Honor Among Thieves Read online

  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 realized 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-organized 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 letting those who are now in possession of the Declaration become 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 parchment 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 honor among thieves?” he finally asked.

  “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 fetus-like in the trunk 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.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  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 said laughing. “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