Honor Among Thieves Read online

  “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.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When Al Obaydi arrived back in Paris he collected his bags from the twenty-four-hour storage depot, before joining the line for a taxi.

  He gave the driver an address, without saying it was the Iraqi annex 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 two weeks, and he would have gone straight on to Jordan that evening if there had been a connecting flight. Once he had realized who Mr. Riffat was, he knew he would have to get back to Baghdad as quickly as possible. By reporting directly 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 annex 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 nonstop 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?”

  Since 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 around 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 vacation, Excellency. Like the rest of us, Miss Ahmed wasn’t expecting you for another two weeks. 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 judgment, 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 wastepaper 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 judgment, 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 turne