HONOUR AMONG THIEVES
Copyright Jeffrey Archer 1993
NEW YORK,
February 15th 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 as 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 they 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. After all, if Cavalli didn't
honour 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 been
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 scill 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?'
enquired 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 cliche 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 dishevelled man who obviously
hadn't noticed that the top button of his shirt was missing
and who couldn't have made up his mind which side to part his
hair 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 practise 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 inalienable 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 law makers or law breakers
-' 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 theatre 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, and although, despite her background,
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 fulfil his promise. But then, as Hannah often
reflected, Baker had not lost his entire family in one night.
The day she was discharged from hospital, Hannah had
immediately applied to join Mossad. They had been dismissive
of her request, assuming she would, in time, find that the
wound 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
importantly, 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 onto her own ground.
Hannah had always, from a young age, taken it for granted
that she could speak several languages. She had been born in
Leningrad in 1968, and when fourteen years later her father
died, 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 in 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 modelling. Hannah laughed and explained that she
had better things to do with her life.
A few weeks later, after Hannah had returned from an
interview at Vasser, she joined her family in Paris for their
summer holiday. 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
holiday 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 took up a place 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 PhD; 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
get 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 modelling, 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 despatched 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.
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 reading 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 round for
graduates to 611 out their applications to join leading law
firms, Cavalli was always shortlisted when the partners saw
his grades, but once they realised 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 realise 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 15th 1992, the company 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 year on
year, could not be checked up on by phoning Dun & Bradstreet
and requesting a complete VIP business report. This
subsidiary was known to a small group of insiders as 'Skills'
- a company that specialised 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 Sinatra and
Nancy Reagan 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 a more 'imaginative'
proposition. 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 theatre, Scott Bradley
hurried across Grove Street Cemetery, hoping that he might
reach his apartment in 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 for 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 metres in 48.1
seconds when he'd anchored the Georgetown varsity relay team.
Confident he had escaped, Scott leapt
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 per cent
would be good - thirty per cent 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 per cent, 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 recognised 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 recognised 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 realised 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 the 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 rainforests 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
would have been about the same age as her mother, had Mama
still been alive.
'Welcome to England, my dear. I'm Ethel Rubin,' she
announced in gushing tones. 'I'm 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 realised 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 holiday.
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 future their guest must be left in peace.
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 rear-view 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 fantasise 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 on 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 favourite 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 AI 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
centre 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,
nerve and a fair degree of luck. Al Obaydi still gave the
plan no more than a one per cent 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
per cent chance
of surviving Operation Desert Storm. And if the great
Sayedi could pull this off, the United States would become a
laughing stock 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 kerb 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 lift 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 round 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
humped 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
thousands. 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, as 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 standing waiting to escort him back 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 realised
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 enquired.
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'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 Bili.
He's the best. In fact no one else comes close,' added
Cavalli.
'As long as he's sober,' was all the chairman said.
THE tall, athletic MAN stepped off the plane into the US
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 recognise him. He needed just
one person to recognise him - the driver who was picking him
up. At six foot one, his fair hair tousled and with almost
chiselled fine features, and dressed in light blue jeans,
cream shirt and a dark blue blazer, he made many women rather
hope that he would recognise 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 home
town 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
round 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 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 drew 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 headmistress would often
explain to parents that it was impossible to have the second
without the first.

Breaking school rules could, in the headmistress'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 favourite 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 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
headmistress of Columbus felt confident that the girls would
only be interested in the work T. Hamilton McKenzie had done
for 'our gallant war heroes', as she referred to them.
The school rule that the headmistress 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
lacrosse, 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 headmistress had learned the previous
week that Sally had won an endowed national scholarship to
Oberlin College to study medicine.
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 grey
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 headmistress.
The man touched the peak of his hat with his right hand
and enquired, '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, 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
realised 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, they 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 theatre - 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 fixed 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 there had been no
late change of plan.
Columbus doesn't change its plans, the headmistress would
have liked to tell the Nobel Laureate, but satisfied herself
with assuring him that Sally had left school at four o'clock,
and that the limousine company 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 p.m., 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 p.m.
At 5.20 p.m. 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 p.m., neither of them was
at his side and his famous 'cool' was beginning to show
distinct signs of steaming.
Joni had taken some considerable time te select an
appropriate outfit for the occasion, and was disappointed
when she appeared in the hall 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 lever.
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 headmistress, was
waiting for them at the foot of the stone steps at the
school's main entrance. The headmistress 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 headmistress knew
Sally was not on the school premises, but did not consider it
courteous to correct the guest of honour's wife, especially
as she had just received a call from the car service that
required an explanation.
At fourteen minutes to six they walked into the
headmistress'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 realised 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 headmistress 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 headmistress led the guest of
honour onto the stage. He watched the four hundred girls rise
and applaud him in what the headmistress would have described
as a 'ladylike' manner.
When the applause had faded away, the headmistress 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 headmistress returned to her place in the centre
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 should 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, homograting, 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 had entered the room. T. Hamilton
McKenzie assumed that was because showing their true feelings
would have been considered 'unladylike'.
On returning to the headmistress's study, Joni asked the
secretary if there had been any news of Sally.
'Not that I am 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 had 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 headmistress 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 behaviour 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 cancelled 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 field
officer, and as fit as any quarterback in America. 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 in 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, at the
same time suggesting ways of how to dunk logically, always
weighing known facts with subjective judgement 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 theatre.
When the session was over, Scott joined them in the gym
for another workout. He climbed ropes, pumped iron and
practised karate exercises, and they never once treated him
as anything other than a full member of the team. Anyone who
patronised the visiting professor from Yale often ended up
with more than their egos 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' 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
realise 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 will 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 your depth and our 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 theatre, 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 judgement 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 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 8.30 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 are in the
business of extending life. We're in the business of ending
it.'
The phone went dead.
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 reconnoitring 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 a fortnight.
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 lift 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 in to 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
lavatory 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 to reach the front door, as 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 pavement towards the
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 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 first 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 realised 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 realise. 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 tie Sally had given
him two Christmases before and which 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 back to the house. He didn't take
his thumb off the bell until Joni opened the door with a
questioning look on her face.
'My battery's flat. 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 colour with a sign reading 444
4444 attached to the roof. But he realised 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 a.m. 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 kerb.
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 round 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 and pick up passengers
before they finally reached the corner of Independence, by
which time the driver feared the watchless 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 a.m.
'Oh God, let them still be there,' he said as he ran
towards the Olentangy Inn, hoping no one would recognise
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 cafe tables in twos and
fours, and he would have 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
pavement 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 chemist's 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 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 chemist. 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 pavement 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 lavatory, 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 round 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 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 pavement. 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 tube 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 now pass herself off as an Iraqi.
When the train pulled in to 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 carriage.
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 convulsive 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 in to Piccadilly Circus.
His friend stood in the doorway so that anyone who might
have considered entering the end carriage 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, Sloane?'
Hannah smiled at him as she began planning the route she
would have to take out of the carriage once the train pulled
in to 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, Sloane -
quietly or noisily. It's your choice. But if you don't feel
like co-operating, 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 swivelled 180 degrees. The knife went flying out of
his hand and shot across the floor to the far end of the
carriage. 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 zip and
pulled off his jeans to reveal a grubby pair of navy Y-fronts
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 Y-fronts.
'How disappointing,' said Hannah as the train pulled in to
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 litter bin 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 skip 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 to join Hannah 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
skirt 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. Eight fifty-six. 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 moments 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 party had taken a sip
she said, 'Coffee's getting cold, folks,' and moved on.
'I've only got about $200,000 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 specialises 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 queue.'
'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 realise just 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 keep 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 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.
She parked the Ford Taurus - America's most popular car -
a hundred yards from the house, but not before she'd swung it
round 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 green 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 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 round 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 rear-view
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 overalls 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 rear-view mirror and watched the
paramedics guide the well-built man towards 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 centre 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 rear-view 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 milometer. '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.'

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 cutting.
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 the basement of 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' 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 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. I've had less put the btest 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 Labour Party
policy; the others are on the PLO, Lebanon, Iran, Iraq,
Syria, Saudi Arabia and Jordan, all in reference to our
current defence 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 defence 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 32 nd 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 round 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 be going to surprise them with.
'Several, but I need to observe the man in action before I
try to second guess. 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 matches.
'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 at the centre
of the table, in front of the American flag, he spotted Scott
for,the first time, and nodded an acknowledgement 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. We have therefore prepared a
plan to assassinate Saddam Hussein.' He paused to allow the
implications of his statement to sink in. 'We have at last
found a way of breaching Saddam's security, and 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 the 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, as
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 Middle Eastern people in my office
in one hour, and I must see the President before he departs
for Houston.'
Christopher turned to leave, but before 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 master.
'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 answering.
'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 Bob
Krueger, who was defending Lloyd Bentsen's seat in the
special May elections. His plane had been late taking off
from Andrews. There was no explanation as to why he was
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 had only
been offered sandwiches and a glass of milk all day, and
considered 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 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 wsnt 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.'
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
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.
Hannah stepped out of the High Street Kensington
underground station a few minutes before six. She strolled up
the wide pavement 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. 'First 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 fists. 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 enquired.
'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 an agent
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
save your life.'
Kratz rose from his side of the desk and walked round 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 licence 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 four 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 centre 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 judgement. 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 Matlock 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 a few
lines further down. Both of the corrections had been inserted
with a A.
'But,' continued Dollar Bill, 'Mr Matlock also made one
spelling mistake which he did not correct. On one of the
copies, you will find, I have.'
HANNAH LANDED AT Beirut airport the night before she was
due to fly to Paris. No one from Mossad accompanied the new

agent, to avoid the risk of compromising her. Any Israeli
found in the 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 Arabic. In
between she managed to catch moments of restless sleep. She
rose at ten to seven the following morning, ate a slab of
chocolate she found in the tiny fridge, cleaned 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 favoured, 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 a.m. 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 carpark. 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 the Mossad agent in Paris was. If it ever became
necessary, he 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-panelled 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
partic-ular 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 round 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 'scepticism' 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
centre of the table. The six sceptics 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 sceptical 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 cheque 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 per cent 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 confident 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 door 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' 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 a
problem. He's got the most to lose.'

'As our trade union leader, he'll certainly have to be out
there on centre 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 on top of America's most wanted list.'
'And the others?' asked the chairman, as Bruno Morelli
brushed past them without even saying goodnight.
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 were 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
adrenalin 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
apologised 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 small 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 queue.
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 collar 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 death-watch. 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 its
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, Al. 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, Al. In a moment you'll all see why. Most of
you round this table must be wondering why we've been
honoured by the presence of Johnny Scasiatore, a man
nominated for an Oscar for his direction of The Honest
Lawyer.1 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
Senate 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 No. 1,' suggested Piemonte. 'And the Mayor
will probably expect the same amount for her re-election
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 that we're making a movie about the new 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 Teamster 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 centre 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 only say if, I am abie
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 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 on to you, Mr Vicente, and your particular
expertise 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 realises it's been removed and I'm told
well in advance where you want it delivered, that should be
simple.'
'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 29 inches by 24 inches, the exact
size of the Declaration of Independence.'
'So now all I've got to hope is that every customs agent
and coastguard 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 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 organised 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 diaries.
'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.
'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 realised that, as
one of forty-six Special Assistants to the President, and in
his case only on temporary assignment, the switchboard might
not even recognise 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 22nd
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 postbag 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 round
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 sceptics, 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 could 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
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 meagre 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 agree to
Cavalli's proposition.
But it was Maria who tilted the balance in Cavalli's
favour.
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 which became more
vocal when she learned that he'd be leaving the 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?' enquired 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 to 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 diary, '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 diary. 'Would Tuesday, 10 a.m. suit you?'
the Archivist eventually asked.,
'Let me check my other diary,' said Butterworth, staring
into space. 'Yes, that looks fine. I have another appointment
at 10.30, 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 dialled
Cavalli's private number.
Scott promised Dexter Hutchins he would be around when
Dexter's son came to Yale for his admission inter-
view.
'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 over 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 round 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-defence, 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 the 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 are 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 hat
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 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 top 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 foot, and as
thin as most women half his age would have liked to be. He
was almost bald except for a semicircle of grey 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 a magna cum laude at Duke University, Marshall had
written a book on the history of the Bill of Rights that was
now considered to be 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.'
'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 explosion at 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 cancelled.'
'Have to be cancelled. 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.'
HAMID AL OBAYDI was left alone in the centre 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 to look into every crevice. Satisfied, he removed the
clamp. He then asked Al Obaydi to stand up, turn round, 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 Carrier watch. All

this had been rejected in favour 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 barrack-room surroundings of the examina-tion 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 ante-room 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 centre 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 attache 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 recognised
the red-and-yellow flash on 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 on
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 round 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 uniform but did not
wear sidearms. The only hand gun, 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 Cohiba 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 honoured
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, as 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. He turned back to face Saddam,
whose black eyes remained fixed on him.
'May I begin, Mr President, by saying what an honour 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, the State Prosecutor, was feared second only
to Saddam in the Iraqi regime. Everyone knew of his
reputation. A first-class honours 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 QC Iraq had ever produced. But then
came the invasion of the Nineteenth Province and the British
expelled the highflyer, 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
rumoured, he had selected himself.
'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 speechwrit-ers 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 13 th
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 re-election fund.'
Saddam began to laugh, so the others round 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 co-operative, 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 only say 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 authorise 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 them 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
Matlock, 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 will not pay out another cent. Is that
right?'
'Yes, State Prosecutor,' said Al Obaydi.
'Which word on the original has been incorrectly spelt?'
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 to 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.
'It will be in place by May 25th,' said the Foreign
Minister. 'I would 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 favoured 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 rowing boat 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 laughing stock 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 vessel 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 barrack-room bed, feeling not
unlike the child she had been some thirteen 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 Barres was formerly the home of the late
Aga Khan. The Iraqi annexe 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 annexe 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 realised 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

store room before the Iraqi delegation moved in. When she
eventually forced open Karima Saib's suitcase 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 since they were only able
to use the annexe 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, as she had to slow down in order to
make Muna look more efficient. The only thing Hannah ever
forgot was to keep wearing her see-through 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, the Chief Administrator. 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 theatre or even going
to cafes, 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 cock-
tail parries, 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 Societe Generale 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 realise 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 Pare 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 rear-view 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 been shown at Langley, Hannah Kopec had
had long black hair. The hair was now cropped, but it was
unquestionably her.
Scott drove a hundred yards further down the road, turned
right and parked the 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 the Mossad agent was already swimming up and down. It
only took moments for Scott to realise how fit she was, even
if the Iraqi version of a swimsuit wasn't all that alluring.
Her pace slowed when the Ambassador's wife appeared at the
edge of the pool, after which she ventured only an 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 the 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 Metro. 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 onto 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 perhaps 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 onto 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, colourful 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 expects 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.' '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 organisation 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.
ON MAY 2STH 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 pavement that would allow a camera to follow the
six cars as they travelled slowly down Pennsylvania Avenue.
Others were fixing up massive IK arc lights along the seven
hundred yards that would eventually be powered by a 200kw
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 pavement, car doors slamming, the
rumble of the subway, even the chimes of the clock on the Old
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
short-cuts. I'm going to shoot a film that anybody watching
us, professional or amateur, could expect to see one day in a
movie theatre. 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
kerbside, 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 passers-by, 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, tailboard down,
parked in front of the District Building, Barriers were being
lifted off and carried onto the pavement to make sure
innocent passers-by 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 greyer, 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 asked Al Calabrese 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 a fake, 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 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 licence
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 9.30 a.m. That means
I won't be able to begin filming until 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 pavement.
He spotted the man he needed. 'You see the tall guy with grey
hair practising 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 smelt as if he
had spent a night in the local brewery.
Angelo realised 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 pavement, where
they were served eggs, ham and hash browns. Cavalli had to
admit that the crowds gathered behind the police barriers and
the passers-by lingering on the pavement 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 were
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 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 centre 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 they
were alone. He was sweating as if he had just finished a
five-mile jog, not travelled 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 your 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 a jelly.
Cavalli dialled 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 your end.'
'It certainly is, Mr Butterworth. Every member of my staff
has been instructed to be at their desks 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 round the whole building in fifty minutes,
because I expect 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 annual leave, 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
lift 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 13 th 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 9.50.' 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.
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 to 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 co-ordinating 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 9.59. We'll have you moving on time, I
promise.'
'Thank you, officer,' said Cavalli, and quickly dialled 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 lightbulb.
'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 pavement and looked towards the
corner of 13th Street, where 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 kerb.
'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 Calabrese came running across the pavement
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 on
towards the cars and immediately began to organise 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 round the block.
The staff van drew up in line. Scasiatore immediately
swung round 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 realised 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
who Cavalli had supposed were members of the public strolled
onto the pavement 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
first time.'
Cavalli turned to face the ex-policeman and tried not to
show how anxious he felt.
'The hold-up, 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' 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 foot
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 colour 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 be 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 round 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 co-ordinating 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 co-ordinating 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 second car, pulled open the door and jumped
into the seat next to the driver.
And then a nagging thought hit him. Looking out of 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 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 pavement - '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
iand 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 round and saw her.
'Get out, you dumb bitch,' he said, and turned back to
concentrate on redialling 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 round 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 realised 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
degree 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 lift arrived she pressed the button that would take
her to the garage.
When the lift 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 America.
Shielded by a pillar, she quickly transferred the Special
Assistant from the basket into the boot of the car. She then
wheeled the basket back to the lift, took off her baggy black
uniform, dropped it into the laundry basket, removed her

carrier bag with the long cord handle and despatched 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 car park onto F Street, and had
only travelled a short distance before she was stopped by a
traffic cop.
She wound 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.
AS THE LEAD POLICE CAR moved slowly away from the kerb,
the director's tracking dolly began running backwards at the
same pace along its rails. 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 movie.
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 speeded up and when they were opposite Andy
standing on the pavement, 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 to the loading dock.
The counter-assault team were the first onto the street,
and eight of them quickly formed a circle facing outwards
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 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 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
favour 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 realising 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, despatched 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 are right again. It has 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 the war 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 ultra-violet light.'
'Fascinating. But when did the document finally reach this
building?' asked Adams.
'On December 13 th 1952. It was transported from the
Library of Congress to the National Archives in a tank under
the armed escort of the US 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 will 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 and steel vault you see before you. I can assure
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 round 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.
Ultra-violet 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 pace 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 were 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 round 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 pace 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 pace backward, 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 make-up as Cavalli dialled a number

on his cellphone.
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 were inside, they descended to the level of the loading
dock. Cavalli sprinted out ahead of them and up the ramp onto
7th Street.
He was annoyed to find that there was still a small crowd
on the far pavement, 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 pick-up 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.
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 jumped into the second car,
still clinging onto 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 centre lane, while the
fourth turned left onto 12th Street and the sixth right at 13
th.
The fifth turned left on 23 rd 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 Parkway.
Cavalli, who was seated in the back of the second car,
dialled the director. When Johnny answered the phone, the
only words he heard were, 'It's a wrap.'
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, but agreed to meet
later at the amusement park in the bois 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
apologised. She laughed and disappeared.
Shortly after ten o'clock, Hamid Al Obaydi joined a small
crowd that had formed on the pavement opposite a side
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 queue 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,
they were 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 queue. 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 centre 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 spelt
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.
Little more than a fortnight since that first hastily
arranged meeting at the cafe on the avenue Bugeaud. That was
when the lies had begun; small 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 outside lane of the
George Washington Memorial Parkway bound for the airport the
driver checked the rear-view 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 realised 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 plastic 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 earphone, pressed a single digit followed by
'Send', and waited for a response.
'Yes?' said a recognisable voice.
'I'm on my way, and I'll have something to export 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 to 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 queues 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 licence 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, 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 was
finished. 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 No. 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 onto 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 'Brittish'.
'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 round.
'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
his phone conversation with Al Obaydi to his oldest friend.
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-coloured 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 would 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 cafe and taken two hours to
eat a salad and drink a bottle of wine. They had strolled
down the Champs-Elysees, hand in hand as lovers should,
before joining the queue 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 mesmerised 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 11.20. 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 Ambassador through to Cavalli's
office at twenty past twelve. Neither man commented on the
fact that Al Obaydi was late. Tony indicated the chair on the
other side of his desk, and waited for his 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, 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
correctly,' said Al Obaydi.
'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 banknote serial numbers attached to
them. He glanced at the photographs of himself in deep
conversation with Al Calabrese on the pavement in front of
the National Cafe, another of himself with Gino Sartori in
the centre of Freedom Plaza, and yet another with the
director sitting on the dolly as they talked to the former
Chief of the DC Police Department. Al Obaydi had even taken a
photograph of Rex Butterworth entering the Willard Hotel and
of the actor, bald-headed, 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 the 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 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 every-
thing. 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 had begun, 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 my 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 pavement, 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.
'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 in 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
ail 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
didn't know 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
it 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 over-sensitive? 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 Provencal. 'Madam's favourite,
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 theatre, 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 piece de resistance.' 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 round 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 centre 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 ploughed 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
go on.
'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 anx'ous.
'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 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 whizz 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 on 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 recognised 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 realise 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 modelling 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
dialled 17 and screamed, 'Please God, let one pill not be
enough. Answer, answer, answer!' she shrieked at the phone as
the door of Scott's apartment flew open. Hannah turned to see
Kratz and another man whom she didn't recognise 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 slowly back
to the table, opened her bag and removed the second pill.
'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 realise there are more than forty Special and Deputy
Assistants to the President.'
'No, I didn't realise,' 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 centre 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
lavatory, 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 honourable 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 realised 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 A!-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
Cardio-vasculaire 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 trolley.
Even as the trolley 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 theatre.

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 trolley had come to a stop in the theatre 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 trolley.
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 theatre 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 forwards 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.
A houseman 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.
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.
Another doctor rushed into the theatre and, facing his
superior, said, 'The antidote is GTN.'
A nurse went straight over to the poisons cabinet and
extracted a phial of glyceryl trinitrate, which she passed to
the consultant, who had a syringe ready. He extracted the
blue liquid from the phial, 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 Director, 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.
'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-favoured 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-favoured 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 Hotel 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 Cavalli woke in the morning, he jumped out of bed,
strolled across to the window, opened the curtains and
admired the fountain in the centre 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 waste-paper basket when he noticed some words scribbled
on the bottom:
After a light breakfast in his room, Cavalli packed his
suitcase and hanging bag 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 theatres and 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 realised 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
lift, 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 centre 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 prised 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 waste-paper 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 colours 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.
This is a copy of the famous tea set made in 1777 by
Pearson and Son to commemorate the Boston Tea Party. Each set
is accompanied by an authentic copy of the Declaration of
Independence. Your set is number 20917, and has been recorded
in our books under the name of J. Hancock.
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 US Customs into allowing him to export
the original. The banker's expression remained one of
bafflement. Cavalli placed the cylinder in the centre 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 I must have picked up the wrong phone. 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 bound by the Privacy Act as well?'
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 who 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 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 centre of one of the long sides under a portrait of his
uncle, the former chairman, Francois 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 colour 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, who
looked 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 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 cent 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 emphasised the
word 'government' - 'to reconsider its position.'
'My client felt it prudent, in 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, and, if I may, the use of a
telephone.'
'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 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 judgement.
'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 use 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 25 th. 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?' enquired 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 very 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
apologise 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 for her 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 in 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, sir. 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.'
'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 not only passed the
scrutiny of Mr Marshall, but also that of the Senior
Conservator, Mr Mendelssohn.
'It was only when Mr Marshall attempted to re-contact 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 sceptical, 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 attentions to our British
brethren", that the Conservator realised that the word
"British" had been spelt correctly, and not with two ts as in
the original Declaration executed by Timothy Matlock. 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 co-operative. 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 by myself as custodian of
the Declaration. He wished it to be 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 myself 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 DC 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'd like nothing better than for the CIA to
replace them on the front pages.
'The next problem we faced was having to tiptoe round
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 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. His name is Lloyd Adams. But we daren't
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 round 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 10.37, after the
Declaration had gone back on display in the National
Archives, Al Obaydi joined the public queue, waiting 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 near-sighted,' 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 likely to be?
Scott, you're our man of logic. Can you second-guess what he
might get up to?'
'No, sir, Saddam's not a man you can second-guess.
Especially after his failed attempt to assassinate George
Bush on his visit to Kuwait in April. Although the whole
world accused him of being behind the plot, how did he react?
Not with the usual bellicose shouting and screaming about the
lies of the American imperialists, but with a reasoned,
coherent statement from his Ambassador at the UN denying any
personal 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 realises
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 to
allow him to 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 recognises 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 you 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.
From the Prime Minister
'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.'
Dear Mr Secretary,
You are correct in thinking that the Prime Minister of the
State of Israel is Chief Minister and Minister of Defence
while at the same time having overall responsibility for
Mossad.
However, I confess that when it comes to any ideas we may
be considering for future relations with Saddam, I have only
been kept in touch with the outline proposals. I have not yet
been fully briefed on the finer details.
If you believe on balance that such information as we
possess may make the difference between success or failure
with your present difficulties, I will instruct Colonel Kratz
to brief you fully and without reservation.
Yours Yitzhak Rabin
Christopher turned the letter around and pushed it across
the table.
THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE was nailed to the wall
behind him.
Saddam continued puffing at his cigar as he lounged back
in his chair. All of them seated around the table waited for
him to speak. He glanced to his right.
'My brother, we are proud of you. You have served our
country and the Ba'ath Party with distinction, and when the
moment comes for my people to be informed of your heroic
deeds, your name will be written in the history of our nation

as one of its great heroes.'
Al Obaydi sat at the other end of the table, listening to
the words of his leader. His fists, hidden under the table,
were clenched to stop himself shaking. Several times on the
journey back to Baghdad he had been aware that he was being
shadowed. They had searched his luggage at almost every stop,
but they had found nothing, because there was nothing to
find. Saddam's half-brother had seen to that. Once the
Declaration had reached the safety of their mission in Geneva
he hadn't even been allowed to pass it over to the Ambassador
in person. Its guaranteed route in the diplomatic pouch made
it impossible to intercept even with the combined efforts of
the Americans and
the Israelis.
Saddam's half-brother now sat on the President's
right-hand side, basking in his leader's eulogy.
Saddam swung himself slowly back round and stared down at
the other end of the table.
'And I also acknowledge,' he continued, 'the role played
by Hamid Al Obaydi, whom I have appointed to be our
Ambassador in Paris. His name must not, however, be
associated with this enterprise, lest it harm his chances of
representing us on foreign soil.'
And thus it had been decreed. Saddam's half-brother was to
be acknowledged as the architect of this triumph, while Al
Obaydi was to be a footnote on a page, quickly turned. Had Al
Obaydi failed, Saddam's half-brother would have been ignorant
of even the original idea, and Al Obaydi's bones would even
now be rotting in an unmarked grave. Since Saddam had spoken
no one round that table, except for the State Prosecutor, had
given Al Obaydi a second look. All other eyes, and smiles,
rested on Saddam's half-brother.
It was at that moment, in the midst of the meeting of the
Revolutionary Command Council, that Al Obaydi came to his
decision.
Dollar Bill sat slouched on a stool, leaning on the bar in
unhappy hour, happily sipping his favourite liquid. He was
the establishment's only customer, unless you counted the
slip of a woman in a Laura Ashley dress who sat silently in
the corner. The barman assumed she was drunk, as she hadn't
moved a muscle for the past hour.
Dollar Bill wasn't at first aware of the man who stumbled
through the swing doors, and wouldn't have given him a second
look had he not sat himself on the stool next to his. The

intruder ordered a gin and tonic. Dollar Bill had a natural
aversion to any man who drank gin and tonic, especially if
they occupied the seat next to his when the rest of the bar
was empty. He considered moving but
decided on balance that he didn't need the exercise.
'So how are you, old timer?' the voice next to him asked.
Dollar Bill didn't care to think of himself as an 'old
timer', and refused to grace the intruder with a reply.
'What's the matter, not got a tongue in your head?' the
man asked, slurring his words. The barman turned to face them
when he heard the raised voice, and then returned to drying
the glasses left over from the lunchtime rush.
'I have, sir, and it's a civil one,' replied Dollar Bill,
still not so much as glancing at his interrogator.
'Irish. I should have known it all along. A nation of
stupid, ignorant drunks.'
'Let me remind you, sir,' said Dollar Bill, 'that Ireland
is the land of Yeats, Shaw, Wilde, O'Casey and Joyce.' He
raised his glass in their memory.
'I've never heard of any of them. Drinking partners of
yours, I suppose?' This time the young barman put his cloth
down and began to pay closer attention.
'I never had that honour,' replied Dollar Bill, 'but, my
friend, the fact that you have not heard of them, let alone
read their works, is your loss, not mine.'
'Are you accusing me of being ignorant?' said the
intruder, placing a rough hand on Dollar Bill's shoulder.
Dollar Bill turned to face him, but even at that close
range he couldn't focus clearly through the haze of alcohol
he had consumed during the past two weeks. He did, however,
observe that, although he appeared to be part of the same
alcoholic haze, the intruder was somewhat larger than
himself. Such a consideration had never worried Dollar Bill
in the past.
"No, sir, it was not necessary to accuse you of
igno-rance. For you have been condemned by your own
utterances.' 'I won't take that from anyone, you Irish
drunk,' said
the intruder. Keeping his hand on Dollar Bill's shoulder,
he swung at him and landed a blow on the side of his jaw.
Dollar Bill staggered back off his high stool, falling to the
floor in a heap.
The intruder waited some time for Bill to rise to his feet
before he aimed a second blow to the stomach. Once again,

Dollar Bill ended up on the floor.
The young man behind the bar had already begun dialling
the number his boss had instructed he should call if ever
such a situation arose. He only hoped they would come quickly
as he watched the Irishman somehow get back on his feet. This
time it was his turn to aim a punch at the intruder's nose, a
punch which ended up flying through the air over his
assailant's right shoulder. A further blow landed on the side
of Dollar Bill's throat. Down he went a third time, which in
his days as an amateur boxer would have been considered a
technical knock-out; but as there seemed to be no referee
present to officiate, he rose once again.
The young barman was relieved to hear a siren in the
distance, and was praying they weren't on their way to
another call when suddenly four policemen came bursting
through the swing doors.
The first one caught Dollar Bill just before he hit the
ground for a fourth time, while two of the others grabbed the
intruder, thrust his arms behind his back and forced a pair
of handcuffs on him. Both men were bundled out of the bar and
thrown into the back of a waiting police van. The siren
continued its piercing sound as the two drunks were driven
away.
The barman was grateful for the speed with which the San
Francisco Police Department had come to his aid. It was only
later that night that he remembered he hadn't given them an
address.
As Hannah sat alone at the back of the plane bound for
Amman, she began to consider the task she had set herself.
Once the Ambassador's party had left Paris, she had
returned to the traditional role of an Arab woman. She was
dressed from head to toe in a black abayah, and apart from
her eyes, her face was covered by a small mask. She spoke
only when asked a question directly, and never posed a
question herself. She felt her Jewish mother would not have
survived such a regime for more than a few hours.
Hannah's one break had come when the Ambassador s wife had
enquired where she intended to stay once they had returned to
Baghdad. Hannah explained that she had made no immediate
plans as her mother and sister were living in Karbala, and
she could not stay with them if she hoped to hold on to her
job with the Ambassador.
Hannah had hardly finished the second sentence before the
Ambassador's wife insisted that she come and live with them.

'Our house is far too large,' she explained, 'even with a
dozen servants.'
When the plane touched down at Queen Alia airport, Hannah
looked out of the tiny window to watch a large black
limousine that would have looked more in place in New York
than Amman driving towards them. It drew up by the side of
the aircraft and a driver in a smart blue suit and dark
glasses jumped out.
Hannah joined the Ambassador and his wife in the back of
the car and they sped away from the airport in the direction
of the border with Iraq.
When the car reached the customs barrier, they were waved
straight through with bows and salutes, as if the border
didn't exist. They travelled a further mile and passed a
second customs post on the Iraqi side, where they were
treated in much the same manner as the
first, before joining the six-lane highway to Baghdad.
On the long journey to the capital, the speedometer rarely
fell below seventy miles per hour. Hannah soon became bored
with the beating sun and the sight of miles and miles of flat
sand that stretched to the horizon and beyond, with only the
occasional cluster of palm trees to break the monotony. Her
thoughts returned to Simon and what might have been . . .
Hannah dozed off as the air-conditioned limousine sped
quietly along the highway. Her mind drifted from Simon to her
mother, to Saddam, and then back to Simon.
She woke with a start to find they were entering the
outskirts of Baghdad.
It had been many years since Dollar Bill had seen the
inside of a jail, but not so long that he had forgotten how
much he detested having to associate with drug peddlers,
pimps and muggers.
Still, the last time he had been foolish enough to get
himself involved in a bar-room brawl, he had started it. But
even then he only ended up with a fifty-dollar fine. Dollar
Bill felt confident that the jails were far too overcrowded
for any judge to consider the thirty-day mandatory sentence
for such cases.
In fact he had tried to slip one of the policemen in the
van fifty dollars. They normally happily accepted the money,
opened the back door of the van and kicked you out. He
couldn't imagine what the San Francisco police were coming
to. Surely with all the muggers and drug addicts around they
had more important things to deal with than mid-afternoon

middle-aged bar-room drunks.
As Dollar Bill began to sober up, the stench got to him,
and he hoped that he'd be among the first to be put
up in front of the night court. But as the hours passed,
and he became more sober and the stench became greater, he
began to wonder if they might end up keeping him overnight.
'William O'Reilly,' shouted the police Sergeant as he
looked down the list of names on his clipboard.
'That's me,' said Bill, raising his hand.
'Follow me, O'Reilly,' the policeman barked as the cell
door clanked open and the Irishman was gripped firmly by the
elbow.
He was marched along a corridor that led into the back of
a courtroom. He watched the little line of derelicts and
petty criminals who were waiting for their moment in front of
the judge. He didn't notice a woman a few paces away from
him, tightly gripping the rope handle of a holdall.
'Guilty. Fifty dollars.'
'Can't pay.'
Three days in jail. Next.'
After three or four cases were dispensed with in this
cursory manner within as many minutes, Dollar Bill watched
the man who had shown no respect for the canon of Irish
literature take his place in front of the judge.
'Drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace. How do you
plead?'
"Guilty, Your Honour.'
Any previous known record?'
"None," said the Sergeant.
'Fifty dollars,' said the judge.
It interested Dollar Bill that his adversary had no
previous convictions, and was also able to pay his fine
immediately.
When it came to Dollar Bill's own turn to plead, he
couldn't help thinking, as he looked up at the judge, that
he appeared to be awfully young for the job. Perhaps he
really was now an 'old timer'.
'William O'Reilly, Your Honour,' said the Sergeant,
looking down at the charge sheet. 'Drunk and disorderly,
disturbing the peace.'
'How do you plead?'
'Guilty, Your Honour,' said Dollar Bill, fingering a small
wad of bills in his pocket as he tried to remember the
location of the nearest bar that served Guinness.

'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.'
THE 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.'
Dollar Bill knew exactly where there was a perfect copy,
hanging on a wall in New York, but couldn't admit as much
without bringing on himself even greater wrath than Mr
Hutchins was capable of.
'You made mention of a prize,' said Dollar Bill. 'And a
forfeit,' said Dexter Hutchins. 'The prize is that you remain
here at our West Coast safe house, in what I think you will
agree are pleasant surroundings. While you are with us, you
will produce a counterfeit of the Declaration that would pass
an expert's eye. If you achieve that, you will go free, with
no charges preferred against you.'
'And the forfeit?'
'After coffee has been served you will be released and

allowed to leave whenever you wish.'
'Released,' repeated Dollar Bill in disbelief, 'and
allowed to leave whenever I wish?'
'Yes,' said the Deputy Director.
'Then why shouldn't I just enjoy the rest of this
excellent meal, return to my humble establishment in
Fairmont, and forget we ever met?'
The Deputy Director removed an envelope from an inside
pocket. He extracted four photographs and pushed them across
the table. Dollar Bill studied them. The first was of a girl
aged about seventeen lying on a slab in a morgue. The second
was of a middle-aged man huddled foetus-like in the boot of a
car. The third was of a heavily-built man dumped by the side
of a road. And the fourth was of an older,
distinguished-looking man. A broken neck was all the four of
them had in common. Dollar Bill pushed the photos back across
the table.
'Four corpses. So what?'
'Sally McKenzie, Rex Butterworth, Bruno Morelli, and Dr T.
Hamilton McKenzie. And we have every reason to believe
someone out there is planning the same happy ending for you.'
Dollar Bill speared the last pea left on his plate and
downed the final drop of Guinness. He paused for a moment as
if searching for inspiration.
'I'll need paper from Bremen, pens from a museum in
Richmond, Virginia, and nine shades of black ink that can be
made up for me by a firm in Cannon Street, London EC4.'
'Anything else?' asked Dexter Hutchins once he had
finished writing down Dollar Bill's shopping list on the back
of the envelope.
'I wonder if Charles would be kind enough to bring me
another large Guinness. I have a feeling it may be my last
for some considerable time.'
BERTIL PEDERSSON, the chief engineer of Svenhalte AC, was
at the factory gate in Kalmar to greet Mr Riffat and Mr
Bernstrom when the two men arrived that morning. He had
received a fax from the United Nations the previous day
confirming their flight times to Stockholm, and had checked
with the arrivals desk at the airport to be informed that
their plane had touched down only a few minutes late.
As they stepped out of their car, Mr Pedersson came
forward, shook hands with both men and introduced
himself.
'We are pleased to meet you at last, Mr Pedersson,' said

the shorter of the two men, 'and grateful to you for making
the time to see us at such short notice.'
'Well, to be frank with you, Mr Riffat, it came as quite a
surprise to us when the United Nations lifted the
restrictions on Madame Bertha.'
' "Madame Bertha"?'
'Yes, that is how we at the factory refer to the safe. I
promise you, gentlemen, that despite your neglect, she has
been a good girl. Many people have come to admire her, but
nobody touches,' Mr Pedersson laughed. 'But I feel sure that
after such a long journey you will want to see her for
yourself, Mr Riffat.'
The short, dark-haired man nodded, and they both
accompanied Pedersson as he led them across the yard.
'You responded most quickly to the UN's sudden change of
heart, Mr Riffat.'
'Yes, our leader had given orders that the safe should be
delivered to Baghdad the moment the embargo was lifted.'
Pedersson laughed again. 'I fear that may not be so easy,'
he said once they reached the other side of the yard. 'Madame
Bertha was not built for speed, as you are about to
discover.'
The three men continued to walk towards a large,
apparently derelict building, and Pedersson strode through an
opening where there must once have been a door. It was so
dark inside that the two foreigners were unable to see more
than a few feet in front of them. Pedersson switched on a
single light, which was followed by what sounded like the
sigh of an unrequited lover.
'Mr Riffat, Mr Bernstrom, allow me to introduce you to
Madame Bertha.' The two men stared at the massive structure
that stood majestically in the middle of the old warehouse
floor.
'Before I make a formal introduction,' Pedersson
continued, 'first let me tell you Madame Bertha's vital
statistics. She is nine feet tall, seven feet wide and eight
feet deep. She is also thicker skinned than any politician,
about six inches of solid steel to be precise, and she weighs
over five tons. She was built by a specialist designer,
three craftsmen and eight engineers. Her gestation from
conception to delivery was eighteen months. But then,' he
whispered, 'to be fair, she is almost the size of an
elephant. I lower my voice only because she can hear every
word I say, and I have no wish to offend

her.'
Mr Pedersson did not see the puzzled looks that came over
the faces of his two visitors. 'But, gentlemen, you
have only seen her exterior, and I can promise you that
what she has to offer is more than skin deep.
'First, I must tell you that Madame Bertha will not allow
anyone to enter her without a personal introduction. She is,
gentlemen, not a promiscuous lady, despite what you may have
been told about the Swedes. She requires to know three things
about you before she will consider revealing her innermost
parts.'
Although the two guests remained puzzled as to what he
meant, they did not interrupt Mr Pedersson's steady
flow.
'And so, gentlemen, to begin with you must study Bertha's
chest. You will observe three red lights above three small
dials. By knowing the six-number code on all three dials, you
will be able to turn one of the lights from red to green.
Allow me to demonstrate. First number to the right, second to
the left, third to the right, fourth to the left, fifth to
the right, sixth to the left. The first number for the first
dial is 2, the second is 8, the third zero, the fourth 4, the
fifth 3 and the sixth 7. 2-8-0-4-3-7.'
'The date of Sayedi's birthday,' said the tall,
fair-haired visitor.
'Yes, I worked that one out, Mr Bernstrom,' said
Pedersson. 'The second,' he said, turning his attention to
the middle dial, 'is 1-6-0-7-7-9.' He turned the final number
to the left.
'The day Sayedi became President.'
'We also managed that one, Mr Riffat. But I confess the
third sequence fooled me completely. No doubt you will know
what our client has planned for that particular day.' Mr
Pedersson began twirling the third dial: 0-4-0-
7-9-3.
Pedersson looked hopefully towards Mr Bernstrom, who
shrugged his shoulders. 'I've no idea,' he lied.
'You will now note, gentlemen, that after entering the
correct figures on all three dials, only one of Madame
Bertha's lights has turned green, while two still remain
obstinately red. But now that you have discovered her three
codes, she will consider a more personal relationship. You
will observe that below the three dials there is painted a
small white square about the size of your hand. Watch

carefully.' Pedersson took a pace forward and placed his
right hand firmly on the white square. He left it there for
several seconds, until the second light turned green.
'Even when she knows your palm print, she still won't open
her heart. Not until I have spoken to her. If you look even
more closely, gentlemen, you will see that the white square
conceals a thin wire mesh, which houses a voice activator.'
Both men stepped forward to look.
'At the present time, Bertha is programmed to react only
to my vocal cords. It doesn't matter what I say, because as
soon as she recognises the voice, the third light will turn
green. But she will not even consider listening to me unless
the first two lights are already green.'
Pedersson stepped forward and placed his lips opposite the
wire mesh. 'Two gentlemen have come from America to see you,
and desire to know what you look like inside.'
Even before he had finished the sentence, the third red
light had flicked to green, and a noisy unclamping sound
could be heard.
'Now, gentlemen, we come to the part of the demonstration
of which my company is particularly proud. The door, which
weighs over a ton, is nevertheless capable of being opened by
a small child. Our company has developed a system of
phosphor-bronze bearings that are a decade ahead of their
time. Please, Mr Riffat, why don't you try for yourself?'
The shorter man stepped forward, gripped the handle of the
safe firmly, and pulled. All three lights immediately turned
red, and a noisy clamping sound began again.
Pedersson chuckled. 'You see, Mr Riffat, unless Madame
Bertha knows you personally, she clams up and sends you back
to the red-light district.' He laughed at a joke his guests
suspected he had told many times before. 'The hand that opens
the safe,' he continued, 'must be the same one that passed
the palm-print test. A good safety device, I think you'll
agree.' Both men nodded in admiration as Pedersson quickly
fiddled with the three dials, placed his hand on the square
and then spoke to Madame Bertha. One by one the three lights
dutifully turned from red to green.
'She is now prepared to let me, and me alone, open her up.
So watch carefully. Although, as I said, the door weighs a
ton, it can be opened with the gentlest persuasion, thus.'
Pedersson pulled back the ton of massive steel with no
more exertion than he would have used to open the front door
of his home. He jumped inside the safe and began walking

around, first with his arms outstretched to show that he
could not touch the sides-while standing in the centre, and
then with his hands above his head, showing he was unable to
reach the roof. 'Do please enter, gentlemen,' he cried from
inside.
The two men stepped up gingerly to join him. 'In this
case, three is not a crowd,' said Pedersson, laughing again.
'And you will be happy to discover that it is impossible for
me to get myself locked in.' He gripped the handle on the
inside of the safe and pulled the great door shut.
Two of the occupants did not find this part of the
experiment quite so appealing.
'You see, gentlemen,' continued Pedersson, who could not
hide the satisfaction in his voice, 'Bertha cannot lock
herself again unless it is my hand on the outside handle.'
With one small push, the door swung open and Pedersson
stepped out, closely followed by his two customers.
'I once had to spend an evening inside her before the
system was perfected - a sort of one-night stand, you might
call it,' said Pedersson. He laughed even louder as he pushed
the door back in place. The three lights immediately flashed
to red and the clamps noisily closed in place.
He turned to face them. 'So, gentlemen, you have been
introduced to Madame Bertha. Now, if you would be kind enough
to accompany me back to my office, I will present you with a
delivery note and, more" important, Bertha's bible.'
As they returned across the yard, Pedersson explained to
his two visitors that the book of instructions had been
treated by the company as top secret. They had produced one
in Swedish, which the company retained in its own safe, and
another in Arabic, which Pedersson said he would be happy to
hand over to them.
'The bible itself is 108 pages in length, but simple
enough to understand if you are an engineer with a
first-class honours degree.' He laughed again. 'We Swedish
are a thorough race.'
Neither of the men felt able to disagree with him.
'Will you require anyone to accompany Madame Bertha on her
journey?' Pedersson asked, his eyes expressing hope.
'No, thank you,' came back the immediate reply. 'I think
we can handle the problem of transport.'
'Then I have only one more question for you,' Pedersson
said, as he entered his office. 'When do you plan to take her
away?'

'We hoped to collect the safe this afternoon. We
understood from the fax you sent to the United Nations that
your company has a crane that can lift the safe, and a
trolley on which it can be moved from place to place.'
'You are right in thinking we have a suitable crane, and a
trolley that has been specially designed to carry Madame
Bertha on short journeys. I am also confident I can have
everything ready for you by this afternoon. But that doesn't
cover the problem of transport.'
'We already have our own vehicle standing by in
Stockholm.'
'Excellent, then it is settled,' said Mr Pedersson. 'All I
need to do in your absence is to programme out my hand and
voice so that she can accept whoever you select to take my
place.' Pedersson looked forlorn for a second time. 'I look
forward to seeing you again this afternoon, gentlemen.'
'I'll be coming back on my own,' said Riffat. 'Mr
Bernstrom will be returning to America.'
Pedersson nodded and watched the two men climb into their
car before he walked slowly back to his office. The phone on
his desk was ringing.
He picked it up, said, 'Bertil Pedersson speaking,' and
listened to the caller's request. He placed the receiver on
his desk and ran to the window, but the car was already out
of sight. He returned to the phone. 'I am so sorry, Mr Al
Obaydi,' said Pedersson, 'the two gentlemen who came to see
the safe have just this moment left, but Mr Riffat will be
returning this afternoon to take her away. Shall I let him
know you called?'
Al Obaydi put the phone down in Baghdad, and began to
consider the implications of what had started out as a
routine call.
As Deputy Ambassador to the UN, it was his responsibility
to keep the sanctions list up to date. He had hoped to pass
on the file within a week to his as-yet-unappointed
successor.
In the past two days, despite phones that didn't connect
and civil servants who were never at their desks -and even
when they were, were too terrified to answer the most basic
questions - he was almost in a position to complete the first
draft of his report.
The problem areas had been: agricultural machinery, half
of which the UN Sanctions Committee took for granted was
military equipment under another name; hospital supplies,

including pharmaceuticals, on which the UN accepted most of
their requests; and food, which they were allowed to purchase
- although most of the produce that came across the border
seemed to disappear on the black market long before it
reached the Baghdad housewife.
A fourth list was headed 'miscellaneous items', and
included among these was a massive safe which, when Al Obaydi
checked its measurements, turned out to be almost the size of
the room he was presently working in. The safe, an internal
report confirmed, had been ordered before the planned
liberation of the Nineteenth Province, and was now sitting in
a warehouse in Kalmar, waiting to be collected. Al Obaydi's
boss at the UN had confessed privately that he was surprised
that the Sanctions Committee had lifted the embargo on the
safe, but this did not deter him from assuring the Foreign
Minister that they had only done so as a result of his
linstaking negotiating skills.
Al Obaydi sat at his laden desk for some time, considering
what his next move should be. He wrote a short list of
headings on the notepad in front of him:
1 M.o.I.
2 State Security
3 Deputy Foreign Minister
4 Kalmar
Al Obaydi glanced at the first heading, M.o.I. He had
remained in contact with a fellow student from London
University days who had risen to Permanent Secretary status
at the Ministry of Industry. Al Obaydi felt his old friend
would be able to supply the information he required without
suspecting his real motive.
He dialled the Permanent Secretary's private number, and
was delighted to find that someone was at his desk.
'Nadhim, it's Hamid Al Obaydi.' 'Hamid, I heard you were
back from New York. The rumour is that you've got what
remains of our embassy in Paris. But one can never be sure
about rumours in this city.'
'For once, they're accurate,' Al Obaydi told his friend.
'Congratulations. So, what can I do for you, Your
Excellency?'
Al Obaydi was amused that Nadhim was the first person to
address him by his new title, even if he was being sarcastic.
'UN sanctions.'
'And you claim you're my friend?' 'No, it's just a routine
check. I've got to tie up any loose ends for my successor.

Everything's in order as far as I can tell, except I'm unable
to find out much about a gigantic safe that was made for us
in Sweden. I know we've paid for it, but I can't discover
what is happening about its delivery.'
'Not this department, Hamid. The responsibility was taken
out of our hands about a year ago after the file was
marked "High Command", which usually means for the
President's personal use.'
'But someone must be responsible for a movement order from
Kalmar to Baghdad,' said Al Obaydi.
'All I know is that I was instructed to pass the file on
to our UN office in Geneva, as we don't have an embassy in
Oslo. I'm surprised you didn't know that, Hamid. More your
department than mine, I would have thought.'
'Then I'll have to get in touch with Geneva and find out
what they're doing about it,' said Al Obaydi, not adding that
New York and Geneva rarely informed each other of anything
they were up to. 'Thanks for your help, Nadhim.'
'Any time. Good luck in Paris, Hamid. I'm told the women
are fabulous, and despite what you hear, they like Arabs.'
Al Obaydi put the phone down and stared at the list on his
pad. He took even longer deciding if he should make the
second call.
The correct course of action with the information he now
possessed would be to contact Geneva, alert the Ambassador of
his suspicions and let Saddam's half-brother once again take
the praise for something he himself had done the work on. He
checked his watch. It
was midday in Switzerland. He asked his secretary to get
Barazan Al-Tikriti on the phone, knowing she would log
every call. He waited for several minutes before a voice
came on the line.
"Can I speak to the Ambassador?' he asked politely.
'He's in a meeting, sir,' came back the inevitable reply,
'Shall I disturb him?'
'No, no, don't bother. But would you let him know that
Hamid Al Obaydi called from Baghdad, and ask him if he would
be kind enough to return my call.'
'Yes, sir,' said the voice, and Al Obaydi replaced the
phone. He had carried out the correct procedure.
He opened the sanctions file on his desk and scribbled on
the bottom of his report: 'The Ministry of Industry have sent
the file concerning this item direct to Geneva. I phoned our
Ambassador there, but was unable to make contact with him.

Therefore, I cannot make any progress from this end until he
returns my call. Hamid Al Obaydi.'
Al Obaydi considered his next move extremely carefully. If
he decided to do anything, his actions must once again appear
on the surface to be routine, and well within his accepted
brief. Any slight deviation from the norm in a city that fed
on rumour and paranoia, and it would be him who would end up
dangling from a rope, not Saddam's half-brother.
Al Obaydi looked down at the second heading on his
notepad. He buzzed his secretary and asked her to get General
Saba'awi Al-Hassan, Head of State Security, on the line. The
post was one that had been held by three different people in
the last seven months. The General was available immediately,
there being more Generals than Ambassadors in the Iraqi
regime.
'Ambassador, good morning. I've been meaning to call you.
We ought to have a talk before you take up your new
appointment in Paris.'
'My thoughts exactly,' said Al Obaydi. 'I have no idea who
we still have representing us in Europe. It's been a long
time since I served in that part of the world.'
'We're a bit thin on the ground, to be honest. Most of our
best people have been expelled, including the so-called
students whom we've always been able to rely on in the past.
Still, not a subject to be discussed over the phone. When
would you like me to come and see you?' 'Are vou free between
four and five this afternoon?'
There was a pause before the General said, 'I could be
with you around four, but would have to be back in my office
by five. Do you think that will give us enough time?'
'I feel sure you'll be able to brief me fully in that
period, General.' Al Obaydi put the phone down on another
routine call.
He stared at the third name on the list, one he feared
might prove a little harder to bluff.
He spent the next few minutes rehearsing his questions
before dialling an internal number. A Miss Saib answered the
phone.
'Is there a particular subject you wish to raise with the
Deputy Foreign Minister?' she asked.
'No,' replied Al Obaydi, 'I'm phoning at his specific
request. I'm due for a little leave at the end of the week,
and the Deputy Foreign Minister made it clear he wished to
brief me before I take up my new post in Paris.'

'I'll come back to you with a time as soon as I've had a
chance to discuss your request with the Minister,' Miss Saib
promised.
Al Obaydi replaced the phone. Nothing to raise any
suspicions there. He looked back at his pad and added a
question mark, two arrows and another word to his list.
Kalmar < ?  Geneva
Some time in the next forty-eight hours, he was going to
have to decide which direction he should take.
The first question Kratz put to Scott on the journey from
Kalmar to Stockholm was the significance of the numbers
0-4-0-7-9-3. Scott snapped out of a daydream where he was
rescuing Hannah on a white charger, and
returned to the real world, which looked a lot less
promising.
'The fourth of July,' he responded. 'What better day could
Saddam select to humiliate the American people, not to
mention a new President.'
'So now at least we know when our deadline is,' said
Kratz.
'Yes, but we've only been left with eleven days,' replied
Scott. 'One way or the other.'
'Still, we've got Madame Bertha,' said Kratz, trying to
lighten the mood.
'True,' said Scott. 'And where do you intend to take her
on her first date?'
'All the way,' said Kratz. 'That is to say, Jordan, which
is where I'm expecting you to join up with us again. In fact,
my full team is already in Stockholm waiting to pick her up
before they begin the journey to Baghdad. All the paperwork
has been sorted out for us by Langley, so there should be no
hold-ups on the way. Our first problem will be crossing the
Jordanian border, but as we have all the requisite documents
demanded by the UN, a few extra dollars supplied to the right
customs official should ensure that his stamping hand lands
firmly on the correct page of all our passports.'
'How much time have you allocated for the journey to
Jordan?' Scott asked, remembering his own tight schedule.
'Six or seven days, eight at the outside. I've got a
six-man team, all with considerable field experience. None of
them will have to drive for more than four hours at a time
without then getting sixteen hours' rest. That way there will
be no need to stop at any point, other than to fill up with
petrol.' They passed a sign indicating ten kilometres to

Stockholm.
'So I've got a week,' said Scott.
'Yes, and we must hope that that's enough time for Bill
O'Reilly to complete a perfect new copy of the Declaration,'
said Kratz.
'It ought to be a lot easier for him a second time,' said
Scott. 'Especially as every one of his requests was dealt
with within hours of his asking. They even flew over nine
shades of black ink from London on Concorde the next
morning.'
'I wish we could put Madame Bertha on Concorde.'
Scott laughed. 'Tell me more about your back-up team.'
'The best I've ever had,' said Kratz. 'All of them have
had front-line experience in several official and unofficial
wars. Five Israelis and one Kurd.'
Scott raised an eyebrow.
'Few people realise,' continued Kratz, 'that Mossad has an
Arab section, not large in numbers, but once we've trained
them, only the Gurkhas make better killers. The test will be
if you can spot which one he is.'
'How many are coming over the border with us?'
'Only two. We can't afford to make it look like an army.
One engineer and a driver. At least, that's how they'll be
described on the manifest, but they only have one job
description as far as I'm concerned, and that's to get you
into Baghdad and back out with the Declaration in the
shortest possible time.'
Scott looked straight ahead of him. 'And Hannah?' he and
simply.
"That would be a bonus if we got lucky, but it's not part
of my brief. I consider the chances of your even seeing her
are remote,' he said as they passed a 'Welcome to Stockholm'
sign.
Scott began thumping Bertha's bible up and down on his
knees. 'Careful with that,' said Kratz. 'It still needs to
be translated, otherwise you won't know how to go about
a proper introduction to the lady. After all, it will only
be your palm and your voice she'll be opening her heart to.'
Scott glanced down at the 108-page book and wondered how long
it would take him to master its secrets, even after it had
been translated into English.
Kratz suddenly swung right without warning and drove down
a deserted street that ran parallel to a disused railway
line. All Scott could see ahead of him was a tunnel that

looked as if it led nowhere.
When he was a hundred yards from the entrance, Kratz
checked in his rear-view mirror to see if anyone was
following them. Satisfied they were alone, he flashed his
headlights three times. A second later, from what appeared to
be the other end of a black hole, he received the same
response. He slowed down and drove into the tunnel without
his lights on. All Scott could now see was a torch indicating
where they should pull up.
Kratz followed the light and came to a halt in front of
what appeared to be an old army truck. It was stationed just
inside the far end of the tunnel.
He jumped out of the car and Scott quickly followed,
trying to accustom himself to the half-light. Then he saw
three men standing on each side of the vehicle. The man
nearest them came to attention and saluted. 'Good morning,
Colonel,' he said.
'Put your men at ease, Feldman, and come and meet
Professor Bradley,' said Kratz. Scott almost laughed at the
use of his academic title among these men, but there were no
smiles on the faces of the six soldiers who came forward to
meet him.
After Scott had shaken hands with each of them he took a
walk round the truck. 'Do you really believe this old heap is
capable of carrying Madame Bertha to Baghdad?' he asked Kratz
in disbelief. 'Sergeant Cohen.'
'Sir,' said a voice in the dark.
'You're the trained mechanic. Why don't you brief
Professor Bradley?'
'Yes, sir.' Another figure appeared out of the gloom.
Scott couldn't see his features clearly, as he was covered in
grease, but from his accent he would have guessed he had
spent most of his life in London. 'The Heavy Expanded Mobile
Tactical Truck, or HEMTT, was built in Wisconsin. She has
five gears, four forward, one reverse. She can be used on all
terrains in most weather conditions in virtually any country.
She weighs twenty tons and can carry up to ten tons, but with
that weight on board you cannot risk driving over thirty
miles per hour. Any higher than that and she would be
impossible to stop, even though if pushed she can top 120
miles per hour.'
'Thank you, Cohen. A useful piece of kit, I think you'll
agree,' said Kratz, looking back at Scott. 'We've wanted one
of these for years, and then suddenly you arrive on the scene

and Uncle Sam offers us the prototype model overnight. But
then, at a cost of nearly a million dollars of taxpayers'
money, you'd expect the Americans to be choosy about who they
loan one out to.'
'Would you care to join us for lunch, Professor?' asked
the man who had been introduced as Feldman.
'Don't tell me the HEMTT cooks as well,' said Scott.
'No, sir, we have to rely on the Kurd for that. Aziz's
speciality is hamburger and French fries. If you've never had
the experience before, it can be quite tasty.'
The eight of them sat cross-legged on the ground, using
the reverse side of a backgammon board as a table.
Scott couldn't remember enjoying a burnt hamburger
more. He was also glad of the chance to chat to the men he
would be working with on the operation. Kratz began to talk
through the different contingency plans they
would have to consider once they had reached the
Jordan-Iraq border. It didn't take more than a few minutes
for Scott to realise how professional these men were, or to
see their desire to be part of the final team. He grew
confident that the operation was in good hands, and that
Kratz's team had not been chosen at random.
After a third hamburger he was sorry when the Mossad
Colonel reminded him he had a flight to catch. He rose and
thanked the cook for a memorable meal.
'See you in Jordan, sir,' said Sergeant Cohen.
'See you in Jordan,' said Scott.
As Scott was being driven to the airport, he asked Kratz,
'How are you going to select the final two?'
'They'll decide for themselves. Nothing to do with me, I'm
only their commanding officer.'
'What do you mean?'
'They're going to play round-robin backgammon on the way
to Jordan. The two winners get a day trip to Baghdad, all
expenses paid.'
'And the losers?'
'Get a postcard saying "Wish you were here".'
HANNAH GATHERED UP all the files that the Deputy Foreign
Minister would require for his meeting with the Revolutionary
Command Council.
By working hours that no one else knew existed, and
completing tasks the Minister had never thought would get
done, Hannah had quickly made herself indispensable. Whenever
the Minister needed something, it was there on his desk: she

could anticipate his every need, and never sought praise for
doing so. But, despite all this, she rarely left the office
during the day or the house at right, and certainly seemed to
be no nearer to coming into contact with Saddam. The
Ambassador's wife tried valiantly to help on the social side,
and on one occasion she even invited a young soldier round to
dinner. He was good looking, Hannah thought, and seemed to be
pleas-ant enough, although he hardly opened his mouth all
evening and left suddenly without a word. Perhaps she was
unable to hide the fact that she no longer had any interest
in men.
Hannah had sat in on several meetings with indi-vidual
Ministers, even members of the Command Council, including
Saddam's half-brother, the Iraqi Ambassador to the UN in
Geneva, but she felt no nearer to Saddam himself than she had
been when she lived in a cul-de-sac in Chalk Farm. She was
becoming
despondent, and began to fear that her frustration might
become obvious for all to see. As an antidote she channelled
her energies into generating reports on interdepartmental
spending, and set up a filing system that would have been the
envy of the mandarins in Whitehall. But one of the many
things Mossad had taught her during her arduous days of
training was always to be patient, and ready, because in time
an opening would appear.
It was early on a Thursday morning, when most of the
Minister's staff had begun their weekends, that the first
opening presented itself. Hannah was typing up her notes from
a meeting the Deputy Minister had had the previous day with
the newly-appointed Head of Interest Section in Paris, a Mr
Al Obaydi, when the call came through. Muhammad Saeed
Al-Zahiaf, the Foreign Minister, wished to speak to his
deputy.
A few moments later, the Deputy Minister came rushing out
of his office, barking at Hannah to follow him. Hannah
grabbed a notepad and chased after the Minister down the long
passageway.
Although the Foreign Minister's office was only at the
other end of the corridor, Hannah had never been inside it
before. When she followed her Minister into the room, she was
surprised to find how modern and dull it was, with only the
panoramic view over the Tigris as compensation.
The Foreign Minister did not bother to rise, but hastily
motioned his subordinate into a chair on the opposite side of

the desk, explaining that the President had requested a full
report on the subject they had discussed at the Revolutionary
Council the previous evening. He went on to explain that his
own secretary had gone home for the weekend, so Miss Saib
should take down a record of their meeting.
Hannah could not believe the discussion that followed. Had
she not been aware that she was listening to two Ministers
who were loyal members of the Revolutionary Command Council,
she would have dismissed their conversation as an outrageous
piece of propaganda. The President's half-brother had
apparently succeeded in stealing the Declaration of
Independence from the National Archives in Washington, and
the document was now nailed to a wall of the room in which
the Council met.
The discussion concentrated on how the news of this
triumph should be released to an astonished world, and the
date that had been selected to guarantee the greatest media
coverage. Details were also discussed as to which square in
the capital the President should deliver his speech from
before he publicly burned the document, and whether Peter
Arnett or Bernard Shaw of CNN should be granted special
access to film the President standing next to the parchment
the night before the burning ceremony took place.
After two hours the meeting broke up and Hannah returned
with the Deputy Minister to his office. Without so much as a
glance in her direction, he ordered her to make a fair copy
of the decisions that had been taken that morning.
It took Hannah the rest of the morning to produce a first
draft, which the Minister read through immediately. After
making a few changes and emendations, he told her to produce
a final copy to be delivered to the Foreign Minister with a
recommendation that it should, if it met with his approval,
be sent on to the President.
As she walked home through the streets of Baghdad that
evening, Hannah felt helpless. She wondered what she could
possibly do to warn the Americans. Surely they were planning
some counter-measures in order to
try to recapture the Declaration, or would at least be
preparing some form of retaliation once they knew the day
that had been selected for the public burning.
Did they even know where it was at that moment? Had Kratz
been informed? Had Mossad been called in to advise the
Americans on the operation they had themselves been planning
for the past year? Were they now trying to get in touch with

her? What would Simon have expected her to do?
She stopped at a cigarette kiosk and purchased three
postcards of Saddam Hussein addressing the Revolutionary
Command Council.
Later, in the safety of her bedroom, she wrote the same
message to Ethel Rubin, David Kratz and the Professor of
Arabic Studies at London University. She hoped one of them
would work out the significance of the date in the top
right-hand corner and the little biro'd square full of stars
she had drawn on the wall by the side of Saddam's head.
'What time is the flight for Stockholm expected to
depart?' he asked.
'It shouldn't be long now,' said the girl behind the SAS
desk at Charles de Gaulle. 'I'm afraid it's only just landed
on its inward journey, so it's difficult for me to be more
precise.'
Another opportunity to turn back, thought Al Obaydi. But
following his meeting with the Head of State Security and,
the next morning, with the Deputy Foreign Minister, he felt
confident that they had both considered what he had told them
no more than routine. Al Obaydi had dropped into the
conversation the fact that he was due for some leave before
taking up his new appointment in Paris.
After Al Obaydi had collected his luggage from the
carousel, he deposited all the large cases in storage,
retaining only one bulky briefcase. He then took a seat in
the corner of the departure lounge and thought about his
actions during the past few days.
The Head of State Security hadn't had a lot to offer. The
truth - not that he was going to admit it - was that he had
enough problems at home without worrying about what was going
on abroad. He had supplied Al Obaydi with an out-of-date
instruction book on what precautions any Iraqi citizen should
take when in Europe, including not to shop at Marks and
Spencers or to mix socially with foreigners, and an
out-of-date collection of photographs of known Mossad and CIA
agents active on the Continent. After looking through the
photographs, Al Obaydi wouldn't have been surprised to find
that most of them had long retired, and that some had even
died peacefully in their beds.
The following day, the Deputy Foreign Minister had been
courteous without being friendly. He had given him some
useful tips about how to conduct himself in Paris, including
which embassies would be happy to deal with him despite their

official position, and which would not. When it came to the
Jordanian Embassy itself and the Iraqi annexe, he gave Al
Obaydi a quick briefing on the resident staff. He had left
Miss Ahmed there to guarantee some sort of continuity. He
described her as willing and conscientious, the cook as awful
but friendly, and the driver as stupid but brave. His only
guarded warning was to be wary of Abdul Kanuk, the Chief
Administrator, a wonderful title which did not describe his
true position, his only qualification being that he was a
distant cousin of the President. The Deputy Foreign Minister
was careful not to voice a personal opinion, but his eyes
told Al Obaydi everything he needed to know. As he left, the
Minister's secretary, Miss Saib, had presented him with
another file. This one turned out to be full of useful
information about how to get by in Paris without many
friends. Places where he would be made welcome and others he
should avoid.
Perhaps Miss Saib should have listed Sweden as somewhere
to avoid.
Al Obaydi felt little apprehension about the trip, as he
had no intention of remaining in Sweden for more than a few
hours. He had already contacted the chief engineer of
Svenhalte AC, who assured him he had made no mention of his
earlier call to Mr Riffat when he returned that afternoon. He
was also able to confirm that Madame Bertha, as he kept
calling the safe, was definitely on her way to Baghdad.
'Would passengers travelling to Stockholm. . .' Al Obaydi
made his way through the departure lounge to the exit gate
and, after his boarding card had been checked, was shown to a
window seat in economy. This section of the journey would not
be presented as a claim against expenses.
On the flight across northern Europe, Al Obaydi's mind
drifted from his work in Baghdad back to the weekend, which
he had spent with his mother and sister. It was they who had
helped him make the final decision. His mother had no
interest in leaving their comfortable little home on the
outskirts of Baghdad, and even less in moving to Paris. So
now Al Obaydi accepted that he could never hope to escape:
his only future rested in trying to secure a position of
power within the Foreign Ministry. He was in no doubt that he
could now perform a service for the President that would make
him indispensable in Saddam's eyes; it might even present him
with the chance of becoming the next Foreign Minister. After
all, the Deputy was due for retirement in a couple

of years, and sudden promotion never surprised anyone in
Baghdad.
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.
when AL obaydi ARRIVED back in Paris he collected his bags
from the twenty-four-hour storage depot, then joined the
queue for a taxi.
He gave the driver an address, without saying it was the
Iraqi annexe to the Jordanian Embassy - one of the tips in
Miss Saib's 'do's and don'ts' in Paris. He hadn't warned the
staff at the embassy that he would be arriving that day. He
wasn't officially due to take up his appointment for another
fortnight, and he would have gone straight on to Jordan that
evening if there had been a connecting flight. Once he had
realised who Mr Riffat was, he knew he would have to get back
to Baghdad as quickly as possible. By reporting direct to the
Foreign Minister, he would have gone through the correct
channels. This would protect his position, while at the same
time guaranteeing that the President knew exactly who was

responsible for alerting him to a possible attempt on his
life, and which Ambassador, however closely related, had left
several stones unturned.
The taxi dropped Al Obaydi outside the annexe to the
embassy in Neuilly. He pulled his cases out of the back
without any help from the driver, who remained seated
obstinately behind the wheel of his car.
The embassy front door opened just an inch, and was then
flung wide, and a man of about forty came running
down the steps towards him, followed by two girls and a
younger man.
'Excellency, Excellency,' the first man exclaimed. 'I am
sorry, you must forgive me, we had no idea you were coming.'
The younger man grabbed the two large cases and the girls
took the remaining three between them.
Al Obaydi was not surprised to learn that the first man
down the steps was Abdul Kanuk.
'We were told you would be arriving in two weeks' time,
Excellency. We thought you were still in Baghdad. I hope you
will not feel we have been discourteous.'
Al Obaydi made no attempt to interrupt the non-stop flow
of sycophancy that came pouring out, feeling the man must
eventually run out of steam. In any case, Kanuk was not a man
to get on the wrong side of on his first day.
'Would Your Excellency like a quick tour of our quarters
while the maid unpacks your bags?'
As there were questions Al Obaydi felt only this man could
answer, he took advantage of the offer. Not only did he get
the guided tour from the Chief Administrator, but he was also
subjected to a stream of uninterrupted gossip. He stopped
listening after only a few minutes; he had far more important
things on his mind. He soon longed to be shown to his own
room and left alone to be given a chance to think. The first
flight to Jordan was not until the next morning, and he
needed to prepare in his mind how he would present his
findings to the Foreign Minister.
It was while he was being shown round what would shortly
be his office looking out over a Paris that was turning from
the half-light of dusk to the artificial light of night, that
the Administrator said something Al Obaydi didn't quite
catch. He felt he should have been paying closer attention.
'I'm sorry to say that your secretary is on holiday,
Excellency. Like the rest of us, Miss Ahmed wasn't expecting
you for another fortnight. I know she had planned to be back

in Paris a week ahead of you, so that she would have
everything ready by the time you arrived.'
'It's not a problem,' said Al Obaydi.
'Of course, you'll know Miss Saib, the Deputy Foreign
Minister's secretary?'
'I came across Miss Saib when I was in Baghdad,' replied
Al Obaydi.
The Chief Administrator nodded, and seemed to hesitate for
a moment.
'I think I'll have a rest before dinner,' the Ambassador
said, taking advantage of the temporary halt in an otherwise
unending flow.
'I'll have something sent up to your room, Excellency.
Would eight suit you?'
'Thank you,' said Al Obaydi, in an attempt to put an end
to the conversation.
'Shall I place your passport and tickets in the safe, as I
always did for the previous Ambassador?'
'A good idea,' said Al Obaydi, delighted to have at last
found a way of getting rid of the Chief Administrator.
Scott put the phone down and turned to face Dexter
Hutchins, who was leaning back in the large leather chair at
his desk, his hands clasped behind his head and a questioning
look on his face.
'So where are they?' asked Dexter.
'Kratz wouldn't give me the exact location, for obvious
reasons, but at his current rate of progress he feels
confident they'll reach the Jordanian border within the next
three days.'
'Then let's pray that the Iraqi Ministry of Industry is as
inefficient as our experts keep telling us it is. If so, the
advantage should be with us for at least a few more days.
After all, we did move the moment sanctions were lifted, and
until you showed up in Kalmar, Pedersson hadn't heard a peep
out of anyone for the past two years.'
'I agree. But I worry that Pedersson might be the one weak
link in Kratz's chain.'
'If you're going to take these sorts of risks, no plan can
ever be absolutely watertight,' said Dexter.
Scott nodded.
'And if Kratz is less than three days from the border,
you'll have to catch a flight for Amman on Monday night,
assuming Mr O'Reilly has finished his signatures by then.'
'I don't think that's a problem any longer,' said Scott.

'Why? He still had a lot of names to copy when I last
looked at the parchment.'
'It can't be that many,' said Scott, 'because Mr
Mendelssohn flew in from Washington this morning in order to
pass his judgement, and that seems to be the only opinion
Bill is interested in.'
'Then let's go and see for ourselves,' said Dexter as he
swung himself up out of his chair.
As they left the office and made their way down the
corridor, Dexter asked, 'And how's Bertha's bible coming
along? I turned a few pages of the introduction this morning
and couldn't begin to get a grasp of why the bulbs turn from
red to green.'
'Only one man knows Madame Bertha more intimately than I
do, and at this moment he's pining away in Scandinavia,' said
Scott as they climbed the stone steps to Dollar Bill's
private room.
'I also hear that Charles has designed a special pair of
trousers for you,' Dexter said.
'And they're a perfect fit,' replied Scott with a smile.
As they reached the top of the steps, Dexter was about to
barge in when Scott put an arm on his shoulder.
'Perhaps we should knock? He might be .. .'
'Next you'll be wanting me to call him "sir".'
Scott grinned as Dexter knocked quietly, and when there
was no reply, eased the door open. He crept in to see
Mendelssohn stooping over the parchment, magnifying glass in
hand.
'Benjamin Franklin, John Morton and George Clymer,'
muttered the Conservator.
'I had a lot of trouble with Clymer,' said Dollar Bill,
who was looking out of the window over the bay. 'It was the
damn man's squiggles, which I had to complete in one flow.
You'll find a couple of hundred of them in the waste-paper
basket.'
'May we approach the bench?' asked Dexter. Dollar Bill
turned and waved them in.
'Good afternoon, Mr Mendelssohn. I'm Dexter Hutchins,
Deputy Director of the CIA.'
'Could you possibly be anything else?' asked Dollar Bill.
Dexter ignored the comment and asked Mendelssohn, 'What's
your judgement, sir?'
Dollar Bill continued to stare out of the window.
'It's every bit as good as the copy we currently have on

display at the National Archives.'
'You are most generous, sir,' said Dollar Bill, who turned
round to face them.
'But I don't understand why you have spelt the word
'British" correctly^ and not with two ts as it was on the
original,' said Mendelssohn, returning his attention to the
document.
'There are two reasons for that,' said Dollar Bill as six
suspicious eyes stared back at him. 'First, if the exchange
is carried out successfully, Saddam will not be able to
claim he still has his hands on the original.'
'Clever,' said Scott.
'And second?' asked Dexter, who remained suspicious of the
little Irishman's motives.
'It will stop the Professor from bringing back this copy
and trying to pass it off as the original.'
Scott laughed. 'You always think like a criminal,' he
said.
'And you'd better be thinking like one yourself over the
next few days, if you're going to get the better of Saddam
Hussein,' said Dollar Bill as Charles entered the room,
carrying a pint of Guinness on a silver tray.
Dollar Bill thanked Charles, removed his reward from the
tray and walked to the far side of the room before taking the
first sip.
'May I ask. . .?' began Scott.
'I once spilt the blessed nectar all over a hundred-dollar
etching that I had spent some three months preparing.'
'So what did you do then?' asked Scott.
'I fear that I settled for second best, which caused me to
end up in the slammer for another five years.' Even Dexter
joined in the laughter. 'However, on this occasion I raise my
glass to Matthew Thornton, the final signatory on the
document. I wish him good health wherever he is, despite the
damn man's ts.'
'So, am I able to take the masterpiece away now?' asked
Scott.
'Not yet, young man,' said Dollar Bill. 'I fear you must
suffer another evening of my company,' he added before
placing his drink on the window ledge and returning to the
document. 'You see, the one problem I have been fighting is
time. In Mr Mendelssohn's judgement, the parchment has an
1830s feel about it. Am I right, sir?'
The Conservator nodded, and raised his arms as if

apologising for daring to mention such a slight blemish.
'So what can be done about that?' asked Dexter Hutchins.
Dollar Bill flicked on a switch and the Xenon lamps above
his desk shone down on the parchment and filled the room with
light, making it appear like a film set.
'By nine o'clock tomorrow morning the parchment will be
nearer 1776. Even if, because you have failed to give me
enough time, I miss perfection by a few years, I remain
confident that there'll be no one in Iraq who'll be able to
tell the difference, unless they are in possession of a
Carbon 14 dating machine, and know how to use it.'
'Then we can only hope that the original hasn't already
been destroyed,' said Dexter Hutchins.
'Not a chance,' said Scott.
'How can you be so confident?' asked Dexter.
'The day Saddam destroys that parchment, he will want the
whole world to witness it. Of that I'm sure.'
'Then, I'm thinking a toast might be in order,' said the
Irishman. 'That is, with my gracious host's permission.'
'A toast, Bill?' said the Deputy Director, sounding
surprised. 'Who do you have in mind?' he asked suspiciously.
'To Hannah,' said the little Irishman, 'wherever she may
be.'
'How did you know?' asked Scott. 'I've never mentioned her
name.'
'No need to, when you write it on everything from the
backs of envelopes to steaming windows. She must be a rery
special lady, Professor.' He raised his glass and repeated
the words, 'To Hannah.'
The Chief Administrator sat and waited patiently until the
maid had removed the Ambassador's dinner tray. He
then closed his door at the other end of the corridor.
He waited for another two hours, until he felt certain all
the embassy staff had gone to bed. Confident he would be the
only one left awake, he crept back down to his office and
looked up a telephone number in Geneva. He dialled the code
slowly and deliberately. It rang for a long time before it
was eventually answered.
'I need to speak to the Ambassador,' he whispered.
'His Excellency retired to bed some time ago,' said a
voice. 'You'll have to call back in the morning.'
'Wake him. Tell him it's Abdul Kanuk in Paris.'
'If you insist.'
'I do insist.'

The Chief Administrator waited for some time before a
sleepy voice eventually came on the line.
'This had better be good, Abdul.'
'Al Obaydi has arrived in Paris unannounced, and two weeks
before he was expected.'
'You woke me in the middle of the night to tell me this?'
'But he didn't come direct from Baghdad, Excellency. He
made a slight detour.'
'How can you be so sure?' said the voice, sounding a
little more awake.
'Because I am in possession of his passport.'
'But he's on holiday, you fool.'
'I know. But why spend the day in a city not known for
attracting tourists?'
'You're talking in riddles. If you've got something to
tell me, tell me.'
'Earlier today, Ambassador Al Obaydi paid a visit to
Stockholm, according to the stamp on his passport, but he
returned to Paris the same evening. Not my idea of a
holiday.'
'Stockholm ... Stockholm ... Stockholm . . .' repeated
the voice on the other end of the line, as if trying to
register its significance. A pause, and then, 'The safe. Of
course. He must have gone on to Kalmar to check on Sayedi's
safe. What has he found out that he thought worth hiding from
me, and does Baghdad know what he's
V
up tor
'I have no idea, Excellency,' said the Administrator. 'But
I do know he's flying back to Baghdad tomorrow.'
'But if he's on holiday, why would he return to Baghdad so
quickly?'
'Perhaps being the Head of Interest Section in Paris is
not reward enough for him, Excellency. Could he have his eyes
on some greater prize?'
There was a long pause before the voice in Geneva said,
'You did well, Abdul. You were right to wake me. I shall have
to phone Kalmar first thing in the morning. First thing,' he
repeated.
'You did promise, Excellency, should I once again manage
to bring to your attention.. .'
Tony Cavalli waited until Martin had poured them both a
drink.
'Arrested in a bar-room brawl,' said his father after he

had listened to his son's report.
'Yes,' said Cavalli, placing a file on the table by his
side, 'and what's more, he was sentenced to thirty days.'
'Thirty days?' said his father in disbelief. The old man
paused before he added, 'What instructions have you given
Laura?'
'I've put her on hold until July 15th, when Dollar Bill
will be released,' Tony replied.
'So where have they locked him up this time? The county
jail?'
'No. According to the records at the district court in
Fairmont, they've thrown him back into the state pen.'
'For being involved in a bar-room brawl,' said the older
man. 'It doesn't make sense.' He stared up at the Declaration
of Independence on the wall behind his desk and didn't speak
again for some moments.
'Who have we got on the inside?'
Cavalli opened the file on the table by his side and
extracted a single sheet of paper. 'One senior officer and
six inmates,' he said, passing his research across, pleased
to have anticipated his father's question.
The old man studied the list of names for some time before
he began licking his lips. 'Eduardo Bellatti must be our best
bet,' he said, looking up at his son. 'If I remember
correctly, he was sentenced to ninety-nine years for blowing
away a judge who once got in our way.'
'Correct, and what's more, he's always been happy to kill
anyone for a packet of cigarettes,' said Tony. 'So, if he
takes care of Dollar Bill before July 15th, it would also
save us a quarter of a million dollars.'
'Something isn't quite right,' said his father as he toyed
with a whisky, which he hadn't touched. 'Perhaps it's time to
dig a little deeper,' he added, almost as if he was talking
to himself. He checked down the list of names once again.
Al Obaydi woke early the following morning, restless to be
on his way to Baghdad so that he could brief the Foreign
Minister on everything he'd learned. Once he was back on
Iraqi soil he would prepare a full, written report. He went
over the outline again and again in his mind.
He would first explain to the Foreign Minister that, while
he was carrying out a routine sanctions check, he had learned
that the safe that had been ordered by the President was
already on its way to Baghdad. On discov-
ering this, he had become suspicious that an enemy of the

state might be involved in an assassination attempt on the
life of the President. Not being certain who could be
trusted, he had used his initiative, and even his own time
and money, to discover who was behind the plot. Within
moments of his reporting the details to the Foreign Minister,
Saddam was sure to find out whose responsibility the safe was
and, more important, who had failed to take care of the
President's well-being.
A tap on the door interrupted his thoughts. 'Come in,' he
called, and a maid entered carrying a breakfast tray of two
pieces of burnt toast and a cup of thick Turkish coffee. Once
she had closed the door behind her, Al Obaydi rose, had a
cold shower - not by choice - and dressed quickly. He then
poured the coffee down the washbasin and ignored the toast.
The Ambassador left his room and walked down one flight of
stairs to his office, where he found the Chief Administrator
standing behind his desk. Had he been sitting in his chair a
moment before?
'Good morning, Excellency,' he said. 'I hope you had a
comfortable night.'
Al Obaydi was about to lose his temper, but Kanuk's next
question took him by surprise.
'Have you been briefed on the bombings in Baghdad,
Excellency?'
'What bombings?' asked Al Obaydi, not pleased to be
wrong-footed.
'It seems that at two o'clock this morning the Americans
launched several Tomahawk Missiles at Mukhbarat headquarters
in the centre of the city.'
'And what was the result?' Al Obaydi asked anxiously.
'A few civilians were killed,' replied the Chief
Administrator matter-of-factly, 'but you'll be glad to know
that our beloved leader was not in the city at the time.'
'That is indeed good news,' said Al Obaydi. 'But it makes
it even more imperative that I return to Baghdad
immediately.'
'I have already confirmed your flight reservations,
Excellency.'
'Thank you,' said Al Obaydi, staring out of the window at
the Seine.
Kanuk bowed low. 'I will see that you are met at the
airport when you return, Excellency, and that this time
everything is fully prepared for your arrival. Meanwhile,
I'll go and fetch your passport. If you'll excuse me.'

Al Obaydi sat down behind his desk. He wondered how long
he would be merely Head of Interest Section in Paris once
Saddam learned who had saved his life.
you hear anything,' was all he said before putting the
phone back down.
Cavalli remained at his desk for an hour after his
secretary had left, working out what needed to be done next.
Tony dialled the number on his private line.
The phone was picked up by the Deputy Warden, who
confirmed in answer to Cavalli's first question that he was
alone. He listened to Cavalli's second question carefully
before he replied.
'If Dollar Bill's anywhere to be found in this jailhouse,
then he's better hidden than Leona Helmsley's tax returns.'
'But the county court files show him as being registered
with you on the night of June 16th.'
'He may have been registered with us, but he sure never
showed up,' said the voice on the other end of the line. 'And
it doesn't take eight days to get from San Francisco County
Court to here, unless they've gone back to chaining cons up
and making them walk the whole way. Perhaps that wouldn't be
such a bad idea,' he added with a nervous laugh.
Cavalli didn't laugh. 'Just be sure you keep your mouth
shut and your ears open, and let me know the moment
THE SECOND EMERGENCY meeting between the Foreign Minister
and his deputy took place on the Tuesday morning, again at
short notice. This time it was an unexpected direct call from
the President that had both Ministers rushing off to the
palace.
All Hannah had been able to piece together from the
several phone calls that had gone back and forth that morning
was that at some point Saddam's half-brother had called from
Geneva, and from that moment the Deputy Foreign Minister
appeared to forget the report he was preparing on the
American bombing of Mukhbarat headquarters. He fled from the
room in a panic, leaving secret papers strewn all over his
desk.
Hannah remained at her desk in the hope that she might
pick up some more information as the day progressed. While
both Ministers were at the palace, she continued to check
through old files, aware that she now had enough material to
fill several cabinets at Mossad headquarters, but no one to
pass her findings on to.
The two Ministers returned from the palace in the late

afternoon, and the Deputy Foreign Minister seemed relieved to
find Miss Saib was still at her desk.
'I need to make a written report on what was agreed at the
meeting this morning with the President,' he said,
'and I cannot overstress the importance of confidentiality
in this matter. It would not be an exaggeration to suggest
that if anything I am about to tell you became public
knowledge, we could both end up in jail, or worse.'
'I hope, Minister,' said Hannah as she put her glasses
back on, 'that I have never given you cause for concern in
the past.'
The Minister stared across at her, and then began
dictating at a rapid pace.
'The President invited the Foreign Minister and myself to
a confidential meeting at the palace this morning - date this
memo today. Barazan Al-Tikriti, our trusted Ambassador in
Geneva, contacted the President during the night to warn him
that, after weeks of diligent surveillance, he has uncovered
a plot by a group of Zionists to steal a safe from Sweden and
use it as a means of illegally entering Iraq. The safe was
due for delivery to Baghdad following the lifting of an
embargo under UN Security Council Resolution 661. The
President has ordered that General Hamil be given the
responsibility for dealing with the terrorists' - Hannah
thought she saw the Deputy Foreign Minister shudder - 'while
the Foreign Ministry has been asked to look into the role
played in this particular conspiracy by one of its own staff,
Hamid Al Obaydi.
'Our Ambassador in Geneva has discovered that Al Obaydi
visited the engineering firm of Svenhalte AC in Kalmar,
Sweden, on Monday June 28th, without being directed to do so
by any of his superiors. During that visit he was informed of
the theft of the safe and the fact that it was being
transported to Baghdad. Following his trip to Kalmar, Al
Obaydi stayed overnight at our Interest Section in Paris,
when he would have had every opportunity to inform Geneva or
Baghdad of the Zionist plot, but he made no attempt to do so.
'Al Obaydi left Paris the following morning and, although
we know he boarded a flight to Jordan, he has not yet shown
up at the border. The President has ordered that if Al Obaydi
crosses any of our national frontiers, he should be arrested
and taken directly to General Hamil at the headquarters of
the Revolutionary Command Council.'
Hannah's pencil flew across the pages of her shorthand

notebook as she tried to keep up with the Minister.
'The safe,' continued the Deputy Foreign Minister, 'is
currently being transported aboard an old army truck, and is
expected to arrive at the border with Jordan some time during
the next forty-eight hours.
'All customs officers have received a directive to the
effect that the safe is the personal property of the
President, and therefore when it reaches the border it must
be given priority to continue its journey on to Baghdad.
'Our Ambassador in Geneva, having had a long conversation
with a Mr -' the Minister checked his notes '- Pedersson, is
convinced that the group accompanying the safe are agents of
the CIA, Mossad, or possibly even the British SAS. Like the
President, the Ambassador feels the infiltrators' sole
interest is in recovering the Declaration of Independence.
The President has given orders that the document should not
be moved from its place on the wall of the Council Chamber,
as this could alert any internal agent to warn the terrorist
group not to enter the country.
'Twenty of the President's special guards are already on
their way to the border with Jordan,' continued the Minister.
'They will be responsible for monitoring the progress of the
safe, and will report directly to General Hamil.
'Once the agents of the West have been apprehended
and thrown in jail, the world's press will be informed
that their purpose was to assassinate the President. The
President will immediately appear in public and on
television, and will make a speech denouncing the American
and Zionist warmongers. Sayedi believes that neither the
Americans nor the Israelis will ever admit to the real
purpose of their raid, but that they will be unable to deny
the President's claim. Sayedi feels this whole episode can be
turned into a public relations triumph, because if the
assassination attempt is announced on the same day that the
President publicly burns the Declaration of Independence, it
will make it even harder for the Americans to retaliate.
'Starting tomorrow, the President requires a situation
update every morning at nine and every evening at six. Both
the Foreign Minister and myself are to report to him direct.
If Al Obaydi is picked up, the President is to be informed
immediately, whatever the time, night or day.'
Hannah's pencil hadn't stopped scribbling across her note
pad for nearly twenty minutes. When the Deputy Minister
finally came to an end, she tried to take in the full

significance of the information she now possessed.
'I need one copy of this report drafted as quickly as
possible, no further copies to be made, nothing put on tape,
and all your shorthand notes must be shredded once the memo
has been handed to me.' Hannah nodded as the Deputy Foreign
Minister picked up the phone and dialled the internal number
of his superior.
Hannah returned to her room and began typing up the
dictation slowly, at the same time trying to commit the
salient points to memory. Forty-five minutes later she placed
a single copy of the report on the Minister's desk.
He read the script carefully, adding the occasional note
in his own hand. When he was satisfied that the
memo fully covered the meeting that had taken place that
morning, he set off down the corridor to rejoin the Foreign
Minister.
Hannah returned to her desk, aware that the team bringing
the safe from Sweden were moving inexorably towards Saddam's
trap. And if they had received her postcard ...
When Al Obaydi landed in Jordan, he could not help feeling
a sense of triumph.
Once he had passed through customs at Queen Alia airport
and was out on the road, he selected the most modern taxi he
could find. The old seventies Chevy had no air conditioning
and showed 187,000 miles on the clock. He asked the driver to
take him to the Iraqi border as quickly as possible.
The car never left the slow lane on its six-hour journey
to the border, and because of the state of the roads Al
Obaydi was unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a
time. When the driver eventually reached the highway, he
still couldn't go much faster because of the oil that had
been spilt from lorries carrying loads they had illegally
picked up in Basra, to sell at four times the price in Amman.
Loads that Al Obaydi had assured the United Nations Assembly
time and again were a figment of the Western world's
imagination. He also became aware of trucks travelling in the
opposite direction that were full of food that he knew would
be sold to black-marketeers, long before any of it reached
Baghdad.
Al Obaydi checked his watch. If the driver kept going at
this speed he wouldn't reach the border before the customs
post closed at midnight.
When Scott landed at Queen Alia airport later that day and
stepped on to the tarmac, the first thing that hit him was a

temperature of ninety-five degrees. Even dressed in an
open-neck shirt, jeans and sneakers, he felt roasted before
he had reached the airport terminal. Once he'd entered the
building, he was relieved to find it was air conditioned, and
his one bag came up on the carousel just as quickly as it
would have done in the States. He checked his watch and
changed it to Central Eastern time.
The immigration officer hadn't seen many Swedish passports
before, but as his father had been an engineer, he wished Mr
Bernstrom a successful trip.
As Scott strolled through the green channel, he was
stopped by a customs official who was chewing something. He
instructed the foreigner to open his bulky canvas bag. After
rummaging around inside, the only thing the officer showed
any interest in was a long, thin cardboard tube that had been
wedged along the bottom of the bag. Scott removed the cap on
the end of the tube, pulled out the contents and unrolled a
large poster, which was greeted by the official with such
puzzled amazement that he even stopped chewing for a moment.
He waved Scott through.
Once Scott had reached the main concourse, he walked out
onto the road in search of a taxi. He studied the motley
selection of cars that were parked by the side of the
pavement. They made New York Yellow Cabs look like luxury
limousines.
He instructed the driver parked at the front of the queue
to take him to the Roman theatre in the centre of the city.
The eleven-mile journey into Amman took forty minutes, and
when Scott was dropped outside the third-century theatre he
handed the driver two ten-dinar notes -.enough, the experts
at Langley had told him, to cover
the cost of the trip. The driver pocketed the notes but
did not smile.
Scott checked his watch. He was still well in time for the
planned reunion. He walked straight past the ancient monument
that was, according to his guidebook, well worth a visit. As
instructed by Kratz, he then proceeded west for three blocks,
occasionally having to step off the pavement into the road to
avoid the bustling crowds. When he reached a Shell petrol
station he turned right, leaving the noisy shoppers behind.
He then took the second turning on the left, and after that
another to the right. The roads became less crowded with
locals and more full of potholes with each stride he took.
Another left, followed by another right, and he found himself

entering the promised cul-de-sac. At the end of the road,
when he could go no further, he came to a halt outside a
scrapyard. He smiled at the sight that greeted him.
By the time Al Obaydi reached the border, it was already
pitch dark. All three lanes leading to the customs post were
bumper to bumper with waiting lorries, covered with
tarpaulins for the night. The taxi driver came to a halt at
the barrier and explained to his passenger that he would have
to hire an Iraqi cab once he was on the other side. Al Obaydi
thanked the driver and gave him a handsome tip before going
to the front of the queue outside the customs shed. A tired
official gave him a languid look and told him the border was
closed for the night. Al Obaydi presented his diplomatic
passport and the official quickly stamped his visa and
ushered him through, aware that there would be no little red
notes accompanying such a document. Al Obaydi felt
exhilarated as he strolled the mile between the two customs
posts. He walked to the front of another queue, produced his
passport once
again, and received another smile from the customs
officer.
'There is a car waiting for you, Ambassador,' was all the
official said, pointing to a large limousine that was parked
near the highway. A smiling chauffeur stood waiting. He
touched the peak of his cap and opened the back door.
Al Obaydi smiled. The Chief Administrator must have warned
them that he would be coming over the border late that night.
He thanked the customs official, walked over to the highway
and slipped into the back of the limousine. Someone else was
already there, who also appeared to be waiting for him. Al
Obaydi began to smile again, when suddenly an arm shot across
his throat and threw him to the floor. His hands were pinned
behind his back, and a pair of handcuffs clicked into place.
'How dare you?' shouted Al Obaydi. 'I am an Ambassador!'
he screamed as he was hurled back up onto the seat. 'Don't
you realise who I am?'
'Yes, I do,' came back the reply. 'And you're under arrest
for treason.'
Scott had to admit that the HEMTT carrying Madame Bertha
looked quite at home among the colourful collection of old
American cars and lorries piled high on three sides of the
scrapyard. He ran across to the truck and jumped up into the
cab on the passenger side. He shook hands with Kratz, who
seemed relieved to see him. When Scott saw who was seated

behind the wheel, he said, 'Good to see you again, Sergeant
Cohen. Am I to assume you play a mean game of backgammon?'
'Two doubles inside the board clinched it for me in the
final game, Professor, though God knows how the Kurd even
reached the semi-final,' Cohen said as he switched
on the engine. 'And because he's a mate of mine, the
others are all claiming I fixed the dice.'
'So where's Aziz now?' asked Scott.
'On the back with Madame Bertha,' said the Sergeant. 'Best
place for him. Mind you, he knows the back streets of Baghdad
like I know the pubs in Brixton, so he may turn out to be
useful.'
'And the rest of the team?' asked Scott.
'Feldman and the others slipped over the border during the
night,' said Kratz. 'They're probably in Baghdad waiting for
us by now.'
'Then they'd better keep well out of sight,' said Scott,
'because after the bombing last Sunday, I suspect death might
prove the least of their problems.'
Kratz offered no opinion as Sergeant Cohen eased the
massive vehicle slowly out of the yard and onto the street;
this time the roads became wider with each turning he took.
'Are we keeping to the plan that was agreed in Stockholm?'
asked Scott.
'With two refinements,' said Kratz. 'I spent yesterday
morning phoning Baghdad. After seven attempts, I got through
to someone at the Ministry of Industry who knew about the
safe, but it's the age-old problem with the Arabs: if they
don't see the damn thing in front of their eyes, they don't
believe it exists.'
'So our first stop will have to be the Ministry?' said
Scott.
'Looks like it,' replied Kratz. 'But at least we know
we've got something they want. Which reminds me, have you
brought the one thing they don't want?'
Scott unzipped his bag and pulled out the cardboard tube.
'Doesn't look a lot to be risking your life for,' said
Kratz as Scott slipped it back into his bag.
'And the second refinement?' asked Scott.
Kratz removed a postcard from his inside pocket and passed
it over to Scott. A picture of Saddam Hussein addressing the
Revolutionary Command Council stared back at him. A little
biro'd square full of stars had been drawn in by the side of
his head. Scott turned the card over and studied her

unmistakable handwriting: 'Wish you were here.'
Scott didn't speak for several moments.
'Notice the date, did you?'
Scott looked at the top right-hand corner: 4.7.93.
'So, now we know where it is, and she's also confirmed
exactly when Saddam intends to let the rest of the world into
his secret.'
'Who's Ethel Rubin?' asked Scott. 'And how did you get
your hands on the card?'
'The lady Hannah was billeted with in London. Her
husband is Mossad's legal representative in England. He
took the card straight to the embassy the moment it
-arrived and they sent it overnight in the diplomatic
pouch. It reached our embassy in Amman this morning.'
Once they had reached the outskirts of the town, Scott
began to study the barren terrain as the lorry continued its
progress along the oil-covered, potholed roads.
'Sorry to be going so slowly, Professor,' said Cohen, 'but
if I throw my brakes on with the road in this condition,
Madame Bertha might travel another hundred yards before the
wheels even have a chance to lock.'
Kratz went over every contingency he could think of as
Cohen drove silently towards the border. The Mossad leader
ended up by describing the layout of the Ba'ath headquarters
once again.
'And the alarm system?' asked Scott when he had come to an
end.
'All you have to remember is that the red buttons by
the light switches activate the alarm, but at the same
time close all the exits.'
Scott nodded, but it was some time before he asked his
next question. 'And Hannah?'
'Nothing's changed. My first task is to get you in and
then back out with the original document. She still remains
an unlikely bonus, although she obviously knows what's going
on.'
Neither of them spoke again until Sergeant Cohen pulled
off the highway into a large gravel layby packed with
lorries. He parked the vehicle at an angle so that only the
most inquisitive could observe what they were up to, then
jumped out of the cab, pulled himself over the tailboard and
grinned at the Kurd who was lounging against the safe.
Between them they removed the tarpaulin that covered the
massive structure as Scott and Kratz climbed up to join them

in the back of the truck.
'What do you think, Professor?' asked Aziz.
'She hasn't lost any weight, that's for sure,' said Scott,
as he tried to remember the nightly homework he had done in
preparation for this single exam.
He stretched his fingers and smiled. All three bulbs above
the white square were red. He first turned all three dials to
a code that only he and a man in Sweden were aware of. He
then placed his right hand on the white square, and left it
there for several seconds. He leaned forward, put his lips up
against the square and spoke softly. 'My name is Andreas
Bernstrom. When you hear this voice, and only this voice, you
will unlock the door.' Scott waited as the other three looked
on in bemused silence. He then swivelled the dials. All three
bulbs remained red.
'Now we discover if I understood the instructions,' said
Scott. He bit his lip and advanced again. Once more he
twiddled the dials, but this time to the numbers
selected by Saddam, ending with 0-4-0-7-9-3. The first
light went from red to green. Aziz smiled. Scott placed the
palm of his hand in the white square and left it there for
several seconds. The second light switched to green.
Scott heard Kratz sigh audibly as he stepped forward
again. He put his lips to the white square so they just
touched the thin wire mesh. 'My name is Andreas Bernstrom.
It's now time for the safe to -' The third light turned green
even before he had completed the sentence. Cohen offered up a
suppressed cheer.
Scott grasped the handle and pulled. The ton of steel
eased open.
'Not bad,' said Cohen. 'What do you do for an encore?'
'Use you as a guinea-pig,' said Scott. 'Why don't you try
and close the safe, Sergeant?'
Cohen took a step forward and with both hands shoved the
door closed. The three bulbs immediately began flashing red.
'Easy, once you get the hang of it,' he said.
Scott smiled and pulled the door back open with his little
finger. Cohen stared open-mouthed as the lights returned to
green.
'The lights might flash red,' said Scott, 'but Bertha can
only handle one man at a time. No one else can open or close
the safe now except me.'
'And I was hoping it was because he was a Jew,' said Aziz.
Scott smiled as he pushed the door of the safe closed,

swivelled the dials and waited until all three bulbs turned
red.
'Let's go,' said Kratz, who Scott felt sounded a little
irritated - or was it just the first sign of tension? Aziz
threw the tarpaulin back over Madame Bertha while his
colleagues jumped over the side and returned to the cab.
No one spoke as they continued their journey to the border
until Cohen let out a string of expletives when he spotted
the queue of lorries ahead of them. 'We're going to be here
all night,' he said.
'And most of tomorrow morning, I expect,' said Kratz. 'So
we'd better get used to it.' They came to a halt behind the
last lorry in the queue.
'Why don't I just drive on up front and try to bluff my
way through?' said Cohen. 'A few extra dollars ought to.. .'
'No,' said Kratz. 'We don't want to attract undue
attention at any time between now and when we cross back over
that border.'
During the next hour, while the truck moved forward only a
couple of hundred yards, Kratz went over his plans yet again,
covering any situation he thought might arise once they
reached Baghdad.
Another hour passed, and Scott was thankful for the
evening breeze that helped him doze off, although he realised
that he would soon have to wind the window up if he wished to
avoid freezing. He began to drift into a light sleep, his
mind switching between Hannah and the Declaration, and which,
given the choice, he would rather bring home. He realised
that Kratz was in no doubt why he had volunteered to join the
team when the chances of survival were so slim.
'What's this joker up to then?' said Cohen in a stage
whisper. Scott snapped awake and quickly focused on a
uniformed official talking to the driver of the lorry in
front of them.
'It's a customs official,' said Kratz. 'He's only checking
to see that drivers have the right papers to cross the
border.'
'Most of this lot will only have two little bits of red
paper about five inches by three,' said Cohen.
'Here he comes,' said Kratz. 'Try and look as bored as he
does.'
The officer strolled up to the cab and didn't even give
Cohen a first look as he thrust a hand through the open
window.

Cohen passed over the papers that the experts at Langley
had provided. The official studied them and then walked
slowly round the lorry. When he returned to the driver's
side, he barked an order at Cohen that none of them
understood.
Cohen looked towards Kratz, but a voice from behind
rescued them.
'He says we're to go to the front of the queue.'
'Why?' asked Kratz suspiciously. Aziz repeated the
question to the official.
'We're being given priority because of the letter signed
by Saddam.'
'And who do we thank for that?' asked Kratz, still not
fully convinced.
'Bill O'Reilly,' said Scott, 'who was only too sorry he
couldn't join us on the trip. But he's been given to
understand that it's quite impossible to get draught Guinness
anywhere in Iraq.'
Kratz nodded, and Sergeant Cohen obeyed the official's
instructions, allowing himself to be directed into the lane
of oncoming traffic as he began an unsteady two-mile journey
to the front of the queue. Vehicles legally progressing
towards Amman on the other side of the road found they had to
swerve onto the loose rubble of the hard shoulder if they
didn't want a head-on collision with Madame Bertha.
As Cohen completed the last few yards to the border post,
an angry official came running out of the customs shed waving
a fist. Once again it was Aziz who came to their rescue, by
recommending that Kratz show him the letter.
After one look at the signature, the fist was quickly
exchanged for a salute.
'Passport,' was the only other word he uttered.
Kratz passed over three Swedish and one Iraqi passport
with two red notes attached to the first page of each
document. 'Never pay above the expected tariff,' he had
warned his team. 'It only makes them suspicious.'
The four passports were taken to a little cubicle,
studied, stamped and returned by the official, who even
offered them the suggestion of a smile. The barrier on the
Jordanian side was raised, and the lorry began its mile-long
journey towards the Iraqi checkpoint.
HAMID AL OBAYDI was dragged into the Council Chamber by
two of the Presidential Guards and then dumped in a chair
several yards away from the long table.

He raised his head and looked around at the twelve men who
made up the Revolutionary Command Council. None of their eyes
came into contact with his, with the exception of the State
Prosecutor.
What had he done that these people had decided to arrest
him at the border, handcuff him, throw him in jail, leave him
to sleep on the stone floor and not even offer him the chance
to use a lavatory?
Still dressed in the suit he had crossed the border in, he
was now sitting in his own excrement.
Saddam raised a hand, and the State Prosecutor smiled.
But Al Obaydi did not fear Nakir Farrar. Not only was he
innocent of any trumped-up charge, but he also had
information they needed. The State Prosecutor rose slowly
from his place.
'Your name is Hamid Al Obaydi?'
'Yes,' replied Al Obaydi, looking directly at the State
Prosecutor.
'You are charged with treason and the theft of state
property. How do you plead?'
'I am innocent, and Allah will be my witness.'
'If Allah is to be your witness, I'm sure he won't
mind me asking you some simple questions.'
'I will be most happy to answer anything.'
'When you returned from New York earlier this month, you
carried on with your work in the Foreign Ministry. Is that
correct?'
'It is.'
'And was one of your responsibilities checking the
government's latest position with reference to UN sanctions?'
'Yes. That was part of my job as Deputy Ambassador to the
UN.'
'Quite so. And when you carried out these checks, you came
across certain items on which embargoes had been lifted. Am I
right?'
'Yes, you are,' said Al Obaydi confidently.
'Was one of those items a safe?'
'It was,' said Al Obaydi.
'When you realised this, what did you do about it?'
'I telephoned the Swedish company who had built the safe
to ascertain what the latest position was, so that I could
enter the facts in my report.'
'And what did you discover?'
Al Obaydi hesitated, not sure how much the Prosecutor

knew.
'What did you discover?' insisted Farrar.
'That the safe had been collected that day by a Mr
Riffat.'
'Did you know this Mr Riffat?'
'No, I did not.'
'So what did you do next?'
'I rang the Ministry of Industry, as I was under the
impression that they were responsible for the safe.'
'And what did they tell you?'
'That the responsibility had been taken out of their
hands.'
'Did they also tell you into whose hands the
responsibility had been entrusted?' asked the Prosecutor.
'I don't remember exactly.'
'Well, let me try and refresh your memory - or shall I
call the Permanent Secretary to whom you spoke on the phone
that morning?'
'I think he may have said that it was no longer in their
hands,' said Al Obaydi.
'Did he tell you whose hands it was in?' repeated the
Prosecutor.
'I think he said something about the file being sent to
Geneva.'
'It may interest you to know that the official has
submitted written evidence to confirm just that.'
Al Obaydi lowered his head.
'So, once you knew that the file had been passed on to
Geneva, what did you do next?'
'I phoned Geneva and was told the Ambassador was not
available. I left a message to say that I had called,' said
Al Obaydi confidently, 'and asked if he would call back.'
'Did you really expect him to call back?'
'I assumed he would.'
'You assumed he would. So what did you write in your
report, in the sanctions file?'
'The file?' asked Al Obaydi.
'Yes. You were making a report for your successor. What
information did you pass on to him?'
'I don't remember,' said Al Obaydi.
'Then allow me to remind you once again,' said the
Prosecutor, lifting a slim brown file from the table. "The
Ministry of Industry have sent the file concerning this item
direct to Geneva. I phoned our Ambassador there, but was

unable to make contact with him. Therefore, I cannot make any
progress from this end
until he returns my call. Hamid Al Obaydi." Did you write
that?'
'I can't remember.'
'You can't remember what the Permanent Secretary said to
you; you can't remember what you wrote in your own report
when property of the state might have been stolen, or worse.
. . But I shall come to that later. Perhaps you would like to
check your own handwriting?' said the Prosecutor as he walked
from the table and thrust the relevant sheet in front of Al
Obaydi's face. 'Is that your writing?'
'Yes, it is. But I can explain.'
'And is that your signature at the bottom of the page?'
Al Obaydi leaned forward, studied the signature and
nodded.
'Yes or no?' barked the Prosecutor.
'Yes,' said Al Obaydi quietly.
'Did you, that same afternoon, visit General Al-Hassan,
the Head of State Security?'
'No. He visited me.'
'Ah, I have made a mistake. It was he who visited you.'
'Yes,' said Al Obaydi.
'Did you alert him to the fact that an enemy agent might
be heading towards Iraq, having found a way of crossing the
border with the intention of perhaps assassinating our
leader?'
'I couldn't have known that.'
'But you must have suspected something unusual was going
on?'
'I wasn't certain at that time.'
'Did you let General Al-Hassan know of your uncertainty?'
'No. I did not.'
'Was it because you didn't trust him?'
'I didn't know him. It was the first time we had met.
The previous. . .' Al Obaydi regretted the words the
moment he had said them.
'You were about to say?' said the Prosecutor.
'Nothing.'
'I see. So, let us move on to the following day, when you
paid a visit - because I feel confident that he didn't visit
you - to the Deputy Foreign Minister.' This induced some
smiles around the table, but Al Obaydi did not see them.
'Yes, a routine call to discuss my appointment to Paris.

He was, after all, the former Ambassador.'
'Quite. But is he not also your immediate superior?'
'Yes, he is,' said Al Obaydi.
'So, did you tell him of your suspicions?'
'I wasn't sure there was anything to tell him.'
'Did you tell him of your suspicions?' asked the
Prosecutor, raising his voice.
'No, I did not.'
'Was he not to be trusted either? Or didn't you know him
well enough?'
'I wasn't sure. I wanted more proof.'
'I see. You wanted more proof. So what did you do next?'
'I travelled to Paris,' said Al Obaydi.
'On the next day?' asked the State Prosecutor.
'No,' said Al Obaydi, hesitating.
'On the day after, perhaps? Or the day after that?'
'Perhaps.'
'Meanwhile, the safe was on its way to Baghdad. Is that
right?'
'Yes, but -'
'And you still hadn't informed anyone? Is that also
correct?'
Al Obaydi didn't reply.
'Is that also correct?' shouted Farrar.
'Yes, but there was still enough time -'
'Enough time for what?' asked the State Prosecutor.
Al Obaydi's head sank again.
'For you to reach the safety of our embassy in Paris?'
'No,' said Al Obaydi. 'I travelled on to -'
'Yes?' said Farrar. 'You travelled on to where?'
Al Obaydi realised he had fallen into the trap.
'To Sweden, perhaps?'
'Yes,' said Al Obaydi. 'But only because -'
'You wanted to check the safe was well on its way? Or was
it, as you told the Foreign Minister, that you were simply
going on holiday?'
'No, but...'
' "Yes but, no but." Were you on holiday in Sweden? Or
were you representing the state?'
'I was representing the state.'
'Then why did you travel economy, and not charge the state
for the expense that was incurred?'
Al Obaydi made no reply.
The Prosecutor leaned forward. 'Was it because you didn't

want anyone to know you were in Sweden, when your superiors
thought you were in Paris?'
'Yes, but in time . . .'
'After it was too late, perhaps. Is that what you're
trying to tell us?'
'No. I did not say that.'
'Then why did you not pick up a phone and ring our
Ambassador in Geneva? He could have saved you all the expense
and the trouble. Was it because you didn't trust him either?
Or perhaps he didn't trust you?'
'Neither!' shouted Al Obaydi, leaping to his feet, but the
guards grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him back onto
the chair.
'Now that you've got that little outburst out of the way,'
said the Prosecutor calmly, 'perhaps we can
continue. You travelled to Sweden, to Kalmar to be exact,
to keep an appointment with a Mr Pedersson, whom you did seem
willing to phone.' The Prosecutor checked his notes again.
'And what was the purpose of this visit, now that you have
confirmed it was not a holiday?'
'To try and find out who it was who had stolen the safe.'
'Or was it to make sure the safe was on the route you had
already planned for it?'
'Certainly not,' said Al Obaydi, his voice rising. 'After
all, it was I who discovered that Riffat was the Mossad agent
Kratz.'
'You knew that Riffat was a Mossad agent?' queried the
Prosecutor in mock disbelief.
'Yes, I found out when I was in Kalmar,' said Al Obaydi.
'But you told Mr Pedersson that Mr Riffat was a thorough
man, a man who could be trusted,' said the State Prosecutor,
checking his notes. 'Am I right? So now at last we've found
someone you can trust.'
'It was quite simply that I didn't want Pedersson to know
what I'd discovered.'
'I don't think you wanted anyone to know what you had
discovered, as I shall go on to show. What did you do next?'
'I flew back to Paris.'
'And did you spend the night at the embassy?' 'Yes, I did,
but I was only stopping overnight on my way to Jordan.'
'I'll come to your trip to Jordan in a moment, if I may.
But what I should like to know now is why, when you were back
at our embassy in Paris, you didn't immediately call our
Ambassador in Geneva to inform him of what you had

discovered? Not only was the Ambassador in residence, but he
took a call from another member of the embassy staff after
you had gone to bed.'
Al Obaydi suddenly realised how Farrar knew everything. He
tried to collect his thoughts.
'My only interest was getting back to Baghdad to let the
Foreign Minister know the danger our leader might be facing.'
'Like the imminent dropping of American bombs on Mukhbarat
headquarters?' suggested the State Prosecutor.
'I could not have known what the Americans were planning,'
shouted Al Obaydi.
'I see,' said Farrar. 'It was no more than a happy
coincidence that you were safely tucked up in bed in Paris
while Tomahawk missiles were showering down on Baghdad.'
'But I returned to Baghdad immediately I learned of the
bombing,' insisted Al Obaydi.
'Perhaps you wouldn't have been in quite such a hurry to
return if the Americans had succeeded in assassinating our
leader.'
'But my report would have proved . . .'
'And where is that report?'
'I intended to write it on the journey from Jordan to
Baghdad.'
'How convenient. And did you advise your trustworthy
friend Mr Riffat to ring the Minister of Industry to find out
if he was expected?'
'No, I did not,' said Al Obaydi. 'If any of this were
true,' he added, 'why would I have worked so hard to see that
our great leader secured the Declaration?'
'I'm glad you mentioned the Declaration,' said the State
Prosecutor softly, 'because I'm also puzzled by the role you
played in that particular exercise. But first, let me ask
you, did you trust our Ambassador in Geneva to see that the
Declaration was delivered to Baghdad?'
'Yes, I did.'
'And did it reach Baghdad safely?' asked the Prosecutor,
glancing at the battered parchment, still nailed to the wall
behind Saddam.
'Yes, it did.'
'Then why not entrust the knowledge you had acquired about
the safe to the same man, remembering that it was his
responsibility?'
'This was different.'
'It certainly was, and I shall show the Council just how

different. How was the Declaration paid for?'
'I don't understand,' said Al Obaydi.
'Then let me make it easier for you. How was each payment
dealt with?'
'Ten million dollars was to be paid once the contract had
been agreed, and a further forty million when the Declaration
was handed over.'
'And how much of that money - the state's money -did you
keep for yourself?'
'Not one cent.'
'Well, let us see if that is totally accurate, shall we?
Where did the meetings take place for the exchange of these
vast sums of money?'
'The first payment was made to a bank in New Jersey, and
the second to Dummond et cie, one of our banks in
Switzerland.'
'And the first payment of ten million dollars, if I
understand you correctly, you insisted should be in cash?'
'That is not correct,' said Al Obaydi. 'The other side
insisted that it should be in cash.'
'How convenient. But then, once again, we only have your
word for that, because our Ambassador in Xew York has stated
it was you who insisted the first payment had to be in cash.
Perhaps he misunderstood you as well. But let us move on to
the second
payment, and do correct me if I have misunderstood you.'
He paused. 'That was paid direct into Franchard et cie?'
'That is correct,' said Al Obaydi.
'And did you receive, I think the word is a "kickback",
after either of these payments?'
'Certainly not.'
'Well, what is certain is that, as the first payment was
made in cash, it would be hard for anyone to prove otherwise.
But as for the second payment. . .' The Prosecutor paused to
let the significance of his words sink in.
'I don't know what you're talking about,' snapped Al
Obaydi.
'Then you must be having another lapse of memory, because
during your absence, when you were rushing back from Paris to
warn the President of the imminent danger to his life, you
received a communication from Franchard et cie which, because
the letter was addressed to our Ambassador in Paris, ended up
on the desk of the Deputy Foreign Minister.'
'I've had no communication with Franchard et cie.'

'I'm not suggesting you did,' said the Prosecutor, as he
strode forward to within a foot of Al Obaydi. 'I'm suggesting
they communicated with you. Because they sent you your latest
bank statement in the name of Hamid Al Obaydi, dated June
25th 1993, showing that your account was credited with one
million dollars on February 18th 1993.'
'It's not possible,' said Al Obaydi defiantly.
'It's not possible?' said the Prosecutor, thrusting a copy
of the statement in front of Al Obaydi.
'This is easy to explain. The Cavalli family is trying to
get revenge because we didn't pay the full amount of one
hundred million as originally promised.'
'Revenge, you claim. The money isn't real? It doesn't
exist? This is just a piece of paper? A figment of our
imagination?'
'Yes,' said Al Obaydi. 'That is the truth.'
'So perhaps you can explain why one hundred thousand
dollars was withdrawn from this account on the day after you
had visited Franchard et cie?'
'That's not possible.'
'Another impossibility? Another figment of the
imagination? Then you have not seen this withdrawal order for
one hundred thousand dollars, sent to you by the bank a few
days later? The signature on which bears a remarkable
resemblance to the one on the sanctions report which you
accepted earlier was authentic'
The Prosecutor held both documents in front of Al Obaydi
so they touched the tip of his nose. He looked at the two
signatures and realised what Cavalli must have done. The
Prosecutor proceeded to sign his death warrant, even before
Al Obaydi had been given the chance to explain.
'And now you are no doubt going to ask the Council to
believe that it was Cavalli who also had your signature
forged?'
A little laughter trickled round the table, and Al Obaydi
suspected that the Prosecutor knew that he had only spoken
the truth.
'I have had enough of this,' said the one person in the
room who would have dared to interrupt the State Prosecutor.
Al Obaydi looked up in a last attempt to catch the
attention of the President, but with the exception of the
State Prosecutor the Council were looking towards the top of
the table and nodding their agreement.
'There are more pressing matters for the Council to

consider.' He waved a hand as if he were swatting an
irritating fly.
Two soldiers stepped forward and removed Al Obaydi from
his sight.
'That was a whole lot easier than I expected,' said Cohen,
once they had passed through the Iraqi checkpoint.
'A little too easy, perhaps,' said Kratz.
'It's good to know that we've got one optimist and one
pessimist on this trip,' said Scott.
Once Cohen was on the highway he remained cautious of
pushing the vehicle beyond fifty miles per hour. The lorries
that passed in the opposite direction on their way to Jordan
rarely had more than two of their four headlights working,
which sometimes made them appear like motorcycles in the
distance, so overtaking became hazardous. But his eyes needed
to be at their most alert for those lorries in front of him:
for them, one red tail-light was a luxury.
Kratz had always thought the three-hundred-mile journey
from the border to Baghdad would be too long to consider
covering in one stretch, so he had decided they should have a
rest about forty miles outside the Iraqi capital. Scott asked
Cohen what time he thought they might reach their rest point.
'Assuming I don't drive straight into a parked lorry
that's been abandoned in the middle of the road or disappear
down a pothole, I'd imagine we'll get there around four, five
at the latest.'
'I don't like the sight of all these army vehicles on the
road. What do you think they're up to?' asked Kratz, who
hadn't slept a wink since they crossed the border.
'A battalion on the move, I'd say, sir. Doesn't look that
unusual to me, and I don't think we'd need to worry about
them unless they were going in the same direction as us.'
'Perhaps you're right,' said Kratz.
'You wouldn't give them a second thought if you'd crossed
the border legally,' said Scott.
'Possibly. But Sergeant,' Kratz said, turning his
attention back to Cohen, 'let me know the moment you spot
anything you consider unusual.'
'You mean, like a woman worth a second glance?'
Kratz made no comment. He turned to ask Scott a question,
only to find he had dozed off again. He envied Scott's
ability to sleep anywhere at any time, especially under such
pressure.
Sergeant Cohen drove on through the night, not always in a

straight line, as he circumvented the occasional burned-out
tank or large crater left over from the war. On and on they
travelled, through small towns and seemingly uninhabited
sleeping villages, until a few minutes past four, when Cohen
swung off the highway and up a track that could have only
considered one-way traffic. He drove for another twenty
minutes, finally coming to a halt when the road ended at an
overhanging ledge.
'Even a vulture wouldn't find us here,' said Cohen as he
turned off the engine. 'Permission to have a smoke and a bit
of shut-eye, Colonel?'
Kratz nodded and watched Cohen jump out of the cab and
offer Aziz a cigarette before disappearing behind a palm
tree. He checked the surrounding countryside carefully, and
decided Cohen was right. When he returned to the truck, he
found Aziz and the Sergeant were already asleep, while Scott
was sitting on the ledge watching the sun come up over
Baghdad.
'What a peaceful sight,' he said as Kratz sat down beside
him, almost as though he had been talking to someone else.
'Only God could make a sunrise as beautiful as that.'
'Something isn't right,' muttered Kratz under his breath.
SADDAM NODDED TO THE PROSECUTOR.'Now we have dealt with
the traitor, let us move on to the terrorists. What is the
latest position, General?'
General Hamil, known as the Barber of Baghdad, opened the
file in front of him - he kept a file on everybody, including
those sitting around the table. Hamil had been educated at
Sandhurst and returned to Iraq to receive the King's
Commission, only to find there was no King to serve. So he
switched his loyalty to the new President, Abdul Karim Qasim.
Then a young Captain changed sides in the 1963 coup and the
Ba'ath Party took power. Once again Hamil switched his
loyalty, and was rewarded with an appointment to the personal
staff of the new Vice-President, Saddam Hussein. Since that
day he had risen rapidly through the ranks. He was now
Saddam's favourite General, and Commander of the Presidential
Guard. He had the distinction of being the only man, with the
exception of the President's bodyguards, allowed to wear a
side-arm in Saddam's presence. He was Saddam's executioner.
His favourite hobby was to shave his victims' heads before
they were hanged, with a blunt cut-throat razor that he never
bothered to sharpen. Some of them disappointed him by dying
before he could get the rope around their necks.

Hamil studied his file for a few moments before offer-
ing an opinion. 'The terrorists,' he began, 'crossed the
border at 21.26 last night. Four passports were presented to
the immigration officer for stamping. Three were of Swedish
origin, and one was from Iraq.'
'I'll skin that one personally,' said Saddam.
'The four men are travelling in a truck that appears to be
quite old, but as we are unable to risk taking too close a
look, I cannot be sure if we are dealing with a Trojan horse
or not. The safe that you ordered, Mr President, is
undoubtedly on the back of the truck.
'The truck has driven non-stop through the night at a
steady pace of around forty miles per hour in the direction
of Baghdad, but at 4.09 this morning it turned off into the
desert, and we ceased to monitor its movements, as that
particular path leads nowhere. We believe they have simply
come off the road to rest before travelling on to the capital
later this morning.'
'How many miles are they from Baghdad at this moment?'
asked the Minister of the Interior.
'Forty, perhaps fifty - an hour to an hour and a half at
the most.'
'So, if we now have them trapped in the desert, General,
why don't we just send troops in and cut them off?'
'While they are still bringing the safe to Baghdad?'
interrupted Saddam. 'No. That way lies our only danger.'
'I'm not sure I understand, Sayedi,' said the Minister of
the Interior, turning to face his leader.
'Then I will explain, Minister,' Saddam said, exaggerating
the final word cruelly. 'If we arrest them in the desert, who
will believe us when we tell the world they are terrorists?
The Western press will even claim that we planted their
passports on them. No, I want them wrested right here in the
Council Chamber, when it will be impossible for Mossad to
deny their involvement and,
more important, we will have exposed their plot and made
fools of them in the eyes of the Zionist people.' 'Now I
understand your profound wisdom, Sayedi.' Saddam waved a hand
and turned his attention to the Minister of Industry.
'Have my orders been carried out?' 'To the letter,
Excellency. When the terrorists arrive at the Ministry, they
will be made to wait, and will be treated curtly, until they
produce the documentation that claims to come from your
office.'

'They presented such a letter at the border,' interrupted
General Hamil, still looking down at his file.
'The moment such a letter is presented to my office,'
continued the Minister for Industry, 'a crane will be
supplied so that the safe can be transferred into this
building. I fear that we will have to remove the doors on the
front of the building, but only -'
'I am not interested in the doors,' said Saddam. 'When do
you anticipate that the safe will arrive outside the
building?'
'Around midday,' said General Hamil. 'I shall personally
take over the entire operation once the safe is inside the
building, Mr President.'
'Good. And make sure the terrorists see the Declaration
before they are arrested.'
'What if they were to try to destroy the document,
Excellency?' asked the Interior Minister, attempting to
recover some lost ground.
'Never,' said Saddam. 'They have come to Baghdad to steal
the document, not to destroy their pathetic piece of
history.' Two or three people round the table nodded their
agreement. 'None of you except General Hamil and his
immediate staff will come anywhere near this building for the
next twenty-four hours. The fewer people who know what's
really happening, the better. Don't even
brief the officer of the day. I want the security to
appear lax. That way they will fall right into our trap.'
General Hamil nodded.
'Prosecutor,' said Saddam, turning his attention to the
other end of the table, 'what will the international
community say when they learn I have arrested the Zionist
pigs?'
'They are terrorists, Excellency, and for terrorists,
there can be only one sentence. Especially after the
Americans launched their missiles on innocent civilians only
days ago.'
Saddam nodded. 'Any other questions?'
'Just one, Your Excellency,' said the Deputy Foreign
Minister. 'What do you want to do about the girl?'
'Ah, yes,' said Saddam, smiling for the first time. 'Now
that she has served her purpose, I must think of a suitable
way to end her life. Where is she at the moment?'
As the truck began its slow journey back along the tiny
desert path, with Aziz taking his turn behind the wheel and

Cohen in the back with Madame Bertha, Scott felt the
atmosphere inside the cab had changed. When they pulled off
the highway to rest, he still believed they were in no real
danger. But the grim silence of morning made him suddenly
aware of the task they had set themselves.
They had Kratz to thank for the original idea, and mixed
with his particular cocktail of imagination, discipline,
courage, and the assumption that no one knew what they were
up to, Scott felt they had a better than
even chance of getting away with it, especially now they
knew exactly where the Declaration was situated.
When they reached the main road, Aziz jokingly asked,
'Right or left?'
Scott said 'Left,' but Aziz turned dutifully right.
As they travelled along the highway towards Baghdad the
sun shone from a cloudless sky that would have delighted any
tourist board, although the burned-out tanks and the craters
in the road might not have been considered obvious
attractions. No one spoke as the miles sped by: there was no
need for them to go over the plans another time. That would
be like an Olympian training on the morning of a race -
either too late, or no longer of any value.
For the last ten miles, they joined an expressway that was
equal to anything they might have found in Germany. As they
crossed a newly reconstructed bridge over the Euphrates,
Scott began to wonder how close he was to Hannah, and whether
he could get himself into the Foreign Ministry without
alerting Kratz, let alone the Iraqis.
When they reached the outskirts of Baghdad, with its
glistening skyscrapers and modern buildings, they could have
been entering any major city in the world - until they saw
the people. There were lines of cars at petrol pumps in a
land where the main asset was oil, but their length was
dwarfed only by the queues for food. All four of them could
see that sanctions were biting, however much Saddam denied
it.
They drove nearer to the city centre, along the road that
passed under the Al-Naser, the massive archway of two crossed
swords gripped by casts of Saddam's hand. There was no need
to direct Aziz to the Ministry of Industry. He wished he
still lived in Baghdad, but he hadn't entered the city since
his father had been executed for his part in the failed coup
of 1987. Looking out of the window at his countrymen, he
could still smell their fear in his nostrils.

As they passed the bombed-out remains of the Mukhbarat
headquarters, Scott noticed an unmanned
ambulance parked outside the Iraqi intelligence centre. It
was strategically placed for the CNN television cameras
rather than for any practical purpose, he suspected,
When Aziz saw the Ministry of Industry building looming up
ahead of him, he pointed it out to Scott, who remembered the
facade from the mass of photographs supplied by Kratz. But
Scott's eyes had moved up to the gun turrets on top of the
Foreign Ministry, a mere stone's throw away.
Aziz brought the lorry to a halt a hundred yards beyond
the entrance to the Ministry. Scott said, 'I'll be as quick
as I can,' as he jumped out of the cab and headed back
towards the building.
As he climbed the steps to the Ministry, he did not see a
man in a window of the building opposite who was speaking on
the telephone to General Hamil.
'The truck has stopped about a hundred metres beyond the
Ministry. A tall, fair-haired man who was in the front of the
vehicle is now entering the building, but the other three,
including Kratz, have remained with the safe.'
Scott pushed through the swing doors and strolled past two
guards who looked as if they didn't move more
than a few feet every day. He walked over to the
information desk and joined the shortest of three queues. The
one-handed clock above the desk indicated that it was
approximately 9.30.
It took another fifteen minutes before Scott reached the
counter. He explained to the girl that his name was Bernstrom
and that he needed to see Mr Kajami. 'Do you have an
appointment?' she asked. 'No,' said Scott. 'We called from
Jordan to warn him that a safe the government had ordered was
on its way to Baghdad. He asked us to inform him the moment
it armed.'
'I will see if he's in,' said the receptionist. Scott
waited, staring up at a massive portrait of Saddam Hussein in
uniform holding a Kalashnikov. It dominated the otherwise
blank grey walls of the reception area.
The girl listened carefully to whoever it was on the other
end of the line before saying, 'Someone will be down to see
you in a few minutes.' She turned her attention to the next
person in the queue.
Scott hung around for another thirty minutes before a
tall, thin man wearing a smart Western suit stepped out of

the lift and walked over to him.
'Mr Bernstrom?'
'Yes?' said Scott, as he swung round to face the man.
'Good morning,' he said confidently in English. 'I am Mr
Ibrahim, Mr Kajami's personal assistant. How can I help you?'
'I have brought a safe from Sweden,' said Scott. 'It was
ordered by the Ministry some years ago, but, due to the UN
sanctions, could not be delivered any earlier. We were told
that when we reached Baghdad we should report to Mr Kajami.'
'Do you have any papers to verify your claim?'
Scott removed a file from his bag and showed Mr Ibrahim
its contents.
The man read through each document slowly until he came to
the letter signed by the President. He read no further.
Looking up, he asked, 'May I see this safe, Mr Bernstrom?'
'Certainly,' said Scott. 'Please follow me.' He led the
official out onto the street and took him over to the truck.
Cohen stared down at them. When Kratz gave the order, he
whipped the tarpaulin off the safe so that the civil servant
could inspect Madame Bertha for himself.
Scott was fascinated by the fact that those passing in
the street didn't give the safe a second look. If
anything, they quickened their pace. Fear manifested itself
among these people by their lack of curiosity.
'Please come with me, Mr Bernstrom,' said Ibrahim. Scott
accompanied him back to the reception area, where he returned
upstairs without another word.
Scott was left waiting for another thirty minutes before
Ibraham came back.
'You are to take the safe to Victory Square, where you
will see a barrier with a tank in front of a large white
building. They are expecting you.'
Scott was about to ask where Victory Square was when
Ibrahim turned and walked away. He went back to the truck,
and joined Kratz and Aziz in the front before passing on the
news. Aziz didn't need to be told the way.
'No special treatment there, I'm glad to see,' said Kratz.
Scott nodded his agreement as Aziz eased the truck back
into the road. The traffic was much heavier now. Lorries and
cars were honking their horns, managing to move only a few
inches at a time.
'It must be an accident,' said Scott, until they turned
the corner and saw the three bodies hanging from a makeshift
gallows: a man wearing an expensive designer suit, a woman

perhaps a little younger, and another much older woman. It
was hard to be certain, with their heads shaven.
Mr Kajami sat at his desk, dialled the number that had
been passed to him, and waited.
'Deputy Foreign Minister's Office, Miss Saib speaking.'
'This is the Minister of Industry calling. Could you put
me through to the Deputy Foreign Minister.'
'I'm afraid he's out of the office at the moment, Mr
Kajami. Shall I ask him to return your call, or would you
like to leave a message?'
'I will leave a message, but perhaps he could also call me
when he gets back.'
'Certainly, Minister.'
'Could you let him know that the safe has arrived from
Sweden and can therefore be crossed off the sanctions list.'
There was a long pause. 'Are you still there, Miss Saib?'
'Yes. I was just writing down what you said, sir.'
'If he needs to see the relevant forms we still have them
at the Ministry, but if it's the safe he wants to check on,
it's already on its way to the Ba'ath headquarters.'
'I understand, sir. I'll see he gets the message just as
soon as he comes in.'
'Thank you, Miss Saib.'
Kajami replaced the phone on the hook, glanced across his
desk at the Deputy Foreign Minister and smiled.
AZIZ BROUGHT THE TRUCK to a halt in front of a tank. A few
soldiers were moving around, but there didn't appear to be a
great deal of activity.
'I was expecting a bigger show of force than this,' said
Kratz. 'It's the Ba'ath Party headquarters, after all.'
'Saddam's probably at the palace, or even out of Baghdad,'
suggested Aziz as two soldiers advanced towards the truck.
The first one shouted 'Out!' and they obeyed slowly. Once all
four of them were on the ground, the soldier ordered them to
stand a few yards away from the truck while a couple of other
soldiers jumped up on the back and removed the tarpaulin.
'This one's a Major,' whispered Aziz as a portly man
covered in battle ribbons and carrying a mobile phone
advanced towards them. He stopped and looked up at the safe
suspiciously before turning to Kratz and introducing himself
as Major Saeed.
'Open,' was all he added.
Kratz pointed to Scott, who climbed up onto the back of
the lorry while several more soldiers surrounded it to watch

him perform the opening ceremony. Once Scott had pulled the
great door open, the Major joined him on the back of the
truck, but not until one of the soldiers had given him a
hand-up. He stood a pace back and ordered two of his men to
go inside. They appeared apprehen-
sive at first, but once they had entered the safe they
began touching the sides and even jumping up to try to reach
the roof. A few moments later, Saeed joined them, and banged
the walls with his swagger stick. He then stepped back out,
jumped heavily off the truck and turned towards Scott.
'Now we wait for a crane,' he said, sounding a little more
friendly. He dialled a number on the phone.
Cohen climbed into the cab and sat behind the wheel, the
keys still in the ignition, while Aziz remained on the back
with the safe. Scott and Kratz leaned against a wall, trying
to appear bored, while having a conversation on the
alternatives they now faced.
'We must find some way of getting into the building ahead
of the safe,' said Kratz. Scott nodded his agreement.
The clock in Victory Square had struck 12.30 before Aziz
spotted the tall, thin structure progressing slowly round the
massive statue of Saddam. The four of them watched as
soldiers ran out into the street to hold up the flow of
traffic and allow the vast crane to continue its progress
uninterrupted.
Scott explained to the Major that the truck now needed to
be moved to a position opposite the front door. He agreed
without a phone call. When the truck was parked exactly where
Scott wanted it, Major Saeed finally conceded that the doors
would have to come off their hinges if they were ever going
to get the safe and its trolley inside the building.
This time he did make a phone call, and to Scott's
question, 'How long?' he simply shrugged his shoulders and
replied, 'Must wait.'
Scott was determined to use the 'must wait' period, and
explained to Major Saeed that he needed to walk the route
that the safe would travel once they had entered the
building.
The Major hesitated, made a further phone call, held on
for some time before he received an answer, and then,
pointing to Scott, said, 'You, only.'
Scott left Kratz to organise the crane as it prepared to
lift the safe off the lorry, and followed the Major into the
building.

The first thing that Scott noticed as he walked down the
carpeted corridor was its width and solid feel. Every few
paces there were soldiers lounging against the wall who
sprang to attention the moment they saw Major Saeed.
At the end of the corridor was an elevator. The Major
produced a key and turned it in a lock on the wall. The doors
of the elevator opened slowly. It struck Scott that the size
of the safe must have been determined by the width of the
lift. He doubted if there would be much more than an inch to
spare all round once they had succeeded in getting Madame
Bertha on board.
The Major pressed a button marked '- 6', which, Scott
noted, was as far down as they could go. The lift dropped
slowly. When the doors opened Scott followed Major Saeed into
a long corridor. This time he had the feeling that the
passageway had been built to survive an earthquake. They came
to a halt outside a pair of heavy, reinforced doors, guarded
by two soldiers carrying rifles.
Saeed asked a question, and both guards shook their heads.
'The Chamber is empty, so we can go straight through,' he
explained, then proceeded to unlock the door. Scott followed
him into the Council Chamber.
His eyes searched quickly round the room. The first thing
he saw on the far wall was another massive portrait of
Saddam, this time in a dark double-breasted suit. Then he
spotted one of the red alarm buttons next to a light switch
that Kratz had warned him about. The
Major hurried on through the Chamber, giving the
impression of a man who hadn't the right to be there, while
Scott went as slowly as he felt he could get away with. And
then he saw it, just for a moment, and his heart sank: the
Declaration of Independence was nailed to the wall, a corner
torn and some of the signatures looking distinctly blurred.
The Major unlocked the far door and Scott reluctantly
followed him through into the adjoining corridor. They
continued for only a few more paces before coming to a halt
in front of a massive recess of inlaid brick that Scott
didn't need to measure to realise had been purpose-built in
anticipation of the arrival of the safe.
Scott took some time measuring the space, as he tried to
think of how he could get a longer look at the Declaration.
After a few minutes, Major Saeed tapped him on the shoulder
with his swagger stick and indicated that it was time for
them to return to the courtyard. Scott reluctantly followed

him back down the short corridor, and into the Council
Chamber, which the Major scurried through while Scott
lingered to measure the doors. He was pleased to discover
that they would have to be taken off their hinges. He stood a
pace back as if considering the problem. The Major returned
and slapped the side of his leg with his swagger stick,
muttering something under his breath that Scott suspected
wasn't altogether flattering.
Scott stole a glance to the right, and confirmed his worst
fears: even if he were able to exchange the two documents, it
would take an even greater genius than Dollar Bill to repair
the damage that Saddam had already inflicted.
'Come. Come. We must go,' said the Major.
'And so must these doors,' said Scott, and turning, added,
'and those two as well,' pointing to the pair at the
other end of the Chamber. But Major Saeed was already
striding off down the long corridor towards the open lift.
Hannah put the phone down and tried to stop herself
trembling. They had warned her many times at Herzliyah that
however tough you think you are, and however well trained
you've been, you will still tremble.
She checked her watch. Her lunch break was due in twenty
minutes, and although she rarely left the building during the
day except on official business, she knew she could no longer
sit in that office and just wait for events to happen all
around her.
The Deputy Foreign Minister had left for the palace at
eight that morning, and had told her not to expect him back
until five at the earliest. A muscle in her cheek twitched as
she began to type out the Minister of Industry's message.
For fifteen minutes, she sat at her desk and planned how
the hour could be best spent. As soon as she was clear in her
mind what needed to be done, she picked up her phone and
asked a girl on the switchboard to cover her calls during the
lunch break.
Hannah put on her glasses, left the room and walked
quickly down the corridor, remaining close to the wall with
her head bowed, so that those passing didn't give her a
second look.
She took the stairs rather than the lift, slipped across
the hall past reception, through the swing doors and out onto
the steps of the Foreign Ministry.
'Saib's just left the building,' said a voice from the
other side of the road into a mobile phone. 'She's going in

the direction of Victory Square.'
Hannah continued walking towards the square. The crowds
were so large and noisy that she feared another
public hanging must have taken place. When she reached the
end of the road and turned the corner, she averted her eyes
as she made a path between those who were standing, staring,
some even laughing at the spectacle.
'Quite a high-up official,' someone joked. Another more
serious voice said that he had heard he was a diplomat
recently back from America who had been caught with his
fingers in the till. A third, an elderly woman, wept when
someone suggested that the other two were the man's innocent
mother and sister.
Once Hannah could see the barrier she slowed her pace. She
stopped and stared across the road at the Ba'ath Party
headquarters. She was pleased to be hidden in such a large
crowd, even if it did occasionally obscure her view.
'She's facing the Ba'ath Party headquarters. Everyone else
is looking in the opposite direction.'
Hannah's eyes settled on the truck that was surrounded by
soldiers, and then she saw the massive safe that was perched
on the back of the vehicle and the two young men who were
attaching large coils of steel to its base. One was Middle
Eastern in appearance, the other vaguely European. And then
she saw Kratz - or was it Kratz? Whoever it was disappeared
behind the far side of the truck. She waited for the man to
reappear. When he did, a few moments later, she was left in
no doubt that it was the Mossad leader.
She realised that she could not wait around in such a
public place for much longer, and decided to return to her
office and consider what needed to be done next. She gave
Kratz one last look as a group of cleaners came out of the
building, walked across the tarmac and passed by the barrier
without any of the soldiers paying them the slightest
attention.
Hannah began to walk away from Victory Square, just
as Major Saeed and Scott emerged from the building into
the courtyard.
'She's on the move again, but she doesn't seem to be
returning to the Ministry.' The man on the mobile phone
listened for a moment and then replied, 'I don't know, but
I'll follow her and report back.'
When Scott stepped back into the courtyard he was pleased
to see that Kratz had already got the crane into position to

lift the safe off the truck. Aziz and Cohen were fastening
long steel coils around the body of Madame Bertha while the
specially constructed trolley, of which Mr Pedersson was so
proud, had been placed on the ground between the front door
and the side of the truck.
Scott looked up at the crane that was taller than the
building itself and back down at the operator, sitting in his
wide cab near the base. Once Cohen and Aziz had jumped off
the truck Kratz gave the operator the thumbs-up.
Scott pointed at the safe and beckoned to Kratz, who
walked, over, looking puzzled. He thought the operation was
going rather well.
'What's the problem?' he asked. Scott continued pointing
at the safe, and with exaggerated movements indicated how he
thought it would have to be moved, while whispering to Kratz:
'I've seen the Declaration.' He moved to the other side of
the safe. Kratz followed, now also pretending to take a close
interest in the safe.
Great news,' said Kratz. 'So where is it?'
The news is not so great,' said Scott.
'What do you mean?' asked Kratz anxiously.
'It's in the Council Chamber, exactly where Hannah said it
would be. But it's nailed to the wall,' replied Scott.
'Nailed to the wall?' said Kratz under his breath.
'Yes, and it looks as if it's beyond repair,' said Scott,
as he heard the crunch of a gear shifting into place. He
watched as the steel cords tightened, followed by a raucous
revving of the engine. But Madame Bertha refused to budge an
inch. The revving noise became even louder a second time, but
she still remained unmoved by their solicitations.
The operator pushed the long gear lever forward another
notch, and tried a third time. Finally Bertha rose an inch
off the back of the lorry, swaying gently from side to side.
Some of the soldiers started to cheer, but they stopped
immediately when the Major turned to stare in their
direction.
Kratz nodded and Cohen ran across the tarmac and lowered
the tailboard, before getting into the cab and jumping behind
the wheel of the truck. He switched on the engine, pushed the
gear lever into first and moved the vehicle slowly forward
until the safe was left dangling in mid-air. Aziz and Kratz
then pushed the trolley a few yards across the tarmac so that
it was directly below the dangling safe, Kratz gave the
thumbs-up a second time, and the crane operator slowly began

lowering the five tons of steel, inch by inch, until it came
to rest on the trolley, causing the large rubber wheels to
compress abruptly.
The safe now rested in front of the double doors, waiting
for the carpenter to arrive before it could progress on its
inward journey. The Major shrugged his shoulders even before
Kratz had mouthed the question.
As Cohen backed the lorry into a parking space designated
by the Major, an Iraqi, dressed in a dishdash and a
red-and-white keffiyeh and carrying a tool bag appeared at
the barrier.
Once the guards had thoroughly checked the tool bag,
tipping all its contents out onto the ground, they allowed
him through. The carpenter gathered up his tools, took one
look at the safe, another at the double doors, and understood
immediately why his boss had described the problem as urgent.
Scott stood back and watched the craftsman as he began to
unscrew the hinges on one of the doors.
'So where's Dollar Bill's counterfeit at the moment?'
asked Kratz.
'Still in my bag,' said Scott. 'I'm going to have to do
some work on it, or they'll spot the difference the moment
I've exchanged it for the original.'
'Agreed,' said Kratz. 'You'd better get on with it while
the carpenter's working on the door. I'll try and keep the
Major occupied.'
Kratz sauntered over to the carpenter and started chatting
to him while Scott disappeared into the front of the truck
carrying his bag. Once the Major saw what Kratz was doing he
ran across to join them.
Scott stared through the cab window as he extracted Dollar
Bill's copy from the cylinder and tried to recall where the
main damage was on the original. First he made a tear in the
top right-hand corner, then he spat on the names of John
Adams and Robert Treat Paine. After he had studied his
handiwork he decided he hadn't gone far enough and, placing
the copy on the floor, he rubbed the soles of his shoes
gently over the surface. He glanced up to see the Major
ordering Kratz to let the carpenter get on with his job.
Kratz shrugged his shoulders as Scott rolled up the copy of
the Declaration and returned it to the cylinder, before
sliding it down the specially-sewn long thin pocket on the
inside of his trouser leg. A perfect fit.
A few moments later the carpenter got off his knees and

smiled to show he had completed his task. At the
Major's command four soldiers stepped forward and removed
the doors. They carried them a few paces away and leaned them
up against an outside wall.
The Major ordered several more soldiers to push the
trolley as Scott guided Madame Bertha through the doorway.
Kratz and Aziz tried to follow, but the Major waved an arm
firmly to indicate that only Scott could enter the building.
It was Scott's turn to shrug his shoulders.
Inch by inch, they eased the trolley down the long
corridor. The lift doors had been left open, but it still
took forty hands to lever the five tons of metal safely
inside. Scott knew from his research that this part of the
building had been built to survive a nuclear attack, but he
wondered if the lift would ever recover from having to carry
the five-ton safe down six floors. He was only thankful that
Madame Bertha was going down, not up.
The lift doors slowly closed and the Major quickly led
Scott through a side door and down the back stairs, followed
by a dozen soldiers. When they reached the basement, the
doors of the lift were already open and Madame Bertha stood
there, majestically waiting. The Major pointed to the floor
with his swagger stick: ten of the soldiers fell to their
knees and began pulling the trolley inch by inch until they
finally managed to coax it into the corridor. The lift was
then sent up to - 5, and six of the soldiers ran back up the
stairs, jumped into the empty lift and returned to the
basement so they could push the safe from the other side.
The carpenter had already removed the first set of doors
they would encounter when the safe entered the Council
Chamber, but was still working on the second set when the
trolley reached the entrance. The delay gave Scott an
opportunity to supervise the moving of the large table up
against the side wall and the placing of the
chairs on the table so that the safe would have a clear
passage into the far corridor.
As he went back and forth Scott had several opportunities
to stare at the Declaration, even study the spelling of the
word 'Brittish'. He quickly realised that the parchment was
in an even worse condition than he had thought.
Once the doors were finally removed, the soldiers began
pushing the safe across the Chamber and out into the short
corridor on the last few yards of its journey. When they had
reached the end of the corridor opposite the specially

prepared recess, Scott supervised the last few inches of its
move until they could push the five tons of steel no further.
Madame Bertha had finally come to her resting place against
the far wall.
Scott smiled, and Major Saeed made another phone call.
The old woman explained to Hannah that the next shift was
to be at three o'clock that afternoon, and they would be
expected to have the Council Chamber ready for the meeting
that was to take place at six the following day. They hadn't
been able to do a proper job on the first shift that morning
because of that safe.
Hannah had followed the cleaners, watching as they peeled
off one by one and went their separate ways. She selected an
old woman carrying the heaviest bags, and offered to help her
across the road. They quickly got into conversation, and
Hannah continued to carry the bags all the way to her front
door, explaining that she only lived a few streets away.
'Come inside, my dear,' the old lady said.
'Thank you,' replied Hannah, feeling more like the wolf
than Little Red Riding Hood.
Slipping a small whisky into the old woman's coffee had
proved harmless enough, and it certainly loosened her tongue.
Two Valium dropped in the cleaner's second coffee ensured
that it would be several hours before she woke. Mossad had
taught Hannah five different ways of breaking into a car, a
hotel room, a briefcase, even a small safe, so a drugged old
woman's handbag was no great challenge. She removed the
special pass and slipped out of the house.
'She's now heading back in the direction of the Ministry,'
said the voice into the mobile phone. 'We've checked the old
woman. She passed out and probably won't come round until
this time tomorrow. The only thing that's been taken is her
security pass.'
When Hannah arrived back at her desk there was no sign
that the Deputy Foreign Minister had returned, so she checked
with the switchboard. There had only been three calls: two
said they would call back tomorrow, and the third didn't
leave a message.
Hannah replaced the handset and typed out a note
explaining that she had gone home as she wasn't certain
whether the Deputy Foreign Minister would be returning that
day. As long as he didn't check his messages until after five
o'clock, there would be no reason for him to become
suspicious.

In the privacy of her little room, Hannah exchanged her
office clothes for the traditional black abaya with a pushi
covering her face. She checked herself in the mirror before
once again leaving the building, silently and anonymously.
'I'm almost sure it's her coming out of the Ministry,'
said the voice into the mobile phone, 'but she's changed into
traditional dress and is no longer wearing glasses. She's
heading towards Victory Square again. I'll keep you briefed.'
Hannah was back in Victory Square a few minutes before the
first cleaner was expected to arrive for work. Although the
crowd was now smaller, she was still able to remain
inconspicuous. She looked across the road towards the
courtyard. The safe was no longer to be seen, and the crane
too had disappeared. The truck was now backed up against the
wall. Hannah strained to see if Kratz was one of the figures
sitting in the front of the truck, but she couldn't penetrate
the haze of smoke.
Hannah turned her attention to a building she had never
entered but felt she knew so well. A full-scale plan of each
floor was attached to a board in the operations room of
Mossad's headquarters in Herzliyah, and you couldn't take the
second paper of any exam on Iraq without being able to draw
every floor of the building in detail. Information was added
all the time, from the strangest sources: escaped refugees,
former diplomats, ex-Cabinet Ministers who were Kurds or
Shi'ites, even the former British Prime Minister Edward
Heath.
The first cleaner arrived a few minutes before three,
presented her pass and then hurried across the tarmac before
disappearing into a side door of the building. The second
appeared a few moments later, and followed the same
procedure. When Hannah spotted the third making her way along
the far side of the pavement, she slipped across the road and
filed in behind her as she walked towards the barrier.
'She's crossed the road, reached the barrier, and the
guard is now checking her pass,' said the voice into the
mobile phone. 'As instructed, they've let her through. She's
now walking across the tarmac and following another woman
through the side door. She's in, the door's closed. We've got
her.'
'Now you open the safe,' said Major Saeed.
Scott swivelled the dials to their coded numbers, and the
first bulb turned green. The Major was impressed. Scott then
placed the palm of his hand on the white square, and a few

seconds later the middle bulb turned green. The Major was
mesmerised. Scott leaned forward and spoke into the voice
box, and the third light turned green. The Major was
speechless.
Scott pulled the handle and the door swung open. He jumped
inside and immediately extracted the cardboard tube from the
inside of his trouser leg.
The Major spotted it at once, and flew into a rage. Scott
quickly flicked off the cap, took out the poster of Saddam
Hussein and unpeeled it, letting the backing paper fall to
the ground before he strolled to the far side of the safe and
fixed the portrait of Saddam to the wall. A smile returned to
the Major's face as Scott bent down, rolled up the backing
paper and slid it into the tube.
'Now I teach you,' said Scott.
'No, no, not me,' said Major Saeed. He held his phone up
in the air and said, 'We must go back upstairs.'
Scott felt like swearing as he stepped out of the safe,
dropping the tube and allowing it to roll across the floor to
the darkest corner. The plan he had so carefully prepared
with Kratz would no longer be possible. He reluctantly left
the open safe and joined the Major as he marched quickly
towards the Council Chamber, this time not allowing Scott any
opportunity to hold him up.
Hannah joined the other cleaners inside the building, and
told them that her mother had been taken ill and that she had
been sent to cover for her. She tried to assure them that it
was not the first time she had done so, and was surprised
when they asked no questions. She
assumed that they were fearful of being involved with a
stranger.
Hannah picked up a box of cleaning equipment and made her
way down the back stairs. The plan displayed on the walls at
Herzliyah was proving impressively accurate, even if nobody
had managed die exact number of steps to the basement.
When she reached the door that led into the bottom
corridor she could hear voices coming from the direction of
the Council Chamber. Whoever it was must be heading for the
lift. Hannah backed up against the wall so she could just see
them through the thick pane of wire-mesh glass in the centre
of the door.
The two men passed. Hannah didn't recognise the Major, but
when she saw who was with him, her legs gave way and she
almost collapsed onto the ground.

Once they were back in the courtyard, the Major dialled a
number. Scott strolled over to Kratz, who was standing behind
the truck.
'Did you manage to switch the Declaration?' were Kratz's
first words.
'No, I didn't have time. It's still on the wall of the
Chamber.'
'Damn. And the copy?'
'I left it in the tube on the floor of the safe. I
couldn't risk bringing it out.'
'So how are you going to get back into the building?'
asked Kratz, looking towards the Major. 'You were meant to
use the time -'
'I know. But it turns out he's not the one who'll be in
charge of the safe. He's getting in touch with whoever it is
I'll have to instruct.'
'Not what we needed. I suspect that with the Major
our first plan would have been a lot easier,' said Kratz.
'I'd better brief the others so we can work on an alternative
if things go wrong again.'
Scott nodded his agreement, and he and the Mossad leader
strolled over to the truck where Aziz and Cohen were sitting
in the cab smoking. As the Colonel climbed into the front,
two cigarettes were quickly stubbed out. Kratz explained why
they were still waiting, and warned them that this could be
the Professor's last chance to get back into the Council
Chamber. 'So when he comes out next time,' he explained, 'we
must be ready to go. With a little luck, we might still make
the border by midnight.'
How could he possibly be alive? Hannah thought. Hadn't she
killed him? She had seen his dead body carried out of the
room. She tried to organise her thoughts, which ranged from
absolute joy to utter fear. She recalled her senior
instructor telling her, 'When you're in the front line, never
be surprised by anything.' She felt she now had the right to
contradict him, if she was ever given the chance.
Hannah pushed open the door and crept into the corridor,
which was deserted except for a pair of soldiers chatting by
the entrance to the Chamber. She realised she couldn't hope
to get past them without being questioned.
With a pace to go, she was told to stop, and came to a
halt between them. After they had checked the cleaning box
thoroughly, the one with two stripes on his arm said, 'You
know it's our duty to search you as well?' Hannah made no

comment while he bent down, lifted her long black robe and
placed his hands on her ankles. The second one let out a
raucous laugh as he put his fingers round the front of her
neck, and began moving
his hands down over her shoulders and across her breasts,
while his colleague moved his hands up her legs and onto her
thighs. As the first soldier reached the top of her legs, his
colleague pinched her nipples. Hannah pushed them both away
and stepped into the Chamber. They made no attempt to follow,
although their laughter increased in volume.
The table had been returned to the centre of the room and
the chairs casually rearranged around it. She began by
straightening the table before placing the chairs at an equal
distance from each other. She was still trying to take in the
fact that Simon was alive. But why would the CIA send him to
Baghdad? Unless . . . she stared up at the massive portrait
of Saddam Hussein as she straightened his chair at the head
of the table. Then her eyes came to rest on the document that
was nailed next to his picture.
The American Declaration of Independence was fixed to the
wall in exactly the place the Deputy Foreign Minister had
claimed it was.
hand. 'I am sorry to have kept you waiting. But don't let
me hold you up any longer. Please show me your safe, which
Major Saeed seems so impressed by.'
Without another word the General turned and began walking
towards the building, leaving Scott with little choice but to
follow. For the first time in his life, Scott was terrified.
TWO CARS SWEPT UP TO the barrier and were ushered quickly
through without the suggestion of a check. Scott watched
carefully as a large group of soldiers surrounded the
vehicles.
When a tall, heavily-built man stepped out of the second
car, Aziz said under his breath, 'General Hamil, the Barber
of Baghdad. He carries a cut-throat razor on his keyring.'
Kratz nodded. 'I know his complete life history,' he said.
'Even the name of the young Lieutenant he's currently living
with.'
Major Saeed was now standing to attention, saluting the
General, and Scott didn't need to be told that this man was
of a different rank and calibre to the one he had been
dealing with until then. He studied theiace of the man
dressed in an immaculate tailored uniform with several more
rows of battle ribbons than the Major, wearing black leather

gloves and carrying a swagger stick. It was a cruel face. The
troops who stood around him were unable to disguise their
fear.
The Major pointed to Scott and said, 'You, come.'
'I've got a feeling he means you,' said Kratz.
Scott nodded and strolled across to join them.
'Mr Bernstrom,' the General said, removing the glove from
his right hand, 'I am General Hamil.' Scott shook his
Hannah picked up a duster and some polish and began to rub
in small circles on the table while taking a more careful
look at the Declaration of Independence. The parchment was in
such terrible condition that she doubted if it could be
repaired even if Simon were able to get it back to
Washington.
She peered round the door into the short corridor, and
spotted the safe she had seen on the truck earlier that day.
It was open, but was guarded by two more thugs, chatting as
much as the other two who were stationed at the door of the
Council Chamber.
Hannah made her way slowly down the corridor, dusting and
polishing the ledge of the wooden skirting until she was
opposite the safe and had a clear view inside. She took a
pace forward and peered in as if she had never seen anything
like it in her life before. One of the soldiers kicked her
and she fell into the safe. The inevitable raucous laughter
followed. She was about to turn round and retaliate when she
saw the long cardboard cylinder in one corner, almost hidden
in the shadow. She leaned across and rolled it quickly
towards her until it was safely under her long skirt. She
wondered if she could use it to get a message to Simon.
Hannah left her duster and polish on the floor of the safe,
stepped out backwards and bolted down the corridor, as if to
escape the guards.
Once she was back in the Chamber she removed
another rag from the cleaning box and began polishing the
table until she was in a position where no one could see her
from either passageway. She then lowered herself slowly onto
her knees until she was below the table, and let the
cardboard tube fall to the floor in front of her. She quickly
flicked off the cap, to find the cylinder wasn't empty. She
pulled out the parchment, unrolled it and studied it in
disbelief: a magnificent copy of the Declaration of
Independence, obviously made by a craftsman, even if someone
had tried to deface it. She realised immediately that Simon

must have been hoping to find some way of switching the copy
for the original.
Kratz watched Scott follow General Hamil into the
building, then walked slowly across to the truck and climbed
into the cab. He stared through the front window. No one was
taking any particular interest in what they were up to.
'This is too easy,' he said. 'Far too easy.' Cohen and
Aziz looked straight ahead, but didn't offer an opinion. 'If
Hamil is involved, they must suspect something. The time has
come for us to find out who knows what.'
'What do you have in mind, sir?' asked Cohen.
'I have a feeling that our switchboard Major isn't fully
aware of what's going on. Either they haven't briefed him, or
they think he's not up to the job.'
'Or both,' suggested Aziz.
Kratz nodded. 'Or both. So let's find out. Aziz, I want
you and Cohen to take a stroll down to the barrier. Tell the
guards that you're going for something to eat, and that
you'll be back in a few minutes. If they refuse to let you
through, we've got a real problem, because that will mean
they know what we're up to. In which case, come back to the
cab and I'll start working on what we have to do next.'
'And if they let us through?' asked Cohen.
'Get out of sight,' said Kratz, 'but keep in visual
contact with the truck. That shouldn't be too hard, with
these gawking crowds. If Professor Bradley comes out with his
cardboard tube and I rest my arm on the window ledge as I'm
doing now, get back here fast, because we won't want to be
hanging about. And by the way, Cohen: if I'm not around for
any reason, and the Professor should suggest a detour to the
Foreign Ministry, overrule him.' Cohen nodded, without a clue
what the Colonel was talking about. 'But if you spot that
we're in trouble, keep well out of the way for one hour, and
then pray that the whopper works.'
'Understood, sir,' said Cohen.
'Take the keys with you,' said Kratz. 'Now get going.'
Kratz stepped back down onto the tarmac, strolled over to
where Major Saeed was listening to one of his interminable
phone calls, and placed himself a few feet to his left as if
wanting to attract his attention. At the same time he looked
over his shoulder to watch Aziz and Cohen walking towards the
barrier.
Kratz continued to try and attract the Major's attention
as Aziz came to a halt at the barrier and started joking with

one of the guards.
A few moments later Kratz saw both of his men step under
the barrier. Within seconds they were lost in the crowd.
Major Saeed came off the phone. 'What is the problem this
time?' he asked. Kratz took out a cigarette and asked the
Major for a light.
'Don't smoke,' he said, and waved him away.
Kratz walked slowly back to the cab and took his place
behind the steering wheel, his eyes never leaving the open
doorway of the Ba'ath Party headquarters.
Hannah stared at the Declaration hanging on the wall. It
was only a few paces away from her. She waited until she
heard another roar of laughter from the soldiers before
walking over to the document and quickly trying to remove the
nails. Three came out with the minimum of effort, but the one
at the top right-hand corner refused to budge, and the
Declaration continued to dangle from it. After a few more
seconds, she felt she was left with no choice but to ease the
document over the head of the nail. Once the parchment was in
her hand she went back to the table, placed the original on
the floor and returned quickly to attach the copy to the
wall.
She hardly glanced at her handiwork before she turned back
to the table, knelt on the ground, and rapidly rolled up the
original, replacing it in the cylinder. Once again she tucked
it under her skirt. It had been the longest two minutes of
her life. She remained on her knees, trying to think. She
knew she couldn't risk trying to get the tube out of the
building, as the guards might decide to 'search' her again.
There was no alternative. She walked quickly back down the
short corridor and was in the safe even before the two
soldiers had stopped talking. She let the cylinder fall to
the floor, then pushed it back into the darkest corner,
exactly where she had first seen it. Then she picked up the
duster and polish she had left behind, stepped back out of
the safe and showed them to the soldiers, and ran back down
the corridor towards the Chamber.
Hannah knew she must get out of the building as quickly as
possible, and somehow pass a message to Simon.
And then she heard the voices.
The lift doors slid apart at the basement floor. The
General stepped out into the corridor and headed towards the
Council Chamber.
'And just how large is this safe?' he asked Scott.

'Nine feet in height, seven feet in width and eight feet
in depth,' responded Scott immediately. *You could hold a
private meeting in there if you wished to, General.'
'Is that so?' said Hamil, 'But I am informed the safe can
only be operated by one person. Is that true?'
'That is correct, General. We followed the exact
specifications your government requested.'
'I am also told that the safe can withstand a nuclear
attack. Is that the case?'
'Yes,' replied Scott. 'The safe has a six-inch skin and
would be unaffected by any explosion other than a direct hit.
In any other circumstances, everything in the safe would be
preserved, even if the building it was standing in was
completely demolished.'
'Impressive,' said the General as the guards sprang to
attention and he touched the rim of his beret with his
swagger stick. He marched into the Chamber and Scott
followed, annoyed to find there was a woman polishing the
table. He certainly didn't need her hanging around when he
came back out. The General didn't even look at Hannah as he
strode through the Chamber.
Scott glanced across at the parchment before he followed
the General out of the room.
'Ah,' Hannah heard the General say when he was still
several yards from the end of the corridor. 'Pure statistics
don't do your safe justice, Mr Bernstrom.' The two soldiers
remained rigidly at attention as the General studied the safe
for some time, before stepping inside. When he saw the
cardboard tube on the floor he bent down and picked it up.
'Just to protect the picture,' explained Scott as he
stepped in to join him. He pointed to the portrait of Saddam
Hussein.
'You are a thorough man, Mr Bernstrom,' said Hamil.
'You would have made an excellent colonel in one of my
regiments.' He laughed and passed the cardboard tube over to
Scott.
Hannah listened intently to every word, and concluded that
she must get out of the building as quickly as possible and
alert Kratz to what she had done.
'Would you like me to show you how to programme the safe?'
she heard Scott ask as she reached the entrance of the
Chamber.
'No, no, not me,' said General Hamil. 'The President will
be the only one who will be allowed to operate the safe.'

Those were the last words Hannah heard as she walked out of
the Chamber, past the guards, and continued purposefully down
the long corridor.
When she reached the doors that led to the staircase she
turned back to see the General striding into the Chamber and,
some way behind him, Scott following. He was holding the
tube.
Hannah wanted to scream with delight.
Scott realised he would never be given a chance to carry
out the switch once Saddam was in the building. When he
reached the Chamber he allowed the General to get a few paces
ahead of him. His eyes swept the room, and he was relieved to
find the cleaner was no longer anywhere to be seen. The
guards sprang to attention as the General strode out of the
Council Chamber into the far corridor.
Scott stared at the alarm button on the wall ahead of him.
'Don't look round,' he begged under his breath as he kept his
eyes on the retreating back of the General. With a yard to go
before he reached the door, Scott lunged forward and jabbed
his thumb on the red button. The doors immediately slammed
closed and clamped with a deafening noise.
Hannah was just about to push open the door that led to
the back stairs when the alarm gave out a piercing sound
and all the exits were immediately bolted. She turned to
discover she was alone in the corridor with General Hamil and
four of his republican guards.
The General smiled at her. 'Miss Kopec, I believe. I'm
delighted to make your acquaintance. I fear it will be a
couple of minutes before Professor Bradley is able to join
us.'
The guards surrounded Hannah as the General looked up at a
television screen above the door. He watched as Scott, inside
the Chamber, pressed a button on the side of his watch. Scott
then ran over to the wall, quickly extracted the copy of the
document from the tube, and checked it against the original.
He felt he had done a fair job back in the cab of the truck,
but he spat on Lewis Morris and John Witherspoon for good
measure, then spent a few seconds rubbing the parchment on
the stone floor before comparing it once again to the one on
the wall. He looked at his watch: forty-five seconds. He
began to pull the nails out of the wall, but was unable to
get the top right-hand one to budge, so he eased the
Declaration over its head. Sixty seconds.
Hannah stared up at the television screen in horror,

watching Simon undo all her work, while the General made a
phone call.
Once Scott had removed the document from the wall he
placed it on the table. He then fastened the copy that he had
taken out of the cardboard cylinder back on the wall, easing
the parchment over the nail in the top right-hand corner,
which still stubbornly refused to budge. Ninety seconds. He
picked up Dollar Bill's copy from the table, rolled it up and
dropped it into the cylinder. One hundred and ten seconds. He
walked over to the door that led to the lifts and stood
inhaling deeply for a moment before the alarm stopped and the
doors swung open.
Scott knew that it would take them a few minutes
before the source of the alarm could be checked, so when
he saw the General, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
Kratz sat on the front seat of the truck, keeping a wary
eye on Major Saeed. There was a ringing sound: Saeed pressed
a button and placed his phone to his ear. Suddenly, without
warning, he turned, whipped out his pistol and looked
anxiously towards the cab. He barked out an order, and within
seconds every soldier in sight surrounded the truck, their
rifles pointing directly at Kratz.
The Major rushed up. 'Where are the other two?' he
demanded. Kratz shrugged his shoulders. Saeed turned on his
heels and ran into the building, shouting another order as he
went.
Kratz placed his right hand over his left wrist and slowly
began to unpeel the plaster, a second skin, secreted beneath
his watch. He delicately removed the tiny green pill, stuck
to the plaster and transferred it to the palm of his hand.
Sixty or seventy eyes were staring at him. He began coughing,
and slowly put his hand up to his mouth, lowered his head and
swallowed the pill.
Saeed came rushing back out of the building and began
barking new orders. Within seconds, a car pulled up beside
the truck.
'Out!' the Major screamed at Kratz, who stepped down onto
the tarmac and allowed a dozen fixed bayonets to guide him
towards the back door of the car. He was pushed onto the
seat, and two men in dark suits took a place on each side of
him. One quickly turned him and tied his hands behind his
back, while the other blindfolded him.
Cohen and Aziz watched from the other side of the square
as the car sped away from them.

THE GENERAL RETURNED Scott's smile.
'I won't introduce you to Miss Saib,' he said, 'as I
believe you've already met.'
Scott looked blank as he stared at the woman dressed in a
black abaya and a pushi that covered her face. She was
surrounded by four soldiers, their bayonets drawn.
'We have a lot to thank Miss Saib for, because of course
it was she who led us to you in the first place, not to
mention her postcard to Mrs Rubin that helped you find the
Declaration so quickly. We did try to make it as easy as
possible for you.'
'I don't know Miss Saib,' said Scott.
'Oh, come, Professor - or should I call you Agent Bradley?
I admire your gallantry, but while you may claim not to know
Miss Saib, you certainly know Hannah Kopec,' the General said
as he ripped off Hannah's pushi.
Scott stared at Hannah, but still said nothing.
'Ah, I see you do remember her. But then, it would be hard
to forget someone who tried to kill you, wouldn't it?'
Hannah's eyes pleaded with Scott.
'How touching, my dear, he's forgiven you. But I fear I
don't share his forgiving nature.' The General turned to see
Major Saeed running towards him. He listened carefully to
what the Major whispered to him, then began
banging his swagger stick rapidly against his long leather
boots.
'You're a fool!' he shouted at the top of his voice, and
suddenly struck the Major across the face with his swagger
stick.
He turned back to face Scott. 'It seems,' he said, 'that
the reunion I had planned for you and your friends will have
to wait a little longer, because although we have Colonel
Kratz safely locked up, the Jew and the Kurdish traitor have
escaped. But it can only be a matter of time before we catch
them.'
'How long have you known?' asked Hannah quietly.
'You made the mistake so many of our enemies make, Miss
Kopec, of underestimating our great President,' replied the
General. 'He dominates the affairs of the Middle East to a
far greater extent than Gorbachev did the Russians, Thatcher
the British, or Bush the American people. I ask myself, how
many citizens in the West any longer believe the Allies won
the Gulf War? But then, you were also stupid enough to
underrate his cousin, Abdul Kanuk, our newly appointed

Ambassador to Paris. Perhaps he wasn't quite that stupid when
he followed you all the way to your lover's flat and stood in
a doorway the rest of the night before following you back to
the embassy. It was he who informed our Ambassador in Geneva
what "Miss Saib" was up to.
'Of course, we needed to be sure, not least because our
Deputy Foreign Minister found it so hard to accept such a
tale about one of his most loyal members of staff. Such a
naive man. So, when you came to Baghdad, the Ambassador's
wife invited Miss Saib's brother to dinner. But, sadly, he
didn't recognise you. Your cover, as the more vulgar American
papers would describe it, was blown. Those same papers keep
asking pathetically, "Why doesn't Mossad assassinate
President Saddam?" If
only they knew how many times Mossad has tried and failed.
What Colonel Kratz didn't tell you at your training school in
Herzliyah, Miss Kopec, was that you are the seventeenth
Mossad agent who has attempted to infiltrate our ranks during
the past five years, and all of them have experienced the
same tragic end as your Colonel is about to. And the real
beauty of the whole exercise is that we don't have to admit
we killed any of you in the first place. You see, the Jewish
people are unwilling to accept, after Entebbe and Eichmann,
that such a thing could possibly happen. I feel sure you will
appreciate the logic of that, Professor.'
'I'll make a bargain with you,' said Scott.
'I'm touched, Professor, by your Western ethics, but I
fear you have nothing to bargain with.'
'We'll trade Miss Saib if you release Hannah.'
The General burst out laughing. 'Professor, you have a
keen sense of the ridiculous, but I won't insult you by
suggesting that you don't understand the Arab mind. Do allow
me to explain. You will be killed, and no one will comment
because, as I have already explained, the West is too proud
to admit that you even exist. Whereas we in the East will
throw our hands in the air and ask why Mossad has kidnapped a
gentle, blameless secretary on her way to Paris, and is now
holding her in Tel Aviv against her will. We even know the
house where she is captive. We have already arranged for
sentimental pictures of her to be released to every paper in
the Western world, and a distraught mother and son have been
coached for weeks by one of your own public relations
companies to face the Western press. We'll even have Amnesty
International protesting outside Israeli embassies across the

world on her behalf.'
Scott stared at the General.
'Poor Miss Saib will be released within days. Both of
you, on the other hand, will die an unannounced,
unheralded and unmourned death. To think that all you
sacrificed your lives for was a scrap of paper. And while we
are on that subject, Professor, I will relieve you of the
Declaration.'
The four soldiers stepped forward and thrust their
bayonets at Scott's throat as the General snatched the
cardboard tube from his grasp.
'You did well to switch the documents in two minutes,
Professor,' said the General, glancing up at the television
screen above him. 'But you can be assured that it remains our
intention to burn the original very publicly on the fourth of
July, and I feel confident that we will destroy President
Clinton's flimsy reputation along with it.' The General
laughed. 'You know, Professor, I have for many years enjoyed
killing people, but I shall gain a particular pleasure from
your deaths, because of the appropriate way you will be
departing this world.'
The soldiers surrounded Hannah and Scott and forced them
back into the Chamber and on towards the short corridor. The
General followed them down the passage. They all came to a
halt in front of the open safe.
'Allow me,' said General Hamil, 'to inform you of one
statistic you failed to mention, Professor, when you briefed
me on this amazing feat of engineering. Perhaps you simply
didn't know, although I am bound to admit that you have done
your homework thoroughly. But did you realise that one person
locked in a safe of this size, with a capacity of 504 cubic
feet, can only hope to survive for six hours? I do not yet
know the exact length of time two people can hope to survive
while sharing the same amount of oxygen. But I will very
shortly.' He removed a stopwatch from his pocket, waved his
swagger stick, and the soldiers hurled first Hannah and then
Scott into the safe. The smile remained on the General's face
as two of
the soldiers pushed the massive door closed. The lights
all began flashing red.
The General clicked his stopwatch.
When the car came to a halt, Kratz reckoned that the
distance they had travelled was under a mile. He heard the
door open and felt a shove on his arm to indicate he should

get out of the car. He was pushed up three stone steps before
entering a building and walking into a long corridor. His
footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. Then he was guided into
a room on his left, where he was pushed down onto a chair,
tied and gagged. His shoes and socks were removed. When he
heard the door close, he sensed he was alone.
It was a long time - he couldn't be sure just how long
-before the door opened again. The first voice he heard was
General Hamil's. 'Remove the gag,' was all he said.
Kratz could hear him pacing round the chair, but at first
the General said nothing. Kratz began to concentrate. He knew
the pill was good for two hours, no more, and he suspected
that it was already forty or fifty minutes since they had
driven him away from Ba'ath headquarters.
'Colonel Kratz, I have waited some time for the privilege
of making your acquaintance. I have long admired your work.
You are a perfectionist.'
'Cut the crap,' said Kratz, 'because I don't admire you or
your work.'
He waited for the first slap of gloves across his face or
for a fist to come crashing into his jaw, but the General
simply continued to circle the chair.
'You mustn't be too disappointed,' said the General. 'I
feel sure, after all you've heard about us, that you must
have expected at least some electric shocks by now,
perhaps the Chinese water torture, even the rack, but I
fear - unlike Mossad, Colonel - that when dealing with people
of your seniority we long ago dispensed with such primitive
methods. We have found them to be outmoded, a thing of the
past. Worse, they just don't get results. You Zionists are
tough and well trained. Few of you talk, very few. So we've
had to resort to more scientific methods to gain the
information we need.'
If it was still within the hour, thought Kratz, he had
judged it well.
'A simple injection of PPX will ensure that we learn
everything we want to know,' continued the General, 'and once
we have the information we require, we'll simply kill you. So
much more efficient than in the past, and with all the
environmental complaints one gets nowadays, so much more
tidy. Though, I must confess, I miss the old methods. So
you'll appreciate why I couldn't resist locking Miss Kopec
and Professor Bradley in their safe, especially as they
hadn't seen each other for so long.'

Kratz's hand was pressed back and held against the arm of
the chair. He felt fingers searching for a vein, and when the
needle went in, he flinched. He began counting: one, two,
three, four, five, six...
He was about to find out if one of Europe's leading
chemists had, as she claimed, found the antidote for the
Iraqis' latest truth drug. Mossad had tracked down the
supplier in Austria. Strange how many people think there are
no Jews left in Austria.
... thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine ...
The drug was still in its testing stage, and needed to be
proved under non-laboratory conditions. If a person could
remain fully in control of his senses while appearing to be
under hypnosis, then they would know their antidote was a
success.
. .. one minute, one minute one, one minute two, one
minute three . ..
The test would come when they stuck the second needle in,
and that might be anywhere. Then the trick was to show no
reaction whatsoever, or the General would immediately realise
that the original injection had failed to have the required
effect. The training programme for this particular 'realistic
experience' was not universally popular among agents, and
although Kratz had experienced 'the prick', as it was
affectionately known, once a month for the past nine months,
you only had a single chance in 'non-laboratory conditions'
to discover if you could pass the test.
... one minute thirty-seven, one minute thirty-eight, one
minute thirty-nine . . .
The injection was meant to take effect after two minutes,
and every agent had been taught to expect the second needle
at some time between two and three minutes, thus the
counting.
... one minute fifty-six, one minute fifty-seven.. .
Relax, it must come at any moment. Relax.
Suddenly the needle was jabbed in and out of the big toe
on his left foot. Kratz stopped gritting his teeth; even his
breathing remained regular. He had won the Israeli Pincushion
Award, First Class. Mossad made jokes about everything.
'. . . AND ALL THAT TIME I really thought you were dead.'
'We had no way of letting you know,' said Scott.
'Still, it's no longer of any importance, Simon,' said
Hannah. 'Sorry. "Scott" will take a bit of getting used to. I
may not be able to manage it in the time we've got left.'

'We may have more time left than you think,' said Scott.
'How can you say that?'
'One of the contingency plans that Kratz and I worked on
was that if any of us were caught and tortured while someone
else was still free, we'd hold out for one hour before
telling them the whopper.'
Hannah knew exactly what Mossad meant by the whopper, even
if on this occasion she didn't know the details.
'Although I have to admit this is one scenario we never
considered,' said Scott. 'In fact, the exact opposite. We
thought that if we were able to convince them we had another
purpose for bringing the safe to Baghdad, they'd immediately
evacuate the building and clear the surrounding area.'
'And what would that have achieved?'
'We hoped that with the building empty, even if we'd been
captured, the other agents who came over the
border a day ahead of us might have a clear hour to get
into the Council Chamber and remove the Declaration.'
'But wouldn't the Iraqis have taken the document away with
them?'
'Not necessarily. Our plan was that we would tell them
exactly what would happen to their beloved leader if the safe
was closed by anyone other than me. We felt that would cause
panic, and they'd probably leave everything behind.'
'So Kratz drew the short straw.'
'Yes,' said Scott quietly. 'Not that his original plan is
relevant any longer, after I was stupid enough to hand over
the Declaration to Hamil. So now we'll have to use the time
to get out, not in.'
'But you didn't hand it over,' said Hannah. 'The
Declaration is still on the wall of the Chamber.'
'I'm afraid not,' said Scott. 'Hamil was right. I switched
the copies after I set the alarm off. So I ended up giving
Hamil back the original.'
'No, you didn't,' said Hannah. 'It's because you believed
you switched the original that you fooled Hamil as well as
yourself.'
'What are you talking about?' said Scott.
'I'm the one responsible,' said Hannah. 'I found the
cardboard tube in the safe and switched the two documents,
thinking I could get out of the building and then pass on a
message to let Kratz know what I'd done. The trouble was, you
and General Hamil arrived just as I was about to leave. So,
when you locked yourself in the Chamber, you put the original

back on the wall, and then you handed over the copy to
Hamil.'
Scott took her in his arms again. 'You're a genius,' he
said.
'No I'm not,' said Hannah. 'So you'd better let me in on
the secret of what you've planned for this particular
scenario. To start with, how do we get out of a locked
safe?'
'That's the beauty of it,' said Scott. 'It isn't locked.
It's programmed so that it can only be opened and closed by
me.'
'Who dreamed that one up?'
'A Swede who would happily take our place, but he's stuck
in Kalmar. The first thing I have to do is discover which
wall is the door.'
'That's easy,' said Hannah. 'It has to be exactly opposite
me because I'm sitting below the picture of Saddam,
remember?'
Scott and Hannah began the short crawl on their hands and
knees to the other side of the safe. 'Now we go to the
right-hand corner,' he said, 'so that when we push, the
leverage will be easier.'
Hannah nodded, and then remembered they couldn't see each
other. 'Yes,' she said.
Scott checked the luminous dial of his watch. 'But not
quite yet,' he added. 'We'll have to give Kratz a little more
time.'
'Enough time to tell me what the whopper is?' asked
Hannah.
'Good,' said the General, when Kratz didn't react to the
needle being jabbed into his big toe. 'Now we can find out
all we need to know. But to begin with, some simple
questions. Your Mossad rank?'
'Colonel,' said Kratz. The secret was to tell them only
facts you felt confident they already knew.
'Your initiation number?'
'78216,' he said. If in doubt, assume they know, otherwise
you could be caught out.
'And your official position?'
'Councillor for Cultural Affairs to the Court of St James
in London.' You are allowed three testing lies and one
whopper, but no more.
'What are the names of your three colleagues who
accompanied you on this mission?'

'Professor Scott Bradley, an expert on ancient
manuscripts,' - the first testing lie - 'Ben Cohen, and Aziz
Zeebari.' The truth.
'And the girl, Hannah Kopec, what is her rank in Mossad?'
'She is still a trainee.'
'How long has she been with Mossad?'
'Just over two years.'
'And her role?'
'To be placed in Baghdad to discover where the Declaration
of Independence was located.' The second lie.
'You are doing well, Colonel,' said the General, looking
at the long, thin cardboard tube he held in his right hand.
'And was this your overall responsibility as her
commanding officer?'
'No. I was simply to accompany the safe from Kalmar.' The
third lie.
'But surely that was nothing more than an excuse to locate
the Declaration of Independence?'
Kratz hesitated. Experts had been able to show that even
under the influence of a truth drug a highly trained agent
would still hesitate when asked a secret he had never
revealed in the past.
'What was the true purpose of your bringing the safe to
Baghdad, Colonel?'
Kratz still remained silent.
'Colonel Kratz,' said the General, his voice rising with
every word, 'what was the real reason you brought the safe to
Baghdad?'
Kratz counted to three before he spoke.
'To blow up the Ba'ath Party headquarters with a tiny
nuclear device secreted in the safe, in the hope of killing
the President along with all the members of the Revolutionary
Command Council.' The whopper.
How Kratz wished he could see the General's face. It was
Hamil who was hesitating now.
'How was the bomb to be activated?'
Again Kratz did not reply.
'I will ask you once again, Colonel. How was the bomb to
be activated?'
Still Kratz said nothing.
'When will it go off?' shouted the General.
'Two hours after the safe has been closed by anyone other
than the Professor.'
The General checked his watch, rushed to the only phone in

the room and shouted to be put through to the President
immediately. He waited until he heard Saddam's voice. He
didn't notice that Kratz had fainted and fallen from his
chair to the floor.
Scott eased himself into the corner before once again
checking the little sulphur dots on his watch. It was 5.19.
He and Hannah had been in the safe for an hour and seventeen
minutes.
'I'm going to push now. If you hear anything, shove as
hard as you can. If there's anyone still out there our only
hope will be to take them by surprise.'
Scott began to exert the minimum amount of pressure on the
corner of the door with the tips of his fingers, and it eased
open an inch. He stopped and listened, but could hear
nothing. He took a look through the tiny crack, and could see
no one. He pushed another inch. Still no sound. Both of them
now had a clear view of the corridor.
Scott looked at Hannah and nodded, and together they
shoved as hard as they could. The ton of steel shot open.
They both leaped into the corridor, but there was no one to
be seen. There was an eerie silence.
Scott and Hannah walked slowly down the short corridor,
keeping to the sides until they reached the Chamber. Still no
sound. Scott put a foot into the Chamber and glanced to his
left. The Declaration of Independence was still hanging on
the wall next to the portrait of Saddam.
Hannah moved silently to the far end of the Chamber and
looked into the long corridor. She then turned back to Scott
and nodded. Scott checked the spelling of 'Brittish' before
saying a silent hallelujah. He pulled out three of the nails,
then eased the Declaration over the remaining nail in the top
right-hand corner, trying to forget that he had spat on a
national treasure and rubbed it in the dust. He gave Saddam
one last look before rolling up the parchment and joining
Hannah in the corridor.
Hannah slid along the wall, then pointed to the lift. She
pulled a finger across her throat to show Scott she wanted to
avoid using it in favour of the back stairs. He nodded his
agreement and followed her out of the side door.
They moved quickly but silently up the six flights of
stairs until they reached the ground floor. Hannah beckoned
Scott into the side room where the cleaners had collected
their boxes. She had reached the window on the far side of
the room and was on her knees even before Scott had closed

the door. He joined her and they stared out on a deserted
Victory Square. There was no one to be seen in any direction.
'God bless Kratz,' said Scott.
Hannah nodded and beckoned him to follow her again. She
led him back into the corridor and guided him
quickly to the side door. Scott opened the door
tentatively and slipped out ahead of her. A moment later she
joined him on the tarmac.
He pointed to a group of palm trees halfway across the
courtyard, and she nodded once again. They covered the twenty
yards to its relative safety in under three seconds. Scott
turned to look back at the building and saw the truck
standing up against the wall. He assumed that, in the panic,
it was just something else that had been left behind.
He tapped Hannah on the shoulder and indicated that he
wanted to return to the building. They covered the ground at
the same pace as before, ducking back inside the door. Scott
led Hannah to the main corridor, where they found the front
door was swinging on its hinges. He looked through the gap
and pointed to the truck, mimed to which side he would go and
touched her shoulder. Again they sprinted across the tarmac
as if reacting to a starting pistol.
Scott jumped behind the wheel as Hannah leaped in the
other side.
'Where the hell -' was Scott's first reaction when he
discovered the ignition key wasn't in place. They began
frantically to search the glove compartment, under the seats,
on the dashboard. 'The bastards must have taken the key with
them.'
'Simon, look out!' screamed Hannah. Scott turned to see a
figure leaping up onto the footplate.
Hannah moved quickly into position to attack the intruder,
but Scott blocked her.
'Good afternoon, miss,' said the stranger. 'Sorry we
haven't been properly introduced,' he added before turning to
Scott. 'Move over, Professor,' he said as he put the key back
in the ignition. 'If you recall, it was agreed that I'd do
the driving.'
'What in heaven's name are you doing here, Sergeant?'
asked Scott.
'Now that's what I call a real American welcome,' replied
Cohen. 'But, to answer your question, I was just obeying
orders. I was told if you came out of that door carrying a
cardboard tube, I was to get myself back here and move the

hell out of it, but not under any circumstances to allow you
to make a detour to the Foreign Ministry. By the way, where's
the tube?'
'Look out!' shouted Hannah again, as she turned and saw an
Arab charging towards them from the other side.
'That one won't do you any harm,' said Cohen, 'he's bloody
useless. Doesn't even know the difference between a Diet Coke
and a Pepsi.' Aziz leaped onto the running board and said to
Scott, 'I think we've got about another twenty minutes,
Professor, before they work out that there's no bomb in the
safe.'
'Then let's get out of here,' said Scott.
'But where to?' asked Hannah.
'Aziz and I have already done a recce, sir. As soon as the
sirens sounded we knew that Kratz must have sold them the
whopper, because they couldn't move fast enough to get
themselves below. Soldiers and police first seems to be the
rule out here. Aziz and I have had the run of the city centre
for the last hour. In fact the only person we bumped into was
one of our own agents, Dave Feldman. He'd already sussed out
the best route to give us a chance of avoiding any military.'
'Not bad, Cohen,' said Scott.
Cohen turned suddenly and stared at the Professor.
'I didn't do it for you, sir, I did it for Colonel Kratz.
He got me out of jail once, and he's the only officer that's
ever treated me like a human being. So whatever it is that
you're holding in your hands, Professor, it had bloody well
better be worth his life.'
'Thousands have given their lives for it over the years,'
said Scott quietly. 'It's the American Declaration of
Independence.'
'Good God,' said Cohen. 'How did the bastards get their
hands on that?' He paused briefly. 'Am I meant to believe
you?'
Scott nodded and unrolled the parchment. Cohen and Aziz
stared in disbelief for several seconds.
'Right then, we'd better get you home, Professor, hadn't
we?' said Cohen. 'Aziz will take over while we're in his neck
of the woods.' He jumped out of the cab and the Kurd came
running round to take his place behind the wheel. Once Cohen
had clambered over the tailboard, he banged the roof of the
truck and Aziz switched the engine on.
They accelerated round the courtyard, drove straight
through the barrier and out onto Victory Square. The only

other vehicles to be seen had long since been abandoned, and
there was no sign of anyone on the streets.
'The area has been cleared for three miles in every
direction, so it will be a little time before we come across
anything,' Aziz said as he turned left into Kindi Street. He
quickly moved the lorry up to sixty miles per hour, a speed
only Saddam had ever experienced before on that particular
road.
'I'm going to take the old Baquba Road out of the city,
travelling through the areas where we're least likely to see
any sign of the military,' explained Aziz as he passed the
fountain made famous by Ali Baba. 'I'm still hoping to reach
the highway out of Baghdad within the magic two hours.'
Aziz took a sudden right, switching gears but hardly
losing any speed as he continued through what gave every
impression of being a ghost town. Scott looked up at the sun
as they crossed a bridge over the Tigris; in an
hour or so it would have disappeared behind the highest
buildings, and their chances of remaining undetected would
greatly improve.
Aziz swung past Karmel Junblat University and into Jamila
Street. There were still no people on the roads or pavements,
and Scott felt that if anyone did see them now they would
assume they were part of an army unit on patrol.
It was Hannah who spotted the first person: an old man,
bent double, sitting on the edge of the pavement as if
nothing in particular had taken place. They drove past him at
sixty miles per hour, but he didn't even look up.
Aziz swung into the next road and found himself facing a
group of young looters carrying off televisions and
electronic equipment. They scattered when they saw the truck.
Around the next corner there were more looters, but still no
sign of police or soldiers.
When Aziz spotted the first dark-green uniforms he swerved
quickly right, down a side street that on any other Wednesday
would have been packed with shoppers and where a vehicle
would have been lucky to average more than five miles per
hour. But today Aziz managed to keep the speedometer above
fifty. He turned right again, and they saw some of the first
of the locals who had ventured back onto the streets. Once
they had reached the end of the road, Aziz was able to join
the main thoroughfare out of Baghdad. The traffic was still
light.
Aziz eased the truck across into the outside lane,

checking his rear-view mirror every few seconds and complying
with the speed limit of fifty miles per hour. 'Never get
stopped for the wrong reasons,' Kratz had warned him a
thousand times.
When Aziz switched his sidelights on, Scott's hopes began
to rise. Although the two hours had to be up, he
doubted that anybody would be out searching for them yet,
and it was well understood that with every mile out of
Baghdad the citizens became less and less loyal to Saddam.
Once Aziz had left the Baghdad boundary sign behind him he
pushed the speedometer up to sixty. 'Give me twenty minutes,
Allah,' he said. 'Give me twenty minutes and I'll get them to
Castle Post.'
'Castle Post?' said Scott. 'We're not on a Red Indian
scouting mission.'
Aziz laughed. 'No, Professor, it's the site of a First
World War British Army post, where we can hide for the night.
If I can get there before -' All three of them spotted the
first army lorry coming towards them. Aziz swung off to the
left, skidded into a side road, and was immediately forced to
drop his speed.
'So now where are we heading?' asked Scott.
'Khan Beni Saad,' said Aziz, 'the village where I was
born. It will only be possible for us to stay for one night,
but no one will think of looking for us there. Tomorrow,
Professor, you will have to decide which of the six borders
we're going to cross.'
General Hamil had been pacing around his office for the
past hour. The two hours had long passed, and he was starting
to wonder if Kratz might have got the better of him. But he
couldn't work out how.
He was even beginning to regret that he had killed the
man. If Kratz had still been alive, at least he could have
fallen back on the tried and trusted method of torture. Now
he would never know how he would have responded to his
particular shaving technique.
Hamil had already ordered a reluctant lieutenant and his
platoon back to the basement of the Ba'ath head-
quarters. The lieutenant had returned swiftly to report
that the safe door was wide open and the truck had
disappeared, as had the document that had been hanging on the
wall. The General smiled. He remained confident that he was
in possession of the original Declaration, but he extracted
the parchment from the cylinder and laid it on his desk to

double-check. When he came to the word 'British', he turned
first white, and then, by several degrees, deeper and deeper
shades of red.
He immediately gave an order to cancel all military leave,
and then commanded five divisions of the elite guard to mount
a search for the terrorists. But he had no way of knowing how
much start they had on him, how far they might have already
travelled, and in which direction.
However, he did know that they couldn't remain on the main
roads in that truck for long, without being spotted. Once it
was dark, they would probably retreat into the desert to rest
overnight. But they would have to come out the following
morning, when they must surely try to cross one of the six
borders. The General had already given an order that if even
one of the terrorists managed to cross any border, guards
from every customs post would be arrested and jailed, whether
they were on duty or not. The two soldiers who were supposed
to have closed the safe door had already been shot for not
carrying out his orders, and the Major detailed to supervise
the moving of the safe had been immediately arrested. At
least Major Saeed's decision to take his own life had saved
Hamil the trouble of a court martial: within an hour the
Major had been found hanging in his cell. Obviously leaving a
coil of rope in the middle of the floor below a hook in the
ceiling had proved to be a compelling enough hint. And as for
the two young medical students who'd been responsible for the
injections, and who had
witnessed his conversation with Kratz, they were already
on their way to the southern borders, to serve with a less
than elite regiment. They were such nice-looking boys, the
General thought; he gave them a week at the most.
Hamil picked up the phone and dialled a private number
that would connect him to the palace. He needed to be certain
that he was the first person to explain to the President what
had taken place that afternoon.
SCOTT HAD always CONSIDERED his own countrymen to be an
hospitable race, but he had never experienced such a welcome
as Aziz's family gave to the three strangers.
Khan Beni Saad, the village in which Aziz was born, had,
he told them, just over 250 inhabitants at the last count,
and barely survived on the income it derived from selling its
small crop of oranges, tangerines and dates to the housewives
of Kirkuk and Arbil.
The chief of the tribe, who turned out to be one of Aziz's

uncles, immediately opened his little stone home to them so
that they could make use of the one bath in the village. The
women of the house - there seemed to be a lot of them - kept
boiling water until all of the visitors were pronounced
clean.
When Scott finally emerged from the chief's home, he found
a table had been set up under a clump of citrus trees in the
Huwaider fields. It was laden with strange fish, meat, fruit
and vegetables. He feared they must have gathered something
from every home in the village.
Under a clear starlit night, they devoured the fresh food
and drank mountain water that, if bottled, a Californian
would happily have paid a fortune for.
But Scott's thoughts kept returning to the fact that
tomorrow they would have to leave these idyllic
surroundings, and that he would somehow have to get them
all across one of the six borders.
After coffee had been served in various different-sized
cups and mugs, the chief rose from his place at the head of
the table to make a speech of welcome, which Aziz translated.
Scott made a short reply which was applauded even before Aziz
had been given the chance to interpret what he had said.
'That's one thing they have in common with us,' said
Hannah, taking Scott's hand. 'They admire brevity.'
The chief ended the evening with an offer for which Scott
thanked him, but felt unable to accept. He wanted to order
all of his family out of the little house so that his guests
could sleep indoors.
Scott continued to protest until Aziz explained, 'You must
agree, or you insult his home by suggesting it is not good
enough for you to rest in. And by the way, it is an Arab
tradition that the greatest compliment you can pay your host
is to make your woman pregnant while she sleeps under his
roof.' Aziz shrugged.
Scott lay awake most of the night, staring through the
glassless window, while Hannah hardly stirred in his arms.
Having attempted to pay the chief the greatest possible
compliment, Scott's mind went back to the problem of getting
his team over one of the borders and ensuring that the
Declaration of Independence was returned safely to
Washington.
When the first ray of light crept across the woven rug
that covered their bed, Scott released Hannah and kissed her
on the forehead. He slipped from under the sheets to find

that the little tin bath was already full of warm water, and
the women had begun boiling more urns over an open fire.
Once Scott was dressed, he spent an hour studying maps of
the country, searching for possible routes across
Iraq's six borders. He quickly dismissed Syria and Iran as
impossible, because the armies of both would be happy to
slaughter them on sight. He also felt that to return over the
Jordanian border would be far too great a risk. By the time
Hannah had joined him he had also dismissed Saudi Arabia as
too well guarded, and was now down to only five routes and
two borders.
As his hosts began to prepare breakfast, Scott and Hannah
wandered down into the village hand in hand, as any lovers
might on a summer morning. The locals smiled, and some bowed.
Although none could hold a conversation with them, they all
spoke so eloquently with their eyes that they both
understood.
Once they had reached the end of the village, they turned
and strolled back up the path towards the chiefs house. Cohen
was frying eggs on an open fire, and Hannah stopped to watch
how the women baked the thin, circular pieces of bread which,
covered in honey, were a feast in themselves. The chief, once
again sitting at the head of the table, beckoned Scott to the
place beside him. Cohen had already taken a seat on a stool
and was about to begin his breakfast when a goat walked up
and tugged the eggs straight off the plate. Hannah laughed
and cracked Cohen another egg before he had a chance to voice
his opinion.
Scott spread some honey on a piece of warm bread, and a
woman placed a mug of goat's milk in front of him.
'Worked out what we have to do next, have you, Professor?'
asked Cohen as Hannah dropped a second fried egg on to his
plate. In one sentence, he had brought them all back to
reality.
A villager came up to the table, knelt by the side of the
chief and whispered in his ear. The message was passed on to
Aziz.
'Bad news,' Aziz told them. 'There are soldiers block-
ing all the roads that lead back to the main highway.'
'Then we'll have to go across the desert,' said Scott. He
unfolded his map and spread it across the table. Alternative
routes were highlighted by a dozen blue felt-tip lines. He
pointed to a path leading to a road which would take them to
the city of Khalis.

'That is not a path,' said Aziz. 'It was once a river, but
it dried up many years ago. We could walk along it, but we
would have to leave the truck behind.'
'It won't be enough to leave the truck,' said Scott.
'We'll have to destroy it. If it were ever found by Saddam's
soldiers, they would raze the village to the ground and
massacre your people.'
The chief looked perplexed as Aziz translated all Scott
had said. The old man stroked the rough morning stubble on
his chin and smiled as Scott and Hannah listened to his
judgement, unable to understand a word.
'My uncle says you must have his car,' Aziz translated.
'It is old, but he hopes that it still runs well.'
'He is kind,' said Scott. 'But if we cannot drive a truck
across the desert, how can we possibly go by car?'
'He understands your problem,' said Aziz. 'He says you
must take the car to pieces bit by bit, and his people will
carry it the twelve miles across the desert until you reach
the road that leads to Khalis. Then you can put it together
again.'
'We cannot accept such a gesture,' said Scott. 'He is too
generous. We will walk and find some form of transport when
we reach Huwaider.' He pointed to the first village along the
road.
Aziz translated once again: his uncle looked sad and
murmured a few words. 'He says it is not really his car, it
was his brother's car. It now belongs to me.'
For the first time, Scott realised that Aziz's father had
been the village chief, and how much his uncle was will-
ing to risk to save them from being captured by Saddam's
troops.
'But even if we could take the car to pieces and put it
together again, what about army patrols once we reach that
road?' he asked. 'By now thousands of Hamil's men are bound
to be out there searching for us.'
'But not on those roads,' Aziz replied. 'The army will
stick to the highway. They realise that's our only hope of
getting across the border. No, our first problem will come
when we reach the roadside check at Khalis.' He moved his
finger a few inches across the map. 'There's bound to be at
least a couple of soldiers on duty there.'
Scott studied the different routes again while Aziz
listened to his uncle.
'And could we get as far as Tuz Khurmatoo without having

to use the highway?' asked Scott, not looking up from the
map.
'Yes, there's a longer route, through the hills, that the
army would never consider, because they'd run the risk of
being attacked by the Peshmerga guerrillas so near the border
with Kurdistan. But once you've gone through Tuz Khurmatoo
it's only a couple of miles to the main highway, though it's
still another forty-five miles from there, with no other way
of crossing the border.'
Scott held his head in his hands and didn't speak for
some moments. 'So if we took that route we would be committed
to crossing the border at Kirkuk,' he eventually said. 'Where
both sides could prove to be unfriendly.'
The chief started tapping Kirkuk on the map with his
finger while talking urgently to his nephew.
'My uncle says Kirkuk is our best chance. Most of the
inhabitants are Kurdish and hate Saddam Hussein. Even the
Iraqi soldiers have been known to defect and become Kurdish
Peshmergas.'
'But how will they know which side we're on?' asked Scott.
'My uncle will get a message to the Peshmergas, so that
when you reach the border they will do everything they can to
help you to cross it. It's not an official border, but once
you're in Kurdistan you'll be safe.'
'The Kurds sound our best bet,' said Hannah, who had been
listening intently. 'Especially if they believe our original
mission was to kill Saddam.'
'It might just work, sir,' said Cohen. 'That is, if the
car's up to it.'
'You're the mechanic, Cohen, so only you can tell us if
it's possible.'
Once Aziz had translated Scott's words the chief rose to
his feet and led them to the back of his house. He came to a
halt beside a large oblong object covered by a black sheet.
He and Aziz lifted off the cover. Scott couldn't believe his
eyes.
'A pink Caddy?' he said.
'A classic 1956 Sedan de Ville, to be exact, sir,' said
Cohen, rubbing his hands with delight. He opened the long,
heavy door and climbed behind the vast steering wheel. He
pulled a lever under the dashboard and the bonnet flicked up.
He got out, lifted the bonnet and studied the engine for some
minutes.
'Not bad,' he said. 'If I can nick a few parts from the

truck, I'll give you a racing car within a couple of hours.'
Scott checked his watch. 'I can only spare you an hour if
we're hoping to cross the border tonight.'
Scott and Hannah returned to the house and once again
pored over the map. The road Aziz had recommended was roughly
twelve miles away, but across terrain that would be hard
going even if they were carrying nothing.
'It could take hours,' Scott said.
'What's the alternative if we can't use the highway?'
asked Hannah.
While she and Scott continued working on the route and
Cohen on the car, Aziz rounded up thirty of the strongest men
in the village. At a few minutes past the hour, Cohen
reappeared in the house, his hands, arms, face and hair
covered in oil.
'It's ready to be taken apart, Professor.'
'Well done. But we'll have to get rid of the truck first,'
said Scott as he rose from the table.
'That won't be possible, sir,' said Cohen. 'Not now that
I've removed one or two of the best parts of its engine. That
Cadillac should be able to do over a hundred miles per hour,'
he said, with some pride. 'In third gear.'
Scott laughed, and accompanied by Aziz went in search of
the chief. Once again he explained the problem.
This time the chief's face showed no anxiety. Aziz
translated his thoughts. ' "Do not fear, my friend," he says.
"While you are marching across the desert we will strip the
truck and bury each piece in a place Saddam's soldiers could
never hope to discover in a thousand years." '
Scott looked apprehensive, but Aziz nodded his agreement.
Without waiting for Scott's opinion the chief led his nephew
to the back of the house, where they found Cohen supervising
the stripping of the Cadillac and the distribution of its
pieces among the chosen thirty.
Four men were to carry the engine on a makeshift
stretcher, and another six would lift the chrome body onto
their shoulders like pallbearers. Four more each carried a
wheel with its white-rimmed tyre, while another four
transported the chassis. Two held onto the red-and-white
leather front seat, another two the back seat, and one the
dashboard. Cohen continued to distrib-
ute the remaining pieces of the Cadillac until he came to
the back of the line, where three children who looked no more
than ten or eleven were given responsibility for two

five-gallon cans of petrol and a tool bag. Only the roof was
to be left behind.
Aziz's uncle led his people to the last house in the
village so he could watch his guests begin their journey
towards the horizon.
Scott shook hands with the chief, but could find no words
adequate to thank him. 'Give me a call the next time you're
passing through New Haven,' was what he would have said to a
fellow American.
'I will return in better times,' he told the old man, and
Aziz translated.
'My people wait for that day.'
Scott turned to watch Cohen, compass in hand, leading his
improbable platoon on what appeared likely to be an endless
journey. He took one of the five-gallon cans from the
smallest of the children, and pointed back towards the
village, but the little boy shook his head and quickly
grabbed Scott's canvas bag.
Would history ever reveal this particular mode of
transport for the Declaration of Independence, Scott
wondered, as Cohen shouted 'Forward!'
General Hamil continued to pace round his office, as he
waited for the phone to ring.
When Saddam had learned the news of Major Saeed's
incompetence in allowing the terrorists to escape with the
Declaration, he was only furious that he had not been able
personally to end the man's life.
The only order he had given the General was that a message
should be put out on state radio and television stations
hourly, stating that there had been an attempt on
his life which had failed, but that the Zionist terrorists
were still at large. Full descriptions of the would-be
assassins were given, and he asked his beloved countrymen to
help him in his quest to hunt down the infidels.
Had the matter been less urgent, the General would have
counselled against releasing such information, on the grounds
that most of those who came across the terrorists might want
to help them, or at best turn a blind eye. The only advice he
did give his leader was to suggest that a large reward should
be offered for their capture. Enlightened self-interest, he
had found, could so often overcome almost any scruples.
The General came to a halt in front of a map pinned to the
wall behind his desk, temporarily covering a portrait of
Saddam. His eye passed down the many thin red lines that

wriggled between Baghdad and Iraq's borders. There were a
hundred villages on both sides of every one of the roads, and
the General was painfully aware that most of them would be
only too happy to harbour the fugitives.
And then he recollected one of the names Kratz had given
him. Aziz Zeebari - a common enough name, yet it had been
nagging at him the whole morning.
'Aziz Zeebari. .. Aziz Zeebari .. . Aziz Zeebari ..." he
repeated. And then he remembered. He had executed a man of
that name who had been involved in an attempted coup about
seven years before. Could it possibly have been the traitor's
father?
The load-bearers halted every fifteen minutes to rest,
change responsibilities and place the strain on yet-untested
muscles. 'Pit stops', Cohen called them. They managed two
miles in the first hour, and between them drank far more
water than any car would have devoured.
When Scott checked his watch at midday, he estimated that
they had only covered a little over two thirds of the
distance to the road: it had been a long time since they had
lost sight of the village but there was still no sign of life
on the horizon. The sun beat down as they continued their
journey, the pace slowing with each mile.
It was the eyes of a ten-year-old child that were the
first to see movement. He ran to the front and pointed. Scott
could see nothing as the little boy jogged ahead, and it was
to be another forty minutes before they could all clearly see
the dusty road. The sight made them quicken their pace.
Once they reached the side of the road, Aziz gave the
order that the pieces of the car should be lowered gently to
the ground, and a little girl, who Scott hadn't noticed
before, handed out bread, goats' cheese and water while they
rested.
Cohen was the first up and began walking around his
platoon, checking on the various pieces. By the time he had
returned to the chassis, they were all impatient to put the
car together again.
Scott sat on the ground and watched as thirty untrained
mechanics, under the direction of Sergeant Cohen, slowly
bolted the old Cadillac together piece by piece. When the
last wheel had been screwed on, Scott had to admit it looked
like a car, but wondered if the old veteran would ever be
able to start.
All the villagers surrounded the massive pink vehicle as

Cohen sat in the driver's seat.
Aziz waited until the children had emptied their last drop
of petrol into the tank. He then screwed on the big steel cap
and shouted, 'Go for it!'
Cohen turned the key in the ignition.
The engine turned over slowly, but wouldn't catch. Cohen
leaped out, lifted the bonnet and asked Aziz to
take his place behind the wheel. He made a slight
readjustment to the fan belt, checked the distributor and
cleaned the spark plugs of the last few remaining grains of
sand before screwing them in tightly. He stuck his head out
from under the bonnet.
'Have a go, Kurd.'
Aziz turned the key and pressed the accelerator. The
engine turned over a little more quickly but still didn't
want to start. Sixty eyes stared beneath the bonnet, but
offered no advice as Cohen spent several more minutes working
on the distributor.
'Once again, and give it more throttle!' he shouted. Aziz
switched on the ignition. The chug became a churn, and then
suddenly a roar as Aziz pressed the accelerator  a noise
only exceeded by the cheers of the villagers.
Cohen took Aziz's place in the front and lifted the gear
lever on the steering column up into first. But the car
refused to budge, as the wheels spun round and it bedded
itself deeper and deeper into the sand. Cohen turned off the
engine and jumped out. Sixty hands were flattened against the
car as it was rocked backwards and forwards, and then, with
one great shove, it was eased out of its deep trough. The
villagers pushed it a further twenty yards and then waited
for the Sergeant's next order.
Cohen pointed to the little girl who had distributed the
food. She came shyly forward and he lifted her into the front
of the car. With sign language, Cohen instructed her to kneel
by the accelerator pedal and press down. Without getting into
the car, Cohen leaned across, checked that the gears were in
neutral, and switched on the engine. The little girl
continued to push on the accelerator with both hands, and the
engine revved into action. She immediately burst into tears,
as the villagers cheered even louder. Cohen quickly lifted
the little girl out onto the sand and then beckoned to Aziz.
'You're about half my weight, mate, so get in, put it into
first gear and see if you can keep it going for about a
hundred yards. If you can, we'll all jump in. If you can't,

we'll have to push the bloody thing all the way to the
border.'
Aziz stepped gingerly into the Cadillac. Sitting on the
edge of the leather seat he gently lifted the lever into
first gear and pressed down on the accelerator. The car
inched forward and the villagers began to cheer again as
Scott, Hannah and Cohen ran along beside it.
Hannah opened the passenger door, pushed the seat forward
and jumped into the back as the car continued at its slow
pace. Cohen leaped in after her and shouted, 'Second gear!'
Aziz pulled the lever down, across and up. The car lurched
forward.
'That's third, you stupid Kurd!' shouted Cohen. He turned
to see Scott running almost flat out. Cohen reached across to
hold the door open as Scott threw his bag into the back.
Scott leaped in and Cohen grabbed him round the shoulders.
Scott's head landed in Aziz's lap, but although the Kurd
swerved the car still kept going on the firmer sand. Aziz
continued swinging the car from side to side to avoid the
mounds of sand that had blown on to the road.
'I can see why there aren't likely to be any army patrols
on this road,' was Cohen's only comment.
Scott turned back to see the villagers waving frantically.
Returning their wave seemed inadequate after all they had
done. He hadn't thanked them properly or even said goodbye.
The villagers didn't move until the car was out of sight.
General Hamil swung round, angry that anyone had dared to
enter his office without knocking. His ADC came to a halt in
front of his desk. He was shaking, only too aware of the
mistake he had made. The General raised his swagger stick and
was about to strike the young officer across the face when he
bleated out, 'We've discovered the village that the traitor
Aziz Zeebari comes from, General.'
Hamil lowered his arm slowly until the swagger stick came
to rest on the officer's right shoulder. The tip pushed
forward until it was about an inch away from the ball of his
right eye.
'Where?'
'Khan Beni Saad,' said the young man in terror.
'Show me.'
The Lieutenant ran over to the map, studied it for a few
moments and then placed a finger on a village about ten miles
north-east of Baghdad.
General Hamil stared at the spot and smiled for the first

time that day. He returned to his desk, picked up the phone
and barked out an order.
Within an hour, hundreds of troops would be swarming all
over the little village.
Even if Khan Beni Saad did only have a population of 250,
the General felt confident someone would talk, however young.
Aziz was able to keep up a steady thirty miles per hour
while Scott tried to work out where they were on the map. He
couldn't pinpoint their exact location until they had been
driving for nearly an hour, when they came across a crude
handpainted signpost lying in the road that read 'Khalis
25km'.
'Keep going for now,' said Scott. 'But we'll have to
stop a couple of miles outside town so I can figure out
how we get past the checkpoint.'
Scott's confidence in the old chiefs judgement that there
would be no army vehicles on that road was growing with every
mile of flat desert road they covered. He continued to study
the map carefully, now certain of the route that would have
to be taken if they hoped to cross the border that day.
'So what do we do when we reach the checkpoint?' asked
Cohen.
'Maybe it'll be easier than we think,' said Scott. 'Don't
forget, they're looking for four people in a massive army
truck.'
'But we are four people.'
'We won't be by the time we reach the checkpoint,'
explained Scott, 'because by then you and I will be in the
boot.'
Cohen scowled.
'Just be thankful it's a Caddy,' said Aziz, grinning as he
tried to maintain the steady speed.
'Perhaps I should take over the wheel now,' said Cohen.
'Not here,' said Scott. 'While we're on these roads, Aziz
stays put.'
It was Hannah who saw her first. 'What the hell does she
think she's up to?' she said, pointing to a woman who had
jumped out into the middle of the road and was waving her
arms excitedly.
Scott gripped the side of the window ledge as Cohen leaned
forward to get a clearer view.
'Don't stop,' said Scott. 'Swerve round her if you have
to.' Suddenly Aziz began laughing.
'What's so funny, Kurd?' asked Cohen, keeping his eyes

fixed on the woman, who remained determinedly in the middle
of the road.
'It's only my cousin Jasmin.'
'Another cousin?' said Hannah.
'We are all cousins in my tribe,' Aziz explained as he
brought the Cadillac to a halt in front of her. He leaped out
of the car and threw his arms around the young woman, as the
others joined them.
'Not bad,' said Cohen when he was finally introduced to
cousin Jasmin, who hadn't stopped talking even when she shook
hands with Scott and Hannah.
'So what's she jabbering on about, then?' demanded Cohen,
before Aziz had been given the chance to translate his
cousin's words.
'It seems the Professor was right. The soldiers have been
warned to look out for an army truck being driven by four
terrorists. But her uncle has already been in touch this
morning to warn her we'd be in the Cadillac'
'Then it must be a hell of a risk to try and get past
them,' said Hannah.
'A risk,' agreed Aziz, 'but not a hell of a risk. Jasmin
crosses this checkpoint twice a day, every day, to sell
oranges, tangerines and dates from our village. So she's well
known to them, and so is my uncle's car. My uncle says she
must be in the Cadillac when we go through the checkpoint.
That way they won't be suspicious.'
'But if they decide to search the boot?'
'Then they won't get their daily ration of cigarettes, or
fruit for their families, will they? You see, they all take
it for granted we must be smuggling something.'
Jasmin started chattering again and Aziz listened
dutifully. 'She says you must all climb into the boot before
someone passing spots us.'
'It's still a hell of a risk, Professor,' said Cohen.
'It's just as big a risk for Jasmin,' said Scott, 'and I
don't see any other route.' He folded up the map, walked
round to the back of the car, opened the boot and
climbed in. Hannah and Cohen followed without another
word.
'Not as comfortable as the safe,' remarked Hannah as she
put her arms round Scott. Aziz wedged the bag between her and
Cohen. Hannah laughed.
'One bang on the side of the door,' said Aziz, 'and I'll
be stopping at the checkpoint.'

He slammed down the boot. Jasmin grabbed her bags from the
side of the road and jumped in next to her cousin.
The three of them in the boot heard the engine splutter
into action and begin its more stately progress over the last
few miles towards Khalis.
Jasmin used the time to brief Aziz on her routine whenever
she crossed the checkpoint.
THE CHIEF WAS HANGED first. Then his brothers, one by one,
in front of the rest of the village, but none of them uttered
a word. Then they moved on to his cousins, until a
twelve-year-old girl, who hoped to save her father's life,
told them about the strangers who had stayed in the chief's
house the previous night.
They promised the little girl that her father would be
saved if she told them everything she knew. She pointed out
into the desert to show them where they had buried the lorry.
Twenty minutes of digging by the soldiers and they were able
to confirm that she had been telling the truth.
They contacted General Hamil by field phone. He found it
hard to believe that thirty of the Zeebari tribe had taken
the chief's Cadillac to pieces and carried it bit by bit
across the open desert.
'Oh, yes,' the little girl assured them. 'I know it's true
because my brother carried one of the wheels all the way to
the road on the other side of the desert,' she declared,
pointing proudly towards the horizon.
General Hamil listened carefully to the information over
the phone before ordering that the girl's father and brother
should also be hanged.
He returned to the map on the wall and quickly pinpointed
the only possible road they could have taken.
His eye moved along the path across a stretch of desert
until it joined another winding road, and then he realised
which town they would have to pass through.
He looked at the clock on his desk: 4.39. 'Get me the
checkpoint at Khalis,' he instructed the young Lieutenant.
Aziz saw a stationary van in the distance being inspected
by a soldier. Jasmin warned him it was the checkpoint and
tipped out the contents of one of her bags onto the seat
between them.
Aziz banged on the side of his door, relieved to see there
were only two soldiers in sight, and that one of them was
sleeping in a comfortable old chair on the other side of the
road.

When the car came to a halt Scott could hear laughter
coming from somewhere. Aziz passed a packet of Rothmans to
the guard.
The soldier was just about to wave them through when the
other guard stirred from his drowsy slumber like a cat who
had been resting for hours on a radiator. He pushed himself
up, moved slowly towards the car, and looked over it with
admiration, as he had done many times before. He began to
stroll around it. As he passed the boot he gave it a loving
slap with the palm of his hand. It flicked open a few inches.
Scott pulled it gently closed as Jasmin dropped a carton of
two hundred Rothmans on the ground by her side of the car.
The border guard moved quickly for the first time that
day. Jasmin gave him a smile as he retrieved the cigarettes,
and whispered something in his ear. The soldier looked at
Aziz and started laughing, as a large lorry stacked with
crates of beer came to a halt behind them.
'Move on, move on,' shouted the first soldier, as the
sight of greater rewards caught his eye. Aziz quickly
obeyed and lurched forward in second gear, nearly throwing
Cohen and the holdall out of the back.
'What did you say to that soldier?' asked Aziz once they
were out of earshot.
'I told him you were gay, but I would be returning on my
own later.'
'Have you no family pride?' asked Aziz.
'Certainly,' said Jasmin. 'But he is also a cousin.'
On Jasmin's advice, Aziz took the longer southern route
around the town. He was unable to avoid all the potholes, and
from time to time he heard groans coming from the boot.
Jasmin pointed to a junction ahead of them, and told Aziz
that that was where he should stop. She gathered up her bags,
leaving some fruit on the seat between them. Aziz came to a
halt by a road that led back into the centre of the town.
Jasmin jumped out, smiled and waved. Aziz waved back, and
wondered when he would see his cousin again.
He drove on alone to the far side of the town, still
unable to risk letting his colleagues out of the boot while
the few locals around could observe what was going on.
Once Khalis was a couple of miles behind him, Aziz came to
a halt at a crossroads which displayed two signposts. One
read 'Tuz Khurmatoo 120km', and the other 'Tuz Khurmatoo
170km'. He checked in every direction before climbing out of
the car, opening the boot and letting the three baggage

passengers tumble out onto the road. While they stretched
their limbs and took deep breaths of air, Aziz pointed to the
signposts. Scott didn't need to look at the map to decide
which road they would have to take.
'We must take the longer route,' he said, 'and hope that
they still think we're in the truck.' Hannah
slammed down the boot with feeling before they all four
jumped back into the car.
Aziz averaged forty miles an hour on the winding road, his
three passengers ducking out of sight whenever another
vehicle appeared on the horizon.
The four of them devoured the fresh fruit Jasmin had left
on the front seat.
When they passed a signpost indicating twenty kilometres
to Tuz Khurmatoo Scott said to Aziz, 'I want you to stop a
little way outside the village and go in alone before we
decide if it's safe for us to drive straight through. Don't
forget it's only another three miles beyond Tuz Khurmatoo to-
the highway, so the place could be swarming with soldiers.'
'And to the Kurdish border?' asked Hannah.
'About forty-five miles,' said Scott as he continued to
study the map. Aziz drove for another twenty minutes before
he came over the brow of a hill and could see the outline of
a village nestling in the valley. A few moments later he
pulled the car off the road and parked it under a row of
citrus trees that sheltered them from the sun and the prying
eyes of those in passing vehicles. Aziz listened carefully to
Scott's instructions, got out of the car and jogged off in
the direction of Tuz Khurmatoo.
General Hamil was too furious to speak when the young
Lieutenant informed him that the Cadillac had passed through
the Khalis checkpoint less than an hour before, and neither
of the soldiers on duty had bothered to check the boot.
After a minimum of torture, one of them had confessed that
the terrorists must have been helped by a young girl who
regularly passed through the checkpoint.
'She will never pass through it again,' had been the
General's sole observation.
The only other piece of information they were able to get
out of the soldiers was that whoever had been driving the car
was the girl's cousin, and a homosexual. Hamil wondered how
they could possibly know that.
Once again, the General returned to the map on the wall
behind his desk. He had already given orders for an army of

helicopters, lorries, tanks and motorcycles to cover every
inch of the road between Khalis and the border, but still no
one had reported seeing a Cadillac on the highway. He was
mystified, knowing they couldn't possibly have turned back or
they would have run straight into his troops.
His eyes searched every route between the checkpoint and
the border yet again. 'Ah,' he said finally, 'they must have
taken the road through the hills.' The General ran his finger
along a thin winding red line until it joined the main
highway.
'So that's where you are,' he said, before bellowing out
some new orders.
It was almost an hour before Cohen announced, 'One Kurd
heading towards us, sir.'
As Aziz came running up the slope the grin remained on his
face. He had been into Tuz Khurmatoo and he was able to
reassure them that the village was going about its business
as usual. But the government radio was blasting out a warning
to be on the lookout for four terrorists who had attempted to
assassinate the Great Leader, so all the main roads were now
crawling with soldiers. 'They've got good descriptions of all
four of us, but the radio bulletin an hour ago was still
saying we were in the truck.'
'Right, Aziz,' said Scott, 'drive us through the village.
Hannah, sit in the front with Aziz. The Sergeant and I will
lie down in the back. Once we're on the other side of Tuz
we'll keep out of sight and only continue on to the border
after it's dark.'
Aziz took his place behind the wheel, and the Cadillac
began its slow journey into Tuz.
The main road through the village must have been about
three hundred yards long and just about wide-enough to take
two cars. Hannah looked at the little timber shops and the
men who were growing old sitting on steps and leaning against
walls. A dirty old Cadillac travelling slowly through the
village, she thought, would probably be the highlight of
their day, until she saw the vehicle at the other end of the
road.
'There's a jeep coming towards us,' she said calmly. 'Four
men, one of them sitting behind what looks like an
anti-aircraft gun mounted on the back.'
'Just keep driving slowly, Aziz,' said Scott. 'And Hannah,
keep talking us through it.'
'They're about a hundred yards away from us now and

beginning to take an interest.' Cohen pointed to the tool bag
and grabbed a wrench. Scott selected a spanner as they both
turned over slowly and rested on their knees.
'The jeep has swung across in front of us,' said Hannah.
'We're going to be forced to stop in about five seconds.'
'Does it still look as if there are four of them?' asked
Scott.
'Yes,' said Hannah. 'I can't see any more.'
The Cadillac came to a halt.
'The jeep has stopped only a few yards in front of us. One
of the soldiers is getting out and another is following. Two
are staying in the jeep. One is behind the mounted gun and
the other is still at the wheel. We'll
take the first two,' said Hannah. 'You'll have to deal
with the two in the jeep.'
'Understood,' said Scott.
The first soldier reached the driver's side as the second
passed the bumper on Hannah's right. Both Aziz and Hannah had
their outside hands on the armrests, their doors already an
inch open.
The instant Aziz saw the first soldier glance into the
back and go for his gun, he swung his door open so fast that
the crack of the soldier's knees sounded like a bullet as he
collapsed to the ground. Aziz was out of the car and on top
of him long before he had time to recover. The second soldier
ran towards Hannah as Scott leaped out of the car. Hannah
delivered one blow to his carotid artery and another to the
base of his spine as he tried to pull out his gun. A bullet
would not have killed him any quicker. The third soldier
started firing from the back of the jeep. Cohen dived out
into the road, and the fourth soldier jumped from behind the
wheel and ran towards him, firing his pistol. Cohen hurled
the wrench at him, causing him to step to one side and
straight into the firing line of the mounted gun. The bullets
stopped immediately, but Cohen was already at his throat. The
soldier sank as if he had been hit by a ton of bricks, and
his gun flew across the road. Cohen gave him one blow to the
jugular vein and another to the back of the neck: he went
into spasms and began wriggling on the ground. Cohen quickly
turned his attention to the man seated behind the gun, who
was lining him up in his sights. At ten yards' distance,
Cohen had no hope of reaching him, so he dived for the side
of the car as bullets sprayed into the open door, two of them
ripping into his left leg. Scott was now running towards the

jeep from the other side. As the soldier swung the gun round
to face him, Scott propelled himself through the air and onto
the top of the jeep.
Bullets flew everywhere as they tumbled clumsily off the
back, Scott still clinging onto his spanner. They were both
quickly on their feet, and Scott brought the spanner down
across the gunner's neck - the soldier raised an arm to fend
off the blow, but Scott's left knee jack-knifed into his
crotch. The gunner sank to the ground as the second blow from
the spanner found its mark and broke the soldier's neck
cleanly. He lay splayed out on the road, looking like a
breast-stroke swimmer halfway through a stroke. Scott stood
over him, mesmerised, until Aziz dived at his legs and
knocked him to the ground. Scott couldn't stop shaking.
'It's always hardest the first time,' was the Kurd's only
comment.
The four of them were now facing outwards, covering every
angle as they waited for the locals to react. Cohen climbed
unsteadily up into the jeep, blood pouring from his leg, and
took his place behind the mounted gun. 'Don't fire unless I
say so,' shouted Scott as he checked up and down the road.
There wasn't a person to be seen in either direction.
'On your left!' said Hannah, and Scott turned to see an
old man dressed in a long white dishdash with a
black-and-white spotted keffiyeh on his head, a thick belt
hung loosely around his waist. He was walking slowly towards
them, his hands held high in the air.
Scott's eyes never left the old man, who came to a halt a
few yards away from the Cadillac.
'I have been sent by the village elders because I am the
only one who speaks English,' he said. The man was trembling
and the words came stumbling out. 'We believe you are the
terrorists who came to kill Saddam.'
Scott said nothing.
'Please go. Leave our village and go quickly. Take the
jeep and we will bury the soldiers. Then no one will ever
know you were here. If you do not, Saddam will murder us
all. Every one of us.'
'Tell your people we wish them no harm,' said Scott.
'I believe you,' said the old man, 'but please, go.'
Scott ran forward and stripped the tallest soldier of his
uniform while Cohen kept his gun trained on the old man. Aziz
stripped the other three while Hannah grabbed Scott's bag
from the Cadillac before jumping into the back of the jeep.

Aziz threw the uniforms into the jeep and then leaped into
the driving seat. The engine was still running. He put the
vehicle into reverse and swung round in a semicircle as Scott
took his place in the front. Aziz began to drive slowly out
of Tuz Khurmatoo. Cohen turned the gun round in the direction
of the village, at the same time thumping his left leg with
his clenched fist.
Scott continued to look behind him as a few of the
villagers moved tentatively out into the road and started to
drag the soldiers unceremoniously away. Another climbed into
the Cadillac and began to reverse it down a side road. A few
moments later they had all disappeared from sight. Scott
turned to face the road ahead of him.
'It's about another three miles to the highway,' said
Aziz. 'What do you want me to do?'
'We've only got one chance of getting across that border,'
said Scott, 'so for now pull over into that clump of trees.
We can't risk going out onto the highway until it's pitch
dark.' He checked the time. It was 7.35.
Hannah felt blood dripping onto her face. She looked up,
and saw the deep wounds in Cohen's leg. She immediately tore
off the corner of her yashmak and tried to stem the flow of
blood.
'You all right, Cohen?' asked Scott anxiously.
'No worse than when I was bitten by a woman in Tangier,'
he replied.
Aziz began laughing.
'How can you laugh?' said Hannah, continuing to clean the
wound.
'Because he was the reason she bit me,' said Cohen.
After Hannah had completed the bandaging, the four of them
changed into the Iraqi uniforms. For an hour they kept their
eyes on the road, looking for any sign of more soldiers. A
few villagers on donkeys, and more on foot, passed them in
both directions, but the only vehicle they saw was an old
tractor that chugged by on its way back to the village at the
end of a day's service.
As the minutes slipped by, it became obvious that the
villagers had kept to their promise and made no contact with
any army patrols.
When Scott could no longer see the road in front of them,
he went over his plan for the last time. All of them accepted
that their options were limited.
The nearest border was forty-five miles away, but Scott

now accepted the danger they could bring to any village
simply by passing through it. He didn't feel his plan was
foolproof, far from it, but they couldn't wait in the hills
much longer. It would only be a short time before Iraqi
soldiers were swarming all over the area.
Scott checked the uniforms. As long as they kept on the
move, it would be hard for anyone to identify them in the
dark as anything other than part of an army patrol. But once
they reached the highway, he knew they couldn't afford to
stay still for more than a few seconds. Everything depended
on how close they could get to the border post without being
spotted.
When Scott gave the order, Aziz swung the jeep onto the
winding road to begin the three-mile journey to the highway.
He covered the distance in five minutes, and during that time
they didn't come across another vehicle. But once they hit
the highway, they found the road
was covered with lorries, jeeps, even tanks, travelling in
both directions.
None of them saw the two motorcycles, the tank and three
lorries that swung off the highway and headed at speed down
the little road towards Tuz Khurmatoo.
Aziz went as fast as he could, while Cohen remained seated
on the back behind the gun. Scott watched the road ahead of
him, his beret pulled well down. Hannah sat below Cohen,
motionless, a gun in her hand. The first road sign indicated
that it was sixty kilometres to the border. For a moment
Scott was distracted by an oil well that kept pumping away on
the far side of the road. Nobody spoke as the distance to
Kirkuk descended from fifty-five to forty-six, to thirty-two,
but with each sign and each new oil well, the traffic became
heavier and their speed began to drop rapidly. The only
relief was that none of the passing patrols seemed to show
any interest in the jeep.
Within minutes the little village was swarming with
soldiers from Saddam's elite guard. Even in the dark, it took
only ten bullets and as many minutes for them to find out
where the Cadillac was, and another thirty bullets to
discover the unfilled graves of the four dead soldiers.
General Hamii listened to the senior officer when he
phoned in with the details. All he asked for was the radio
frequency of the jeep that had been in Tuz Khurmatoo earlier
that evening. The General slammed down the phone, checked his
watch, and keyed in the frequency.

The single tone continued for some time.
'They must still be looking for a truck or a pink
Cadillac,' Scott was saying when the radio phone began
ringing. They all four froze.
'Answer it, Aziz,' said Scott. 'Listen carefully, and find
out what you can.'
Aziz picked up the handset, listened to a short message,
then said, 'Yes, sir,' in Arabic, and put the handset down.
'They've found the Cadillac, and are ordering all jeeps to
report to their nearest army post,' he said.
'It can't be long before they realise it's not one of
their men driving this jeep,' said Hannah. 'If they don't
already know.'
'With luck we might still have twenty minutes,' said
Scott. 'How far to the border?'
'Nine miles,' said Aziz.
The General knew it had to be Zeebari, or he would have
responded with the elite guards' code number.
So now he knew what vehicle they were in, and which border
they were heading for. He immediately picked up the phone and
barked another order. Two officers accompanied him as he ran
out of the room and into a large yard at the back of the
building. The blades of his personal helicopter were already
slowly rotating.
It was Aziz who first spotted the end of a long queue of
oil tankers waiting to cross the unofficial border. Scott
checked the inside track and asked Aziz if he could drive
down such a narrow strip.
'Not possible, sir,' the young Kurd told him. 'We'd only
end up in the ditch.'
'Then we've no alternative but to go straight down the
middle.'
Aziz moved the jeep out into the centre of the road and
tried desperately to maintain his speed. To begin with he was
able to stay clear of the lorries and avoid the oncoming
traffic. The first real trouble came four miles from the
border, when an army truck heading towards them refused to
move over.
'Shall I blast him off the road?' said Cohen.
'No,' said Scott. 'Aziz, keep going, but prepare to jump
and take cover among the tankers, then we'll regroup.' Just
as Scott was about to leap, the lorry swerved across the road
and ended up in the ditch on the far side.
'Now they all know where we are,' said Scott. 'How many

miles to the customs post, Aziz?'
'Three, three and a half at the most.'
'Then step on it,' said Scott, although he realised Aziz
was already going as fast as he could. They had managed to
cover the next mile in just over a minute when a helicopter
swung above them, beaming down a searchlight that lit up the
entire road. The radio phone began ringing again.
'Ignore it,' shouted Scott as Aziz tried to keep the jeep
on the centre of the road and maintain his speed. They passed
the two-mile mark as the helicopter swung back, confident it
had spotted its prey, and began to focus its beam directly on
them.
'We've got a jeep coming up our backside,' said Cohen, as
he swung round to face it.
'Get rid of it,' said Scott.
Cohen obliged, sending the first few shots through the
windscreen and the next into the tyres, thankful for the
light from above. The pursuing jeep swung across the road,
crashing into an oncoming lorry. Another quickly
took its place. Hannah reloaded the gun with a magazine of
bullets that was lying on the floor while Cohen concentrated
on the road behind them.
'One and a half miles to go,' shouted Aziz, nearly
crashing into lorries on both sides of the road. The
helicopter hovered above them and began to fire
indiscriminately, hitting vehicles going in both directions.
'Don't forget that most of them haven't a clue who's
chasing what,' said Scott.
'Thanks for sharing that piece of logic with me,
Professor,' said Cohen. 'But I've got a feeling that
helicopter knows exactly who he's chasing.' Cohen began to
pepper the next jeep with bullets the moment it came into
range. This time it simply slowed to a halt, causing the car
behind to run straight into it and creating a concertina
effect as one after another the pursuing jeeps crashed into
the back of the vehicle in front of them. The road behind was
suddenly clear, as if Aziz had been the last car through a
green light.
'One mile to go,' shouted Aziz as Cohen swung round to
concentrate on what was going on in front of him and Hannah
reloaded the automatic gun with the last magazine of bullets.
Scott could see the lights of a bridge looming up in front of
him: the Kirkuk fortress on the side of the hill that Aziz
had told them signalled the customs post was only about half

a mile away. As the helicopter swung back and once again
sprayed the road with bullets, Aziz felt the front tyre on
his side suddenly blow as he drove onto the bridge.
Scott could now see the Kurdish checkpoint ahead of him as
the helicopter swung even lower on its final attempt to stop
them. A flurry of bullets hit the jeep's bonnet, ricocheted
off the bridge and into the windscreen. As the helicopter
swung away, Scott looked up
and for a second stared into the eyes of General Hamil.
Scott looked back down and punched a hole in the shattered
windscreen, only to discover he was faced with two rows of
soldiers lined up in front of him, their rifles aiming
straight at the jeep.
Behind the row of soldiers were two small exits for those
wishing to enter Kurdistan and two entrances on the other
side of the road for those driving out of Kirkuk.
The two exits to Kurdistan were blocked with stationary
vehicles, while the two entrances had been left clear
-although no one at that moment was showing any desire to
enter Saddam's Iraq.
Aziz decided that he would have to swing across the road
and risk driving the jeep at an acute angle through one of
the small entrances, where he might be faced with an oncoming
vehicle - in which case they would be trapped. He was still
losing speed, and could feel that the rim of the front
left-hand wheel was now touching the ground.
Once they were within range, Cohen opened fire on the line
of soldiers in front of him. Some fired back, but he managed
to hit several before the rest scattered.
With a hundred yards to go and still losing speed, Aziz
suddenly swung the jeep across the road and tried to steer it
towards the second entrance. The jeep hit the right-hand
wall, careered into the short, dark tunnel and bounced onto
the left-hand wall before lurching out into no-man's land,
between the two customs posts.
Suddenly there were dozens of soldiers pursuing them from
the Iraqi side. 'Keep going, keep going!' shouted Scott as
they emerged from the little tunnel.
Aziz was still losing speed as he steered the jeep back to
the left and pointed it in the direction of the border with
Kurdistan, a mere four hundred yards away. He pressed his
foot flat down on the accelerator but the
speedometer wouldn't rise above two miles per hour.
Another row of soldiers, this time from the Kurdish border,

was facing them, their rifles pointing at the jeep. But none
of them was firing.
Cohen swung around as a stray bullet hit the back of the
jeep and another flew past his shoulder. Once again he fired
a volley towards the Iraqi border, and those who could
quickly retreated behind their checkpoint. The jeep trundled
on for a few more yards before it finally whimpered to a halt
halfway between the two unofficial barriers that the UN
refused to recognise.
Scott looked towards the Kurdish border. A hundred
Peshmergas were lined up, their rifles now firing - but not
in the direction of the jeep. Scott turned back to see
another line of soldiers tentatively advancing from the Iraqi
side. He and Hannah began firing their pistols as Cohen let
forth another burst which came to a sudden stop. The Iraqi
soldiers had started to retreat again, but sensed immediately
that their enemy had finally run out of ammunition.
Cohen leaped down off the jeep and quickly took out his
pistol. 'Come on, Aziz!' he shouted as he rushed forward and
crouched beside the driver's door. 'We'll have to cover them
so the Professor can get his bloody Declaration across the
border.'
Aziz didn't reply. His body was slumped lifelessly over
the wheel, the horn sounding intermittently. The unanswered
radio phone was still ringing.
'The bastards have killed my Kurd!' shouted Cohen. Hannah
grabbed the canvas bag as Scott lifted Aziz out of the front
of the jeep. Together, they began to drag him the last few
hundred yards towards the border with Kurdistan.
Another line of Iraqi soldiers started to advance towards
the jeep as Scott and Hannah carried the dead
body of Aziz nearer and nearer to his Kurdish homeland.
They heard more shots whistle past them, and turned to see
Cohen running towards the Iraqis screaming, 'You killed my
Kurd, you bastards! You killed my Kurd!' One of the Iraqis
fell, another fell, one retreated. Another fell, another
retreated, as Cohen went on advancing towards them. Suddenly,
he fell to his knees, but somehow he kept crawling forward,
until a final volley rang out. The Sergeant collapsed in a
pool of blood a few yards from the Iraqi border.
While Scott and Hannah carried the dead Kurd into the land
of his people, Saddam's soldiers dragged the body of the Jew
back into Iraq.
'Why were my orders disobeyed?' Saddam shouted.

For several moments no one around the table spoke. They
knew the chances of all of them returning to their beds alive
that night had to be marginal.
General Hamil turned the cover of a thick file, and looked
down at the handwritten note in front of him.
'Major Saeed was to blame, Mr President,' stated the
General. 'It was he who allowed the infidels to escape with
the Declaration, and that is why his body is now hanging in
Tohrir Square for your people to witness.'
The General listened intently to the President's next
question.
'Yes, Sayedi,' he assured his master. 'Two of the
terrorists were killed by guards from my own regiment. They
were by far the most important members of the team. They were
the two who managed to escape from Major Saeed's custody
before I arrived. The other two were an American professor
and the girl.'
The President asked another question.
'No, Mr President. Kratz was the commanding officer,
and I personally arrested the infamous Zionist leader
before questioning him at length. It was during that
interrogation that I discovered that the original plan had
been to assassinate you, Sayedi, and I made certain that he,
like those who came before him, failed.'
The General had no well-rehearsed answer to the
President's next question, and he was relieved when the State
Prosecutor intervened.
'Perhaps we can turn this whole episode to our advantage,
Sayedi.'
'How can that be possible,' shouted the President, 'when
two of them have escaped with the Declaration and left us
with a useless copy that anyone who can spell "British" will
immediately realise is a fake? No, it is I who will be made
the laughing stock of the world, not Clinton.'
Everyone's eyes were now fixed on the Prosecutor.
'That may not necessarily be the case, Mr President. I
suspect that when the Americans see the state of their
cherished treasure, they will not be in a hurry to put it
back on display at the National Archives.'
The President did not interrupt this time, so the
Prosecutor continued.
'We also know, Mr President, that because of your genius,
the parchment currently on display in Washington to an
unsuspecting American public is, to quote you, "a useless

copy that anyone who can spell 'British' will immediately
realise is a fake".'
The President's expression was now one of concentration.
'Perhaps the time has come, Sayedi, to inform the world's
press of your triumph.'
'My triumph?' said the President in disbelief.
'Why, yes, Sayedi. Your triumph, not to mention your
magnanimity. After all, it was you who gave the order to
hand over the battered Declaration to Professor Bradley
after the gangster Cavalli had attempted to sell it to you.'
The President's expression turned to one of deep thought.
'They have a saying in the West,' added the Prosecutor,
'about killing two birds with one stone.'
Another long silence followed, during which no one offered
an opinion until the President smiled.
THE OFFICIAL STATEMENT issued by the Iraqi government on
July 2nd was that there was no truth in the report that there
had been a shooting incident on the border posts at Kirkuk in
which several Iraqi soldiers had been killed and more
wounded.
The Kurdish leaders were unable to offer any opinion on
the subject, as the only two satellite phones in Iraqi
Kurdistan had been permanently engaged with requests for
assistance from the State Department in Washington.
When Charles Streator, the American Ambassador in
Istanbul, was telephoned and asked by the Reuters Bureau
Chief in the Middle East why a US Air Force jet had landed at
the American base in Silope on the Turkish border, and then
returned to Washington with two unknown passengers as its
cargo, His Excellency told his old friend that he had
absolutely no idea what he was talking about. The Bureau
Chief considered the Ambassador to be an honest man, although
he accepted that it was part of the job to lie for his
country.
The Ambassador had in fact been up all night following a
call from the Secretary of State requesting that one of their
helicopters should be despatched to the outskirts of Kirkuk
to pick up five passengers, one American, one
Arab and three Israelis, who were then to be flown back to
the base at Silope.
The Ambassador had called Washington later that morning to
inform Warren Christopher that unfortunately only two people
had managed to cross the border alive: an American named
Scott Bradley and an Israeli woman, Hannah Kopec. He had no

information on the other three.
The American Ambassador was totally thrown by the
Secretary of State's final question. Did Professor Bradley
have a cardboard tube in his possession? The Ambassador was
only disappointed that the Reuters correspondent hadn't asked
him the same thing, because then he would have been telling
him the truth when he said, Tve absolutely no idea what
you're talking about.'
Scott and Hannah slept for most of the flight back to
America. When they stepped off the plane at the military air
base they found Dexter Hutchins at the bottom of the steps
waiting to greet them. Neither of them was surprised when
customs showed little interest in Scott's canvas bag. A CIA
car whisked them off in the direction of Washington.
On the journey into the capital, Dexter warned them that
they would be going direct to the White House for a top-level
meeting, and briefed them on who else would be present.
They were met at the West Wing reception entrance by the
President's Chief of Staff, who conducted them to the Oval
Office. Scott couldn't help feeling that, as it was his first
meeting with the President, he would have preferred to have
shaved at some time during the last forty-eight hours, and
not to have been dressed in the same clothes that he'd worn
for the past three days.
Warren Christopher was there to greet them at the door of
the Oval Office, and he introduced Scott to the President as
if they were old friends. Bill Clinton welcomed Scott home,
and thanked Hannah for the part she had played in securing
the safe return of the Declaration.
Scott was delighted to meet Calder Marshall for the first
time, Mr Mendelssohn for the second time, and to be reunited
with Dollar Bill.
Dollar Bill bowed to Hannah. 'Now I understand why the
Professor was willing to cross the earth to bring you back,'
was all the little Irishman had to say.
The moment the handshakes were over, none of them could
hide their impatience to see the Declaration. Scott unzipped
his bag and carefully took out a bath towel, from which he
extracted the document before handing it over to its rightful
custodian, the Secretary of State. Christopher slowly
unrolled the parchment. No one in the room was able to hide
their dismay at the state the Declaration was in.
The Secretary passed the document over to the Archivist
who, accompanied by the Conservator and Dollar Bill, walked

across to the large window overlooking the South Lawn. The
first word they checked was 'Brittish', and the Archivist
smiled.
But it was only a few moments more before Calder Marshall
announced their combined judgement. 'It's a fake,' was all he
said.
'How can you be so certain?' asked the President.
'Mea culpa,' said Dollar Bill, looking a little sheepish.
'So does that mean that Saddam is still in possession of
the original?' asked the Secretary of State in disbelief.
'No, sir, he has the copy Scott took to Baghdad,' said
Dollar Bill. 'So clearly he was already in possession of a
fake before Scott did the exchange.'
'Then who has the original?' the other four asked in
unison.
'Alfonso Mario Cavaili would be my guess,' said Dollar
Bill.
'And who's he?' asked the President, no wiser.
'The gentleman who paid me to make the copy that is
currently in the National Archives,' said Dollar Bill, 'and
to whom I released the only other copy, which I am now
holding in my hands.'
'But if the word "Brittish" is spelt with two ts, how can
you be so certain it's a fake?' asked Dexter Hutchins.
'Because, of the fifty-six signatures on the original
Declaration, six have the Christian name George. Five of them
signed Geo, which was the custom of the time. Only George
Wythe of Virginia appended his full name. On the copy I
presented to Cavalli I made the mistake of also writing Geo
for Congressman Wythe, and had to add the letters rge later.
Although the lettering is perfect, I used a slightly lighter
shade of ink. A simple mistake, and discernible only to an
expert eye.'
'And even then, only if they knew what they were looking
for,' added Mendelssohn.
'I never bothered to tell Cavalli,' continued Dollar Bill,
'because once he had checked the word "Brittish" he seemed
quite satisfied.'
'So, at some time Cavalli must have switched his copy with
the original, and then passed it on to Al Obaydi?' said
Dexter Hutchins.
'Well done, Deputy Director,' said Dollar Bill.
'And Al Obaydi in turn handed the copy on to the Iraqi
Ambassador in Geneva, who had it delivered to Saddam in Iraq.

And, as Al Obaydi had seen Dollar Bill's copy on display at
the National Archives with "British" spelt correctly, he was
convinced he was in possession of the original,' said Dexter
Hutchins.
'You've finally caught up with the rest of us,' said
Dollar Bill. 'Though to be fair, sir, I should have known
what Cavalli was capable of doing when I said to you a month
ago: "Is there no longer honour among thieves?"'
'So, where is the original now?' demanded the President.
'I suspect it's hanging on a wall in a brownstone house in
Manhattan,' said Dollar Bill, 'where it must have been for
the past ten weeks.'
The light on the telephone console to the right of the
President began flashing. The President's Chief of Staff
picked up an extension and listened. The normally unflappable
man turned white. He pushed the hold button.
'It's Bernie Shaw at CNN for me, Mr President. He says
Saddam is claiming that the bombing of Baghdad last weekend
was nothing more than a smokescreen set up to give a group of
American terrorists the chance to retrieve the Declaration of
Independence, which a Mafia gang had tried to sell him and
which he personally returned to a man called Bradley.
Saddam's apparently most apologetic about the state the
Declaration is in, but he has television pictures of Bradley
spitting and stamping on it and nailing it to a wall. If you
don't believe him, Saddam says you can check the copy of the
Declaration that's on display at the National Archives,
because anyone who can spell "British" will realise it's a
fake. Shaw's asking if you have any comment to make, as
Saddam intends to hold a press conference tomorrow morning to
let the whole world know the truth.'
The President pursed his lips.
'My bet is that Saddam has given CNN an exclusive on this
story, but probably only until tomorrow,' the Chief of Staff
added.
'Whatever you do,' said Hutchins, 'try to keep it off the
air for tonight.'
The Chief of Staff hesitated for a moment until he saw the
President nodding his agreement. He pressed the button to
re-engage the call. 'If you want to go on the air with a
story like that, Bernie, it's your reputation on the line,
not mine.'
The Chief of Staff listened carefully to Shaw's reply
while everyone else in the room waited in silence.

'Be my guest,' were the last words the Chief of Staff
offered before putting the phone down.
He turned to the President and told him: 'Shaw says he
will have a crew outside the National Archives the moment the
doors open at ten tomorrow morning, and, I quote: if the word
"British" is spelt correctly, he'll crucify you.'
The President glanced up at the carriage clock that stood
on the mantelpiece below the portrait of Abraham Lincoln. It
was a few minutes after seven. He swivelled his chair round
to face the Deputy Director of the CIA.
'Mr Hutchins,' he said, 'you've got fifteen hours to stop
me being crucified. Should you fail, I can assure you there
won't be a second coming for me in three years, let alone
three days.'
THE LEAK STARTED in the early morning of Sunday July 4th,
in the basement of number 21, the home of the Prestons, who
were on vacation in Malibu.
When their Mexican housekeeper answered the door a few
minutes after midnight, she assumed the worst. An illegal
immigrant with no Green Card lives in daily fear of a visit
from any government official.
The housekeeper was relieved to discover that these
particular officials were only from the gas company. Without
much prompting, she agreed to accompany them down to the
basement of the brownstone and show them where the gas meters
were located.
Once they had gained entry it only took a few moments to
carry out the job. The loosening of two gas valves ensured a
tiny leak which gave off a smell that would have alarmed any
layman. The explosives expert assured his boss that there was
no real cause for concern, as long as the New York Fire
Department arrived within twenty minutes.
The senior official calmly asked the housekeeper to phone
the fire department and warn them they had a gas leak in
number 21 which, if not dealt with quickly, could cause an
explosion. He told her the correct code to give.
The housekeeper dialled 911, and when she was finally put
through to the fire department, stammered out the
problem, adding that it was 21 East 75th, between Park and
Madison.
'Get everyone out of the building,' instructed the Fire
Chief, 'and we'll be right over.'
'Yes, sir,' said the housekeeper, not pausing for a moment
before fleeing onto the street. The expert quickly repaired

the damage he had caused, but the smell still lingered.
To their credit, seven minutes later a New York Fire
Department hook and ladder, sirens blasting, sped into 75 th
Street. Once the Fire Chief had carried out an inspection of
the basement of number 21 he agreed with the official - whom
he had never met before - that safety checks would also have
to be carried out on numbers 17, 19, 23 and 25, especially as
the gas pipe ran parallel to the city's sewerage system.
The Deputy Director of the CIA then retired to the far
side of the road to watch the Fire Chief go about his work.
As the sirens had woken almost everyone in the neighbourhood,
it wasn't proving too hard to coax the residents out onto the
street.
Dexter Hutchins lit a cigar and waited. As soon as he had
left the White House, he had begun rounding up a select team
of agents who rendezvoused in a New York hotel two hours
later for a briefing, or, to be more accurate, half a
briefing. Because once the Deputy Director had explained to
them that this was a Level 7 inquiry, the old-timers realised
they would be told only half die story, and not the better
half.
It had taken another two hours before they got their first
break, when one of the agents discovered that the Prestons in
number 21 were on vacation. Dexter Hutchins and his
explosives expert had arrived on the doorstep of number 21
just after midnight. The Mexican immigrant without a Green
Card turned out to be a bonus.
The Deputy Director relit his cigar, his eyes fixed on one
particular doorway. He breathed a sigh of relief when Tony
Cavalli and his father emerged in their dressing gowns,
accompanied by a butler. He decided it would be sensible to
wait for another couple of minutes before he asked the Fire
Chief's permission to inspect number 23.
The whole operation could have been underway a lot earlier
if only Calder Marshall hadn't balked at the idea of removing
the fake Declaration from the vault of the National Archives
and placing it at Dexter Hutchins' disposal. The Archivist
made two stipulations before he finally agreed to the Deputy
Director's request: should the CIA fail to replace the copy
with the original before ten o'clock the following morning,
Marshall's resignation statement, dated May 25th, would be
released an hour before the President or the Secretary of
State made any statement of their own.
'And your second condition, Mr Marshall?' the President

had asked.
'That Mr Mendelssohn be allowed to act as custodian of the
copy remaining with the Deputy Director at all times, so that
he will be present should they locate the original.'
Dexter Hutchins realised he had little choice but to go
along with Marshall's conditions. The Deputy Director stared
across at the Conservator, who was standing between Scott and
the explosives expert, on the pavement opposite number 23.
Dexter Hutchins had to admit that Mendelssohn looked more
convincing as an official from the gas company than anyone
else in his team.
As soon as Hutchins saw two of his agents emerging from
number 19 he stubbed out his cigar and strolled across the
road in the direction of the Fire Chief. His three colleagues
followed a few paces behind.
'All right for us to check on number 23 now?' he asked
casually.
'Fine by me,' said the Fire Chief. 'But the owners are
insisting the butler sticks with you.'
Hutchins nodded his agreement. The butler led the four of
them into the lobby, down to the basement and directly to the
cupboard that housed the gas supply. He assured them that
there had not been the slightest smell of gas before he went
to bed, some time after his master had retired.
The explosives expert carried out his job deftly, and in
moments the basement stank of gas. Hutchins recommended to
the butler that for his own safety he should return to the
street. With a handkerchief covering his nose and mouth
Martin reluctantly agreed, leaving them to try and locate the
leak.
While the expert repaired the damage, Scott and Dexter
began checking every room in the basement. Scott was the
first to enter Cavalli's study and discover the parchment
hanging on the wall, exactly where Dollar Bill had promised
it would be. Within seconds the other two had joined him.
Mendelssohn stared lovingly at the document. He checked the
word 'Brittish' before lifting the glass frame gently off the
wall and placing it on the boardroom table. Scott unzipped
the large tool bag one of the agents had put together earlier
in the evening, containing screwdrivers of all sizes, knives
of all lengths, chisels of several widths and even a small
drill, in fact everything that would be required by a
professional picture framer.
The Conservator checked the back of the frame and

requested a medium-sized screwdriver. Scott selected one and
passed it across to him.
Mendelssohn slowly and methodically removed all eight of
the screws that held the two large steel clamps to
the back of the frame. Then he turned the glass over on
its front. Dexter Hutchins couldn't help thinking that he
might have shown a little more sense of urgency.
The Conservator, oblivious to the Deputy Director's
impatience, rummaged around in the bag until he had selected
an appropriate chisel. He wedged it between the two pieces of
laminated glass at the top right-hand corner of the frame. At
the same time, Scott extracted from the cylinder supplied by
Mendelssohn the copy of the Declaration they had taken from
the National Archives earlier that evening.
When the Conservator lifted the top piece of the laminated
glass and rested it on the boardroom table, Scott could tell
from the smile on his face that he believed he was staring
down at the original.
'Come on,' said Dexter, 'or they'll start getting
suspicious.'
Mendelssohn didn't seem to hear the Deputy Director's
urgings. He once again checked the spelling of 'Brittish'
and, satisfied, turned his attention to the five 'Geo's and
one 'George' before glancing, first quickly and then slowly,
over the rest of the parchment. The smile never left his
face.
Without a word, the Conservator slowly rolled up the
original, and Scott replaced it with the copy from the
National Archives. Once Scott had the sheets of glass back in
position he screwed the two steel clamps firmly in place.
Mendelssohn deposited the cylinder in the work bag while
Scott hung the copy on the wall.
They both heard Dexter Hutchins' deep sigh of relief.
'Now for Christ's sake let's get out of here,' said the
Deputy Director as six cops, guns drawn, burst into the room
and surrounded them.
'Freeze!' said one of them. Mendelssohn fainted.
ALL FOUR WERE ARRESTED, handcuffed and had their rights
read out to them. They were then driven in separate police
cars to the Nineteenth Precinct.
When they were questioned, three refused to speak without
an attorney present. The fourth pointed out to the Desk
Sergeant that if the bag which had been taken from him was
opened at any time other than in the presence of his

attorney, a writ would be issued and a separate action taken
out against the NYPD.
The Desk Sergeant looked at the smartly-dressed,
distinguished-looking man and decided not to take any risks.
He labelled the bag with a red tag and threw it in the night
safe.
The same man insisted on his legal right to make one phone
call. The request was granted, but not until another form had
been completed and signed. Dexter Hutchins put a collect call
through to the Director of the CIA at 2.27 a.m.
The Director confessed to his subordinate that he hadn't
been able to sleep. He listened intently to Hutchins' report
and praised him for not revealing his name or giving the
police any details of the covert assignment. 'We don't need
anyone to know who you are,' he added. 'We must be sure at
all times not to embarrass the President.' He paused for a
moment. 'Or, more important, the CIA.'
When the Deputy Director put the phone down, he and his
three colleagues were hustled away to separate cells.
The Director of the CIA put on his dressing gown and went
down to his study. After he had written up a short summary of
the conversation he had had with his deputy, he checked a
number on his desk computer. He slowly dialled the 212 area
code.
The Commissioner of the New York City Police Department
uttered some choice words when he answered the phone, until
he was sufficiently alert to take in who it was sounding so
wide awake on the other end of the line. He then switched on
the bedside light and began to make some notes on a pad. His
wife turned over, but not before she had added a few choice
words of her own.
The Director of the CIA ended his part of the conversation
with the comment, 'I owe you one.'
'Two,' said the Commissioner. 'One for trying to sort out
your problem.'
'And the second?' asked the Director.
'For waking up my wife at three o'clock in the morning.'
The Commissioner remained seated on the edge of the bed
while he looked up the home number of the Captain in charge
of that particular precinct.
The Captain recognised his chiefs voice immediately he
picked up the phone, and simply said, 'Good morning,
Commissioner,' as if it were a routine mid-morning call.
The chief briefed the Captain without making any mention

of a call from the Director of the CIA or giving any clues
about who the four men languishing in his night cells were -
not that he was absolutely certain himself. The Captain
scribbled down the salient facts on
the back of his wife's copy of Good Housekeeping. He
didn't bother to shower or shave, and dressed quickly in the
clothes he had worn the previous day. He left his apartment
in Queens at 3.21 and drove himself into Manhattan, leaving
his car outside the front of the precinct a few minutes
before four.
Those officers who were fully awake at that time in the
morning were surprised to see their boss running up the steps
and into the front hall, especially as he looked dishevelled,
unshaven, and was carrying a copy of Good Housekeeping under
his arm.
He strode into the office of the Duty Lieutenant, who
quickly removed his feet from the desk.
The Lieutenant looked mystified when asked about the four
men who'd been arrested earlier, as he'd only just finished
interrogating a drug pusher.
The Desk Sergeant was called for and joined the Captain in
the Duty Lieutenant's office. The veteran policeman, who
thought he had seen most things during a long career in the
force, admitted to booking the four men, but remained puzzled
by the whole incident, because he couldn't think of anything
to charge them with - despite the fact that one of the
householders, a Mr Antonio Cavalli, had called within the
last few minutes to ask if the four men were still being held
in custody, as a complication had arisen. None of the
residents had reported anything stolen, so theft did not
apply. There could be no charge of breaking and entering, as
on each occasion they had been invited into the buildings.
There was certainly no assault involved, and trespass
couldn't be considered, as they had left the premises the
moment they were asked to do so. The only charge the Sergeant
could come up with was impersonating gas company officials.
The Captain didn't show any interest in whether or
not the Desk Sergeant could find something to charge them
with. All he wanted to know was: 'Has the bag been opened?'
'No, Captain,' said the Sergeant, trying to think where he
had put it.
'Then release them on bail, pending further charges,'
instructed the Captain. 'I'll deal with the paperwork.'
The paperwork took the Captain some considerable time, and

the four men were not released until a few minutes after six.
When they ran down the precinct steps together, the little
one with the pebble glasses was clinging firmly on to the
unopened bag.
Antonio Cavalli woke with a start. Had he dreamed that
he'd been dragged out of bed and onto the street in the
middle of the night?
He flicked on the bedside light and picked up his watch.
It was 3.47. He began to recall what had taken place a few
hours earlier.
Once they were out on the street, Martin had accompanied
the four men back into the house. Too many for a simple gas
leak, Cavalli had thought. And what gas company official
would smoke cigars and could afford a Saks Fifth Avenue suit?
After they had been inside for fifteen minutes, Cavalli had
become even more suspicious. He asked the Fire Chief if the
men were personally known to him. The Chief admitted that,
although they had been able to give him the correct code over
the phone, he had never come across them before. He decided
Mr Cavalli was right when he suggested that perhaps the time
had come to make some checks with Consolidated Edison. Their
switchboard informed him that they had no engineers out on
call that night on 75 th
Street. The Fire Chief immediately passed this information
on to the police. A few minutes later six police officers had
entered number 23 and arrested all four
men.
After they had been driven away to the station, his father
and Martin had helped Tony check every room in the house, but
as far as they could see nothing was missing. They had gone
back to bed around 1.45.
Cavalli was now fully awake, though he thought he could
hear a noise coming from the ground floor. Was it the same
noise that had woken him? Tony checked his watch again. His
father and Martin often rose early, but rarely between the
hours of three and four.
Cavalli swung out of bed and placed his feet on the
ground. He still felt sure he could hear voices.
He slipped on a dressing gown and walked over to the
bedroom door. He opened it slowly, went out onto the landing
and peered over the balustrade. He could see a light shining
from under the door of his father's study.
Cavalli moved swiftly down the one flight of stairs and
silently across the carpeted hallway until he came to a halt

outside the study. He tried to remember where the nearest gun
was.
He listened carefully, but could hear no movement coming
from inside. Then, suddenly, a gravelly voice began cursing
loudly. Tony flung open the door to find his father, also in
his dressing gown, standing in front of the Declaration of
Independence and holding a magnifying glass in his right
hand. He was studying the word 'British'.
'Are you feeling all right?' Tony asked his father.
'You should have killed Dollar Bill when I told you to,'
was his father's only comment.
'But why?' asked Tony.
'Because they've stolen the Declaration of Independence.'
'But you're standing in front of it,' said Tony.
'No I'm not,' said his father. 'Don't you understand what
they've done?'
'No, I don't,' admitted Tony.
'They've exchanged the original for that worthless copy
you put in the National Archives.'
'But the copy on the wall was the other one made by Dollar
Bill,' said Tony. 'I saw him present it to you.'
'No,' said his father. 'Mine was the original, not a
copy.'
'I don't understand,' said Tony, now completely baffled.
The old man turned and faced his son for the first time.
'Nick Vicente and I switched them when you brought the
Declaration back from Washington.' Tony stared at his father
in disbelief. 'You didn't think I'd allow part of our
national heritage to fall into the hands of Saddam Hussein?'
'But why didn't you tell me?' asked Tony.
'And let you go to Geneva knowing you were in possession
of a fake, while the deal still hadn't been closed? No, it
was always part of my plan that you would believe the
original had been sent to Franchard et cie, because if you
believed it, Al Obaydi would believe it.'
Tony said nothing.
'And you certainly wouldn't have put up such a fight over
the loss of fifty million if you'd known all along that the
document you had in Geneva was a counterfeit.'
'So where the hell is the original now?' asked Tony.
'Somewhere in the offices of the Nineteenth Precinct,
would be my bet,' replied his father. 'That is, assuming they
haven't already got clean away. And that's what I intend to
find out right now,' he added as he walked

over to his desk and picked up the phone book.
The chairman dialled seven digits and asked to speak to
the duty officer. He checked his watch as he waited to be put
through. It was 4.22.
When the Desk Sergeant came on the line, Cavalli explained
who he was, and asked two questions. He listened carefully to
the replies, then put the phone back on the hook.
Tony raised an eyebrow.
'They're still locked up in the cells, and the bag's been
placed in a safe. Have we got anybody on the Nineteenth
Precinct payroll?' asked his father.
'Yes, a lieutenant who's done very little for us lately.'
'Then the time has come for him to pay his dues,' said his
father as he began walking towards the door.
Tony passed him, taking the stairs three at a time on the
way back to his bedroom. He was dressed within minutes, and
walked back down the staircase, expecting to have to wait
some time for his father to reappear, but he was already
standing in the hallway.
His father unlocked the front door and Tony followed him
out onto the pavement, passing him to look up the street in
search of a Yellow Cab. But none chose to turn right down
75th Street at that time in the morning.
'We'll have to take the car,' shouted his father, who had
already begun to cross the road in the direction of the
all-night garage. 'We can't afford to waste another minute.'
Tony dashed back into the house and removed the car keys from
the drawer of the hall table. He caught up with his father
long before he reached their parking space.
As Tony fastened his seatbelt, he turned and asked his
father, 'If we do manage to get the Declaration back, what
the hell do you intend to do then?'
'To start with, I'm going to kill Dollar Bill myself, so I
can be certain that he never makes another copy. And then
-' Tony turned the key in the ignition.
The explosion that followed woke the entire neighbourhood
for the second time that morning.
The four men came running down the precinct steps. The
smallest of them was clinging on to a bag. A car whose engine
had been turning over for the past hour swung across the road
and came to a halt by their side. One of the men walked off
into the half-light of the morning, still not certain why his
expertise had been required in the first place.
Dexter Hutchins joined the driver in the front, while

Scott and the Conservator climbed quickly into the back.
'LaGuardia,' said Dexter and then thanked the agent for
sitting up half the night. Scott looked between the two front
seats as the digital clock changed from 6:11 to 6:12.
The agent swung on to the outside lane.
'Don't break the speed limit,' ordered Dexter. 'We don't
need any more delays at this stage.' The agent edged back
into the centre lane.
'What time's the next shuttle?' asked Scott.
'Delta, seven-thirty,' replied the driver. Dexter picked
up the phone and punched in ten numbers. When a voice at the
other end said, 'Yes,' the Deputy Director replied, 'We're on
our way, sir. We should have everything back in place by
ten.'
Dexter replaced the phone and turned round to assure
himself that the silent Conservator was still with them. He
was clutching the bag that was now resting on his legs.
'Better take everything out of the bag other than the
cylinder,' said Dexter. 'Otherwise we'll never get past
security.'
Mendelssohn unzipped the bag and allowed Scott to remove
the screwdrivers, knives, chisels and finally the drill,
which he placed on the floor between them. He zipped the bag
back up.
At 6.43 the driver pulled off the highway and followed the
signs for LaGuardia. No one spoke until the car came to a
halt at the kerb opposite the Marine Air terminal entrance.
As Dexter stepped out of the car, three men in tan
Burberrys jumped out of a car that had drawn in immediately
behind them, and preceded the Deputy Director into the
terminal. Another man in a smart charcoal-grey suit, with a
raincoat over his arm, held out an envelope as Dexter passed
him. The Deputy Director took the package like a good relay
runner, without breaking his stride, as he continued towards
the departure lounge, where three more agents were waiting
for him.
Once he had checked in, Dexter Hutchins would have liked
to pace up and down as he waited to board the aircraft.
Instead, he stood restlessly one yard away from the
Declaration of Independence, surrounded by a circle of
agents.
'The shuttle to Washington is now boarding at Gate Number
4,' announced a voice over the intercom. Nine men waited
until everyone else had boarded the aircraft. When the agent

standing by the gate nodded, Dexter led his team past the
ticket collector, down the boarding ramp, and onto the
aircraft. They took their seats, 1A-F and 2A-F. 2E was
occupied only by the bag, 2D and 2F by two men who weighed
five hundred pounds between them.
The pilot welcomed them aboard and warned them there might
be a slight delay. Dexter checked his watch: 7.27. He began
drumming his fingers on the armrest that divided him from
Scott. The flight attendant offered
every one of the nine men in the first two rows a copy of
USA Today. Only Mendelssohn took up her offer.
At 7.39 the aircraft taxied out onto the runway to prepare
for take-off. When it stopped, Dexter asked the flight
attendant what was holding diem up.
'The usual early-morning traffic,' she replied. 'The
Captain has just told me that we're seventh in the queue, so
we should be airborne in about ten to fifteen minutes.'
Dexter continued drumming his fingers on the armrest,
while Scott couldn't take his eyes off the bag. Mendelssohn
turned another page of his USA Today.
The plane swung round onto the take-off runway at 7.51,
its jets revving before it moved slowly forward, then
gathered speed. The wheels left the ground at 7.53.
Within moments the flight attendant returned, offering
them all breakfast. She didn't get a positive response until
she reached row seven. When later she gave the three crew
members on the flight deck their usual morning coffee, she
asked the Captain why rows three to six were unoccupied,
especially as it was Independence Day.
The Captain couldn't think of a reason, and simply said,
'Keep your eye on the passengers in rows one and two.' He
became even more curious about the nine men at the front of
the aircraft when he was cleared for landing as soon as he
announced to air traffic control that he was seventy miles
away from Washington.
He began his descent at 8.33, and was at the gate on
schedule for the first time in months. When he had turned the
engine off, three men immediately blocked the gangway and
remained there until the Deputy Director and his party were
well inside the terminal. When Dexter Hutchins emerged into
the Delta gate area, one agent played John the Baptist, while
three others fell in behind, acting as disciples. The
Director had obviously taken seriously that fine line between
protection and drawing attention. Dexter spotted four more

agents as he passed through the terminal, and suspected there
were at least another twenty hidden at strategic points on
his route to the car.
As Dexter passed under the digital clock, its red numbers
clicked to 9:01. The doors slid open and he marched out onto
the pavement. Three black limousines were waiting in line
with drivers by their doors.
As soon as they saw the Deputy Director, the drivers of
the first and third cars jumped behind their wheels and
turned on their engines, while the driver of the second car
held open the back door to allow Scott and Mendelssohn to
climb in. The Deputy Director joined the agent in the front.
The lead car headed out in the direction of the George
Washington Parkway, and within minutes the convoy was
crossing the 14th Street bridge. As the Jefferson Memorial
came into sight Dexter checked his watch yet again. It was
9.12. 'Easily enough time,' he remarked. Less than a minute
later, they were caught in a traffic jam.
'Damn!' said Dexter. 'I forgot the streets would be
cordoned off for the Independence Day parade.'
When they had moved only another half a mile in the next
three minutes, Dexter told his driver they were left with no
choice. 'Hit the sirens,' he said.
The driver flashed his lights, turned on his siren at full
blast, and watched as the lead car veered into the inside
lane and managed a steady forty miles per hour until they
came off the freeway.
Dexter was now checking his watch every thirty seconds as
the three cars tried to manoeuvre themselves from lane to
lane, but some of Washington's citizens, unmoved by sirens
and flashing lights, weren't willing to let them through.
The lead car swerved between two police barriers and
turned into Constitution Avenue at 9.37, When Dexter saw the
floats lining up for the parade, he gave the order to turn
the sirens off. The last thing he needed was inquisitive eyes
when they finally came to a halt outside the National
Archives.
It was Scott who saw them first. He tapped Dexter on the
shoulder and pointed ahead of him. A television crew was
standing at the head of a long queue outside the front door
of the National Archives.
'We'll never get past them,' said Dexter. Turning to
Mendelssohn, he asked, 'Are there any alternative routes into
the building?'

'There's a delivery entrance on 7th Street,' replied
Mendelssohn.
'How appropriate,' said Dexter Hutchins.
'Drive past the front door and then drop me off on the
corner,' said the Conservator. 'I'll cross Constitution and
go in by the delivery entrance.'
'Drop you off on the corner?' said Dexter in disbelief.
'If I'm surrounded by agents, everyone will. ..' began
Mendelssohn.
'Yes, yes, yes,' said the Deputy Director, trying to
think. He picked up the phone and instructed the two other
cars to peel off.
'We're going to have to risk it,' said Scott.
'I know,' said Dexter. 'But at least you can go with him.
After all, you've never looked like an agent.' Scott wasn't
sure whether he should take the remark as a compliment or
not.
As they drove slowly past the National Archives, Dexter
looked away from the impatient camera crew.
'How many of them?' he asked.
'About six,' said Scott. 'And I think that must be Shaw
with his back to us.'
'Show me exactly where you want the car to stop,' said the
Deputy Director, turning to face Mendelssohn.
'Another fifty yards,' came back the reply.
'You take the bag, Scott.'
'But. . .' began Mendelssohn. When he saw the expression
on Dexter Hutchins' face, he didn't bother with a second
word.
The car drew into the kerb and stopped. Scott grabbed the
bag, jumped out, and held the door open for Mendelssohn.
Eight agents were walking up and down the pavement trying to
appear innocent. None of them was looking towards the steps
of the National Archives. The two unlikely looking companions
quickly crossed Constitution Avenue and began running up 7th
Street.
When they reached the delivery entrance, Scott came face
to face with an anxious Calder Marshall, who had been pacing
back and forth at the bottom of the ramp.
'Thank God,' was all the Archivist said when he saw Scott
and the Conservator running down the ramp. He led them
silently into the open freight elevator. They travelled up
two floors and then ran along the corridor until they reached
the staircase that led down to the vault. Marshall turned to

check that the two men were still with him before he began
running down the steps, something no member of staff had ever
seen him do before. Scott chased after the Archivist,
followed by Mendelssohn. None of them stopped until they
reached a set of massive steel doors.
Marshall nodded, and a slightly breathless Conservator
leaned forward and pressed a code into a little box beside
the door. The steel grid opened slowly to allow the three of
them to enter the vault. Once they were inside, the
Conservator pressed another button, and the door slid back
into place.
They paused in front of the great concrete block that
had been built to house the Declaration of Independence,
just as a priest might in front of an altar. Scott checked
his watch. It was 9.51.
Mendelssohn pressed the red button and the familiar
clanking and whirling sound began as the concrete blocks
parted and the massive empty frame came slowly into sight. He
touched the button again when the glass casing had reached
chest height.
The Archivist and the Conservator walked forward while
Scott unzipped the bag. The Archivist took two keys from his
jacket pocket and passed one over to his colleague. They
immediately set about unlocking the twelve bolts that were
evenly spaced around the thick brass rim. Once they had
completed the task they leaned over and heaved across the
heavy frame until it came to rest like an open book.
Scott removed the container and passed it over to the
Archivist. Marshall eased the cap off the top of the
cylinder, allowing Mendelssohn to carefully extract its
contents.
Scott watched as the Archivist and the Conservator slowly
unpeeled the Declaration of Independence, inch by inch, onto
the waiting glass, until the original parchment was finally
restored to its rightful place. Scott leaned over and took
one last look at the misspelt word before the two men heaved
the brass cover back into place.
'My God, the British still have a lot to answer for,' was
all the Archivist said.
Calder Marshall and the Conservator quickly tightened up
the twelve bolts surrounding the frame and took a pace back
from the Declaration.
They paused for only a second while Scott checked his
watch again. 9.57. He looked up to find Marshall and

Mendelssohn hugging each other and jumping up and
down like children who had been given an unexpected
gift-Scott coughed. 'It's 9.58, gentlemen.' The two men
immediately reverted to character.
The Archivist walked back over to the concrete block. He
paused for a moment and then pressed the red button. The
massive frame rose, continuing its slow journey upwards to
the gallery to be viewed by the waiting public.
Calder Marshall turned to face Scott. A flicker of a smile
showed his relief. He bowed like a Japanese warrior to
indicate that he felt honour had been satisfied. The
Conservator shook hands with Scott and then walked over to
the door, punched a code into the little box and watched the
grid slide open.
Marshall accompanied Scott out into the corridor, up the
staircase and back down in the freight elevator to the
delivery entrance.
Thank you, Professor,' he said as they shook hands on the
loading dock. Scott loped up the ramp and turned to look back
once he had reached the pavement. There was no sign of the
Archivist.
He jogged across 7th Street and joined Dexter in the
waiting car.
'Any problems, Professor?' asked the Deputy Director.
'No. Not unless you count two decent men who look as if
they've aged ten years in the past two months.'
The tenth chime struck on the Old Post Office Tower clock.
The doors of the National Archives swung open and a
television crew charged in.
The Deputy Director's car moved out into the centre of
Constitution Avenue, where it got caught up between the
floats for Tennessee and Texas. A police officer ran across
and ordered the driver to pull over into 7th Street.
When the car came to a halt, Dexter wound down his window,
smiled at the officer and said, 'I'm the Deputy Director of
the CIA.'
'Sure. And I'm Uncle Sam,' the officer replied as he began
writing out a ticket.
THE DEPUTY DIRECTOR of the CIA phoned the Director at home
to tell him that it was business as usual at the National
Archives. He didn't mention the traffic ticket.
The Conservator phoned his wife and tried to explain why
he hadn't come home the previous night.
A woman holding a carrier bag with a rope handle contacted

the Iraqi Ambassador to the UN on her mobile phone and let
him know that she had killed two birds with one stone. She
gave the Ambassador an account number for a bank in the
Bahamas.
The Director of the CIA rang the Secretary of State and
assured him that the document was in place. He avoided saying
'back in place'.
Susan Anderson rang Scott to congratulate him on the part
he had played in restoring the document to its rightful home.
She also mentioned in passing the sad news that she had
decided to break off her engagement.
The Iraqi Ambassador to the UN instructed Monsieur
Franchard to transfer the sum of nine hundred thousand
dollars to the Royal Bank of Canada in the Bahamas and at the
same time to close the Al Obaydi account.
The Secretary of State rang the President at the White
House to inform him that the press conference scheduled for
eleven o'clock that morning had been cancelled.
A reporter on the New York Daily News crime beat filed his
first-edition copy from a phone booth in an underground
garage on 75th Street. The headline read 'Mafia Slaying in
Manhattan'.
Lloyd Adams' phone never stopped ringing, as he was
continually being offered parts in everything from
endorsements to a feature film.
The Archivist did not return a call from one of the
President's Special Assistants at the White House, inviting
him to lunch.
A CNN producer called in to the news desk to let them know
that it must all have been a hoax. Yes, he had verified the
spelling of 'Brittish', and only Dan Quayle could have
thought it had two ts.
Scott phoned Hannah and told her how he wanted to spend
Independence Day.
THE END