During their time
together Scott had come to admire the sheer professional skill of the man who
had been put in charge of the operation.

‘I
still need some queries answered,’ said Scott, ‘and a few other things
explained.’

The
Israeli Councillor for Cultural Affairs to the Court of St James nodded.

‘Are
you certain that they plan to put the safe in the Ba’ath Party headquarters?’

‘Certain,
no. Confident, yes,’ said Kratz. ‘A Dutch company completed some building work
in the basement of the headquarters nearly three years ago, and among thir
final drawings was a brick construction, the dimen-sions of which would house
the safe perfectly.’

‘And
is this safe still in Kalmar?’

‘It
was three weeks ago,’ replied Kratz, ‘when one of my agents carried out a
routine check.’

‘And
does it belong to the Iraqi Government?’ asked Dexter Hutchins.

‘Yes,
it has been fully paid for, and is now legally the property of the Iraqis.’

‘Legally
that may be the position, but since the Gulf War the UN has imposed a new
category of sanctions,’ Scott reminded him.

‘How
can a safe be considered a piece of military equipment?’ asked Dexter.

‘Exactly
the Iraqis’ argument,’ replied Kratz. ‘But, unfortunately for them, when they
placed the original order with the Swedes, among the explicit specifications
was the requirement that the safe “must be able to withstand a nuclear attack”.
The word “nuclear” was all that was needed to start the bells ringing at the
UN.’

‘So
how do you plan to get round that problem?’

asked
Scott.

‘Whenever
the Iraqi Government submits a new list of items that they consider do not
break UN Security Council Resolution 661, the safe is always included. If the
Americans, the British and the French didn’t raise any objection, it could slip
through.’

‘And
the Israeli Government?’

‘We
would protest vociferously in front of the Iraqi delegation, but not behind
closed doors to our friends.’

‘So
let us imagine for one moment that we’re in possession of a giant safe that can
withstand a nuclear attack. What good does that do us?’ asked Scott.

‘Someone
has to be responsible for getting that safe from Sweden to Baghdad. Someone has
to install it when they get there, and someone has to explain to Saddam’s
people how to operate it,’ said Kratz.

‘And
you have someone who is six feet tall, a karate expert, and speaks fluent
Arabic?’

‘We
did have, but she was only five feet ten.’ The two men stared at each other.
Scott remained silent.

‘And
how were you proposing to assassinate Saddam?’ asked Dexter quickly. ‘Lock him
up in the safe and hope he would suffocate?’

Kratz
realised the comment had been made to take Scott’s mind off Hannah, so he
responded in kind. ‘No, we discovered that was the CIA’s plan, and dismissed
it. We had something more subtle in mind.’

‘Namely?’
asked Scott.

‘A
tiny nuclear device was to be planted inside the safe.’

‘And
the safe would be in the passage next to where the Revolutionary Command
Council meet. Not bad,’ said Dexter.

‘And
the device was to be set off by a five-foot-ten, Arabic-speaking Jewish girl?’
asked Scott.

Kratz
nodded.

Thirty
days? What did I do to deserve thirty days, that’s what I want to know.’ But no
one was listening as Dollar Bill was hustled out of the courtroom, along the
corridor and then out through a door at the rear of the building, before being
pushed into the back seat of an unmarked car. Three men with military-style
haircuts, Ray-Bans, and small earplugs connected to wires running down the
backs of their collars, accompanied him. ‘Why wasn’t I given bail? And what
about my appeal? I have the right to a lawyer, damn it. And by the way, where
are you taking me?’ However many questions he asked, Dollar Bill received no
answers.

Although
he was unable to see anything out of the smoked-glass side windows, Dollar Bill
could tell by looking over the driver’s shoulder when they reached the Golden
Gate Bridge. As they proceeded along Route 101, the speedometer touched
fifty-five for the first time, but the driver never once exceeded the speed
limit.

When
twenty minutes later the car swung off the highway at the Belvedere exit,
Dollar Bill had no idea where he was. The driver continued up a small, winding
road, until the car slowed down as a massive set of wrought-iron gates loomed
up in front of them.

The
driver flashed his lights twice and the gates swung open to allow the car to
continue its journey down a long, straight gravel drive. It was another three
or four minutes before they came to a halt in front of a large country house
which reminded Dollar Bill of his youth in County Kerry, when his mother had
been a scullery maid up at the manor house.

One
of Dollar Bill’s escorts leaped out of the car and opened the door for him.
Another ran ahead of them up the steps and pressed a bell, as the car sped away
across the gravel.

The
massive oak door opened to reveal a butler in a long black coat and a white bow
tie.

‘Good
evening, Mr O’Reilly,’ he declared in a pronounced English accent even before
Dollar Bill had reached the top step. ‘My name is Charles. Your room is already
prepared. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to accompany me, sir.’ Dollar Bill followed
him into the house and up the wide staircase without uttering a word. He would
have tried some of his questions on Charles, but as he was English, Dollar Bill
knew he couldn’t expect an honest reply. The butler guided him into a small,
well-furnished bedroom on the first floor.

‘I
do hope you will find that the clothes are the correct fitting sir’ said
Charles, ‘and that everything else is tc your liking. Dinner will be served in
half an hour.’

Dollar
Bill bowed and spent the next few minutes looking round the suite. He checked
the bathroom. French soap, safety razors and fluffy white towels; even a
toothbrush and his favourite toothpaste. He returned to the bedroom and tested
the double bed. He couldn’t remember when he had last slept on anything so comfortable.
He then checked the wardrobe and found three pairs of trousers and three
jackets, not unlike the ones he had purchased a few days after returning from
Washington. How did they know?

He
looked in the drawers: six shirts, six pairs of pants and six pairs of socks.
They had thought of everything, even if he didn’t care that much for their
choice of ties.

Dollar
Bill decided to join in the game. He took a bath, shaved and changed into the
clothes provided. They were, as Charles had promised, the correct fitting.

He
heard a gong sound downstairs, which he took as a clear signal that he had been
summoned. He opened the door, stepped into the corridor and proceeded down the
wide staircase to find the butler standing in the hall.

‘Mr
Hutchins is expecting you. You’ll find him in the drawing room, sir.’

‘Yes,
of course I will,’ said Dollar Bill, and followed Charles into a large room
where a tall, burly man was standing by the fireplace, the stub of a cigar in
the corner of his mouth.

‘Good
evening, Mr O’Reilly,’ he said. ‘My name is Dexter Hutchins. We’ve never met
before, but I’ve long been an admirer of your work.’

‘That’s
kind of you, Mr Hutchins, but I don’t have the same advantage of knowing what
you do to pass the unre-lenting hour.’

‘I
do apologise. I am the Deputy Director of the CIA.’

‘After
all these years, I get to have dinner in a large country house with the Deputy
Director of the CIA simply because I was involved in a bar-room brawl, I’m
tempted to ask, what do you lay on for mass murderers?’ ‘I must confess, Mr
O’Reilly, that it was one of my men who threw the first punch. But before we go
any further, what would you like to drink?’

‘I
don’t think Charles will have my favourite brew,’ said Dollar Bill, turning to
face the butler.

‘I
fear the Guinness is canned and not on tap, sir. If I had been given a little
more notice . ..’ Dollar Bill bowed again and the butler disappeared.

‘Don’t
you think I’m entitled to know what this is all about, Mr Hutchins? After
all...’

‘You
are indeed, Mr O’Reilly. The truth is, the government is in need of your
services, not to mention your expertise.’

‘I
didn’t realise that Clintonomics had resorted to forgery to help balance the
budget deficit,’ said Dollar Bill as the butler returned with a large glass of
Guinness. ‘Not quite as drastic as that, but every bit as demanding,’ said
Hutchins. ‘But perhaps we should have a little dinner before I go into any
details. I fear it’s been a long day for you.’ Dollar Bill nodded and followed
the Deputy Director through to a small dining room, where the table had been
set for two. The butler held a chair back for Dollar Bill, and when he was
comfortably seated asked, ‘How do you like your steak done, sir?’

‘Is
it sirloin or entrecote?’ asked Dollar Bill. ‘Sirloin.’

‘If
the meat is good enough, tell the chef to put a candle under it – but only for
a few moments.’

‘Excellent,
sir. Yours, Mr Hutchins, will I presume be well done?’

Dexter
Hutchins nodded, feeling the first round had definitely gone to Dollar Bill.

‘I’m
enjoying this charade enormously,’ said Dollar Bill, taking a gulp of Guinness.
‘But I’d like to know what the prize is, should I be fortunate enough to win.’

‘You
might equally well be interested to know what the forfeit will be if you are
unfortunate enough to lose.’

‘I
should have realised this had to be too good to last.’

‘First,
allow me to fill you in with a little background,’ said Dexter Hutchins as a
lightly grilled steak was placed in front of his guest. ‘On May 25th this year,
a well-organised group of criminals descended on Washington and carried out one
of the most ingenious crimes in the history of this country.’

‘Excellent
steak,’ said Dollar Bill. ‘You must give my compliments to the chef.’

‘I
certainly will, sir,’ said Charles, who was hovering behind his chair.

‘This
crime consisted of stealing from the National Archives, in broad daylight, the
Declaration of Independence, and replacing it with a brilliant copy.’

Dollar
Bill looked suitably impressed, but felt it would be unwise to comment at this
stage.

‘We
have the names of several people involved in that crime, but we cannot make any
arrests for fear of making those who are now in possession of the Declaration
aware that we might be after them.’

‘And
what’s this got to do with me?’ asked Dollar Bill, as he devoured another
succulent piece of meat.

‘We
thought you might be interested to know who had financed the entire operation,
and is now in possession of the Declaration of Independence.’

Until
that moment, Dollar Bill had learned nothing new, but he had long wanted to
know where the document had ended up. He had never believed Angelo’s tale of
‘in private hands, an eccentric collector’. He put his knife and fork down and
stared across the table at the Deputy Director of the CIA, who had at last
captured his attention.

‘We
have reason to believe that the Declaration of Independence is currently in
Baghdad, in the personal possession of Saddam Hussein.’

Dollar
Bill’s mouth opened wide, although he remained silent for some considerable
time. ‘Is there no longer honour among thieves?’ he finally said.

‘There
still could be,’ said Hutchins, ‘because our only hope of returning the
parchment to its rightful home rests in the hands of a small group who are
willing to risk their lives by switching the document, in much the same way as
the criminals did originally.’

‘If
I had known...’ Dollar Bill paused. ‘How can I help?’ he asked quietly.

‘At
this moment, we are in urgent need of a perfect copy of the original. And we
believe you are the only person who is capable of producing one.’