Honour Among Thieves (8 page)

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

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 bursary.

While
at St Patrick’s Institution for Offenders, Bill was introduced to the banknote
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 which 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 licence 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 had to resort
to doing tattoos at fairgrounds and, in desperation, pavement 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 recognise. Bill
looked round 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 draught 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 circula ... tion,’ said Dollar Bill
when Angelo had finished. ‘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 a good price.’

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 travelled 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 $25,000 down and $25,000 on completion, with all expenses paid,’ said the
Irishman.

The
young man couldn’t believe his luck. Cavalli had authorised him to spend up to
$100,000 if he could guarantee the finished article. But then he remembered
that his boss never trusted anyone who didn’t bargain.

‘$10,000
when we reach Washington and another $20,000 on completion.’

Dollar
Bill toyed with his empty glass.

‘$30,000
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 $30,000 if no
one else can.’

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
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 Scott was needed, 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 gender 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 started 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.

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 realised 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 make-up, 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 theatre. 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 side of the bargain.