Honour Among Thieves (36 page)

When
the plane landed at Stockholm, Al Obaydi disembarked, using the diplomatic
channel to escape quickly.

The
journey to Kalmar by taxi took just over three hours, and the newly-appointed
Ambassador spent most of the time gazing aimlessly out of the grubby window,
pondering the unfamiliar sight of green hills and grey sides. When the taxi
finally came to a halt outside the works entrance of Svenhalte AC, Al Obaydi
was greeted by the sight of a man in a long brown coat who looked as if he had
been standing there for some time.

Al
Obaydi noticed that the man had a worried expression on his face. But it turned
to a smile the moment the Ambassador stepped out of the car.

‘How
agreeable to meet you, Mr Al Obaydi,’ said the chief engineer in English, the
tongue he felt they would both feel most comfortable in. ‘My name is Pedersson.
Won’t you please come to my office?’

After
Pedersson had ordered coffee – how nice to taste cappuccino again, Al Obaydi
thought – his first question proved just how anxious he was.

‘I
hope we did not do wrong?’

‘No,
no,’ said Al Obaydi, who had himself been put at ease by the chief engineer’s
gushing words and obvious anxiety. ‘I assure you this is only a routine check.’

Mr
Riffat was in possession of all the correct documents, both from the UN and
from your government.’

Al
Obaydi was becoming painfully aware that he was dealing with a group of
highly-trained professionals.

‘You
say they left here on Wednesday afternoon?’ Al Obaydi asked, trying to sound
casual.

‘Yes,
that is correct.’

“How
long do you imagine it will take them to reach Baghdad?’

‘At
least a week, perhaps ten days in that old truck, if they make it at all.’

Al
Obaydi looked puzzled. ‘An old truck?’

‘Yes,
they came to pick up Madame Bertha in an old army truck. Though, I must
confess, the engine had a good sound to it. I took some pictures for my album.
Would you like to see them?’

‘Pictures
of the truck?’ said Al Obaydi.

‘Yes,
from my window, with Mr Riffat standing by the safe. They didn’t notice.’

Pedersson
opened the drawer of his desk and took out several pictures. He pushed them
across his desk with the same pride that another man might have displayed when
showing a stranger snapshots of his family.

Al
Obaydi studied the photographs carefully. Several of them showed Madame Bertha
being lowered onto the truck.

‘There
is a problem?’ asked Pedersson.

‘No,
no,’ said Al Obaydi, and added, ‘Would it be possible to have copies of these
photographs?’

‘Oh
yes, please keep them, I have many,’ said the chief engineer, pointing to the
open drawer.

Al
Obaydi picked up his briefcase, opened it and placed the pictures in a flap at
the front before removing some photographs of his own.

‘While
I’m here, perhaps you could help me with one more small matter.’

‘Anything,’
said Pedersson.

‘I
have some photographs of former employees of the state, and it would be helpful
if you were able to remember if any of them were among those who came to
collect Madame Bertha.’

Once
again, Pedersson looked unsure, but he took the photographs and studied each
one at length. He repeated, ‘No, no, no,’ several times, until he came to one
which he took longer over. Al Obaydi leaned forward.

‘Yes,’
said Pedersson eventually. ‘Although it must have been taken some years ago.
This is Mr Riffat. He has not put on any weight, but he has aged and his hair
has turned grey. A very thorough man,’ Pedersson added.

‘Yes,’
said Al Obaydi, ‘Mr Riffat is a very thorough man,’ he repeated as he glanced
at the details in Arabic printed on the back of the photograph. ‘It will be a
great relief for my government to know that Mr Riffat is in charge of this
particular operation.’

Pedersson
smiled for the first time as Al Obaydi downed the last drop of his coffee. ‘You
have been most helpful,’ the Ambassador said. He rose before adding, ‘I feel
sure my government will be in need of your services again in the future, but I
would be obliged if you made no mention of this meeting to anyone.’

‘Just
as you wish,’ said Pedersson as they walked back down to the yard. The smile
remained on his face as he watched the taxi drive out of the factory gate,
carrying off his distinguished customer.

But
Pedersson’s thoughts did not match his expression. ‘All is not well,’ he
muttered to himself. ‘I do not believe that gentleman feels Madame Bertha is in
safe hands, and I am certain he is no friend of Mr Riffat.’

It
surprised Scott to find that he liked Dollar Bill the moment he met him. It
didn’t surprise him that once he had seen an example of his work, he also
respected him.

Scott
landed in San Francisco seventeen hours after he had taken off from Stockholm.
The CIA had a car waiting for him at the airport. He was driven quickly up into
Marin County and deposited outside the safe house within the hour.

After
snatching some sleep, Scott rose for lunch, hoping to meet Dollar Bill straight
away, but to his disappointment the forger was nowhere to be seen.

‘Mr
O’Reilly takes breakfast at seven and doesn’t appear again before dinner, sir,’
explained the butler.

‘And
what does he do for sustenance in between?’ asked Scott.

‘At
twelve, I take him a bar of chocolate and half a pint of water, and at six,
half a pint of Guinness.’

After
lunch, Scott read an update on what had been going on at the State Department
during his absence, and then spent the rest of the afternoon in the basement
gym. He staggered out of the session around five, nursing several aches and pains
from excessive exercise and one or two bruises administered by the judo
instructor.

‘Not
bad for thirty-six,’ he was told condescendingly by the instructor, who looked
as if he might have been only a shade younger himself.

Scott
sat in a warm bath trying to ease the pain as he turned the pages of Madame
Bertha’s bible. The document had already been translated by six Arabic scholars
from six universities within fifty miles of where he was soaking. They had been
given two non-consecutive chapters each. Dexter Hutchins had not been idle
since his return.

When
Scott came down for dinner, still feeling a little stiff, he found Dollar Bill
standing with his back to the fire in the drawing room, sipping a glass of
water.

‘What
would you like to drink, Professor?’ asked the butler.

‘A
very weak shandy,’ Scott replied before introducing himself to Dollar Bill.

‘Are
you here, Professor, out of choice, or were you simplv arrested for drunk
driving?’ was Dollar Bill’s first question. He had obviously decided to give
Scott just as hard a time as the judo instructor.

‘Choice,
I fear,’ replied Scott with a smile.

‘From
such a reply,’ said Dollar Bill, ‘I can only deduce you teach a dead subject or
one that is no use to living mortals.’

‘I
teach Constitutional Law,’ Scott replied, ‘but I specialise in Logic’

‘Then
you manage to achieve both at once,’ said Dollar Bill as Dexter Hutchins
entered the room.

‘I’d
like a gin and tonic, Charles,’ said Dexter as he shook Scott’s hand warmly.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t catch up with you earlier, but those guys in Foggy Bottom
haven’t been off the phone all afternoon.’

‘There
are many reasons to be wary of your fellow creatures,’ Dollar Bill observed,
‘and by asking for a gin and tonic, Mr Hutchins has just demonstrated two of
them.’

Charles
returned a moment later carrying a shandy and a gin and tonic on a silver tray,
which he offered to Scott and the Deputy Director.

‘In
my university days, logic didn’t exist,’ said Dollar Bill after Dexter Hutchins
had suggested they go through to dinner. ‘Trinity College, Dublin would have no
truck with the subject. I can’t think of a single occa-sion in Irish history
when any of my countrymen have ever relied on logic’

‘So
what did you study?’ asked Scott.

‘A
lot of Fleming, a little of Joyce, with a few rare moments devoted to Plato and
Aristotle, but I fear not enough to engage the attention of any member of the
board of examiners.’

“And
how is the Declaration coming on?’ asked Dexter, as if he hadn’t been following
the conversation.

A
stickler for the work ethic is our Mr Hutchins, Professor,’ said Dollar Bill as
a bowl of soup was placed in front of him. ‘Mind you, he is a man who would
rely on logic to see him through. However, as there is no such thing in life as
a free meal, I will attempt to answer my jailer’s question. Today, I completed
the text as originally written by Timothy Matlock, Assistant to the Secretary
of Congress. It took him seventeen hours you know. I fear it has taken me
rather longer/

‘And
how long do you think it will take you to finish the names?’ pressed Dexter.

‘You
are worse than Pope Julius II, forever demanding of Michelangelo how long it
would take him to finish the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,’ said Dollar Bill
as the butler removed the soup bowls.

‘The
names,’ demanded Dexter. ‘The names.’

‘Oh,
impatient and unsubtle man.’

‘Shaw,’
said Scott.

‘I
grow to like you more by the minute,’ said Dollar Bill.

‘The
names,’ repeated Dexter as Charles placed an Irish stew on the table. Dollar
Bill immediately helped himself.

‘Now
I see why you are the Deputy Director,’ said Dollar Bill. ‘Do you not realise,
man, that there are fifty-six names on the original document, each one of them
a work of art in itself? Let me demonstrate to you, if I may. Paper, please,
Charles. I require paper.’

The
butler took a pad that lay next to the telephone and placed it by O’Reilly’s
side. Dollar Bill removed a pen from his inside pocket and began to scribble.

He
showed his two dinner companions what he had written: ‘Mr O’Reilly may have the
unrestricted use of the company helicopter whenever he wishes.’

‘What
does that prove?’ asked Dexter.

‘Patience,
Mr Hutchins, patience,’ said Dollar Bill, as he retrieved the piece of paper
and signed it first with the signature of Dexter Hutchins, and then, changing
his pen, wrote ‘Scott Bradley’.

Once
again he allowed them to study his efforts.

‘But
how...?’ said Scott.

‘In
your case, Professor, it was easy. All I needed was the visitors’ book.’

‘But
I didn’t sign the visitors’ book,’ said Dexter.

‘I
confess it would be a strange thing for you to do when you are the Deputy
Director,’ said Dollar Bill, ‘but, in your case nothing would surprise me.
However, Mr Hutchins, you do have the infuriating habit of signing and dating
the inside cover of any book you have purchased recently. I suspect in the case
of first editions it will be the nearest you get to posterity.’ He paused. ‘But
enough of this idle banter. You can both see for yourself the task I face.’
Without warning, Dollar Bill folded his napkin, rose from the table leaving his
half-finished stew, and walked out of the room. His companions jumped up and
quickly followed him across to the west wing without another word being spoken.
After they had climbed a small flight of stone steps they entered Dollar Bill’s
makeshift study.

On
an architect’s drafting board below a bright light rested the parchment. Both
men walked across the room, stood over the board and studied the completed
script. It had been inscribed above a large empty space covered in tiny pencil
crosses that awaited the fifty-six signatures.

Scott
stared in admiration at the work.

‘But
why didn’t you...’

‘Take
up a proper occupation?’ asked Dollar Bill, anticipating the question. ‘And
have ended up as a schoolmaster in Wexford, or perhaps have climbed to the
dizzy heights of being a councillor in Dublin? No, sir, I

would
prefer the odd stint in jail rather than be considered by my fellow men as
mediocre.’

‘How
many days before you have to leave us, young man?’ Dexter Hutchins asked Scott.

‘Kratz
phoned this afternoon,’ Scott replied, turning to face the Deputy Director. ‘He
says they caught the Trelleborg-Sassnitz ferry last night. They’re now heading
south, hoping to cross the Bosphorus by Monday morning.’

‘
Which means they should be at the border with Iraq by next
Wednesday.
’

‘The
perfect time of year to be sailing the Bosphorus,’ said Dollar Bill.
‘Especially if you hope to meet a rather remarkable girl when you reach the
other side,’ he added, looking up at Scott. ‘So, I’d better have the
Declaration finished by Monday, hadn’t I, Professor?’

‘At
the latest,’ said Hutchins as Scott stared down at the little Irishman.