Honor Among Thieves

by Jeffrey Archer

  “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 plowed 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 continue.

  “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 anxious.

  “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 that 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 whiz 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 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 recognized 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 realize 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 modeling 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 dialed 17 and screamed, “Please God, let one pill not be enough. Answer, answer, answer!” she shrieked at the phone as the doors of Scott’s apartment flew open. Hannah turned to see Kratz and another man whom she didn’t recognize 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 back to the table, opened her bag and removed the second pill.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “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 pat
iently, 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 realize there are more than forty Special and Deputy Assistants to the President.”

  “No, I didn’t realize,” 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 center 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 toilet, 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 honorable 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 realized 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 Al-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 Cardiovasculaire 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 gurney.

  Even as the gurney 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 theater.

  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 gurney had come to a stop in the theater 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, w
hich 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 gurney.

  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 room 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 forward 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.

  An intern 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.