Honor Among Thieves

by Jeffrey Archer

  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’d 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 café and taken two hours to eat a salad and drink a bottle of wine. They had strolled down the Champs Élysées, hand in hand as lovers should, before joining the line 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 mesmerized 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 eleven-twenty. 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 Ambasador through to Cavalli’s office at twenty past twelve. Neither man commented on the fact that Al Obaydi was late. Cavalli indicated the chair on the other side of his desk, and waited for the 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, the 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 Genesis correctly. Such a fatuous story,” added Al Obaydi, “that I didn’t bother with Exodus.”

  “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 bank note serial numbers attached to them. He glanced at the photographs of himself in deep conversation with Al Calabrese on the sidewalk in front of the National Café, another of himself with Gino Sartori in the center of Freedom Plaza and yet another with the director sitting on the dolly as they talked to the former Deputy Chief of the D.C. Police Department. Al Obaydi had even taken a photograph of Rex Butterworth entering the Willard Hotel and of the actor, baldheaded, 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 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 after 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 everything. 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 began, 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.
r />   “Another lover, lover?” Hannah asked with a smile.

  “My publishers wanting to know when the 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 sidewalk, 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.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “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 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 all 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 couldn’t find out 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 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 oversensitive? 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 Provençal. “Madam’s favorite, 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 theater, 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 empt
y.

  “And now we shall end on my pièce de résistance.” 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 around 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 center 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.