Honor Among Thieves

by Jeffrey Archer

  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 assigned 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 South Kensington underground station a few minutes before six. She strolled up the wide sidewalk 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. “Second 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 fist. 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 inquired.

  “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 several agents 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 keep you alive.”

  Kratz rose from his side of the desk and walked around 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 license 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 five 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 center 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 judgment. 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 Matlack 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 several lines further down. Both of the corrections had been inserted with a Λ.

  “But,” continued Dollar Bill, “Mr. Matlack also made one spelling mistake which he did not correct. On one of the copies, you will find I have.”

  Chapter Nine

  Hannah landed at Beirut Airport the night before she was due to fly back to Paris. No one from Mossad accompanied the new agent, to avoid the risk of compromising her. Any Israeli found in 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 Lebanese. In between she managed to catch moments of restless sleep. She rose at 6:50 the following morning, ate a slab of chocolate she found in the tiny fridge, brushed 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 favored, 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 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 parking lot. 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 any of the Mossad agents in Paris were. If it ever became necessary, one of their agents 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 o
f 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-paneled 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 particular 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 around 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.”