She swung her bag over her shoulder and stepped out onto the road. She began to walk slowly towards the house.
They had chosen the location well. The farmhouse was several miles from the nearest building—and that was an empty barn—at the end of a track that even desperate lovers would have thought twice about.
There was no sign of anyone being in the house, but she knew they were there, waiting, watching her every move. She opened the door without knocking and immediately saw one of them in the hall.
“Upstairs,” he said, pointing. She did not reply as she walked past him and began to climb the stairs.
She went straight into the bedroom and found the young girl sitting on the end of the bed reading. Sally turned and smiled at the slim woman in the Laura Ashley dress, hoping that she had brought another book with her.
The woman placed a hand in her bag and smiled shyly before pulling out a paperback and passing it over to the young girl.
“Thank you,” said Sally, who took the book, checked the cover and then quickly turned it over to study the plot summary.
While Sally became engrossed by the promised love story, the woman unclipped the long plaited rope that was attached to the two sides of her shopping bag.
Sally opened the book at the first chapter, having already decided she would have to read every page very slowly. After all, she couldn’t be sure when the next offering might come.
The movement was so fast that she didn’t even feel the rope go around her neck. Sally’s head jerked back and with one flick her vertebra was broken. Her chin slumped onto her chest.
Blood began to trickle out of her mouth, down her chin and onto the cover of A Time to Love and a Time to….
The driver of the limousine was surprised to be flagged down by a traffic cop just as he was about to take the exit ramp onto the freeway. He felt sure he hadn’t broken the speed limit. Then he spotted the ambulance in his rearview mirror, and wondered if they simply wanted to pass him. He looked to the front again to see the motorcycle cop was firmly waving him onto the hard shoulder.
He immediately obeyed the order and brought the car to a standstill, puzzled as to what was going on. The ambulance drew in and stopped behind him. The cop dismounted from his motorcycle, walked up to the driver’s door and tapped on the window. The chauffeur touched a button in the armrest and the window slid silently down.
“Is there a problem, Officer?”
“Yes, sir, we have an emergency on our hands,” the policeman said without raising his visor. “Your patient has to return to the Ohio State University Hospital immediately. There have been unforeseen complications. You’re to transfer him to the ambulance and I will escort them back into the city.”
The wide-eyed driver agreed with a series of consenting nods. “Should I go back to the hospital as well?” he asked.
“No, sir, you’re to continue to Cincinnati and report to your office.”
The driver turned his head to see two paramedics dressed in white coveralls standing by the side of the car. The policeman nodded and one of them opened the back door while the other released the seatbelt so that he could help the patient out.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and watched the two paramedics guide the well-built man to the ambulance. The siren on the motorcycle brought his attention back to the policeman who was now directing the ambulance up the exit ramp so that it could cross the bridge over the highway and begin its journey back into the city.
The whole changeover had taken less than five minutes, leaving the driver in the limousine feeling somewhat dazed. He then did what he felt he should have done the moment he saw the policeman, and telephoned his headquarters in Cincinnati.
“We were just about to call you,” said the girl on the switchboard. “They don’t need the car any longer, so you may as well come straight back.”
“Suits me,” said the driver. “I just hope the client pays the bill.”
“They paid cash in advance last Thursday,” she replied. The driver clicked the phone back on its cradle and began his journey to Cincinnati. But something was nagging in the back of his mind. Why had the policeman stood so close to the door that he couldn’t get out, and why hadn’t he raised his visor? He dismissed such thoughts. As long as the company had been paid, it wasn’t his problem.
He drove up onto the freeway, and didn’t see the ambulance ignore the signpost to the city center and join the stream of traffic going in the opposite direction. The man behind the wheel was also contacting his headquarters.
“It went as planned, boss,” was all he replied to the first question.
“Good,” said Cavalli. “And the chauffeur?”
“On his way back to Cincinnati, none the wiser.”
“Good,” Cavalli repeated. “And the patient?”
“Fine, as far as I can tell,” said the driver, glancing in the rearview mirror.
“And the police escort?”
“Mario took a detour down a side road so he could get changed into his Federal Express uniform. He should catch up with us within the hour.”
“How long before the next switch?”
The driver checked the odometer. “Must be about another ninety miles, just after we cross the state line.”
“And then?”
“Four more changes between there and the Big Apple. Fresh drivers and a different car each time. The patient should be with you around midnight tomorrow, though he may have to stop off at a rest room or two along the way.”
“No rest rooms,” said Cavalli. “Just take him off the highway and hide him behind a tree.”
Chapter Seven
Dollar Bill’s new home turned out to be the basement of a house in Georgetown, formerly an artist’s studio. The room where he worked was well lit without glare and, at his request, the temperature was kept at sixty-six degrees with a constant humidity.
Bill attempted several “dry runs” as he called them, but he couldn’t get started on the final document until he had all the materials he needed. “Nothing but perfection will do,” he kept reminding Angelo. He would not have his name associated with anything that might later be denounced as a forgery. After all, he had his reputation to consider.
For days they searched in vain for the right pen nibs. Dollar Bill rejected them all until he was shown a picture of some in a small museum in Virginia. He nodded his approval and they were in his hands the following afternoon.
The curator of the museum told a reporter from the Richmond Times Dispatch that she was puzzled by the theft. The pens were not of any historic importance or particularly valuable. There were far more irreplaceable objects in the next display case.
“Depends who needs them,” said Dollar Bill when he was shown the press clipping.
The ink was a little easier once Bill had found the right shade of black. When it was on the paper he knew exactly how to control the viscosity by temperature and evaporation to give the impression of old age. Several pots were tested until he had more than enough to carry out the job.
While others were searching for the materials he needed, Dollar Bill read several books from the Library of Congress and spent a few minutes every day in the National Archives until he discovered the one mistake he could afford to make.
But the toughest requirement proved to be the parchment itself, because Dollar Bill wouldn’t consider anything that was less than two hundred years old. He tried to explain to Angelo about carbon dating.
Samples were flown in from Paris, Amsterdam, Vienna, Montreal and Athens, but the forger rejected them all. It was only when a package arrived from Bremen with a selection dated 1781 that Dollar Bill gave a smile which only Guinness normally brought to his lips.
He touched, caressed and fondled the parchment as a young man might a new lover but, unlike a lover, he pressed, rolled and flattened the object of his attentions until he was confident it was ready to receive the baptism of ink. He then prepared ten sheets of exactly the same size, kno
wing that only one would eventually be used.
Bill studied the ten parchments for several hours. Two were dismissed within a moment, and four more by the end of the day. Using one of the four remaining sheets, the craftsman worked on a rough copy that Angelo, when he first saw it, considered perfect.
“Perfect to the amateur eye, possibly,” Bill said, “but a professional would spot the seventeen mistakes I’ve made within moments. Destroy it.”
During the next week three copies of the text were executed in Dollar Bill’s new home in Georgetown. No one was allowed to enter the room while he was working, and the door remained locked whenever he took a break. He worked in two-hour shifts and then rested for two hours. Light meals were brought to him twice a day and he drank nothing but water, even in the evening. At night, exhausted, he would often sleep for eight hours without stirring.
Once he had completed the three copies of the forty-six-line text, Dollar Bill declared himself satisfied with two of them. The third was destroyed.
Angelo reported back to Cavalli, who seemed pleased with Dollar Bill’s progress, although neither of them had been allowed to see the two final copies.
“Now comes the hard part,” Bill told Angelo. “Fifty-six signatures, every one requiring a different nib, a different pressure, a different shade of ink and every one a work of art in itself.”
Angelo accepted this analysis, but was less happy to learn that Dollar Bill insisted on a day off before he began to work on the names because he needed to get paralytically drunk.
Professor Bradley flew into Washington on Tuesday evening and booked himself into the Ritz Carlton—the one luxury the CIA allowed the schizophrenic agent/professor. After a light dinner in the Jockey Club, accompanied only by a book, Scott retired to his room on the fifth floor. He flicked channels from one bad movie to another before falling asleep thinking about Susan Anderson.
He woke at six-thirty the next morning, rose and read the Washington Post from cover to cover, concentrating on the articles dealing with Rabin’s visit. He got dressed watching a CNN report on the Israeli Prime Minister’s speech at a White House dinner that had taken place the previous evening. Rabin assured the new President he wanted the same warm relationship with America that his predecessor had enjoyed.
After a light breakfast, Scott strolled out of the hotel to find a company car waiting for him.
“Good morning, sir,” were the only words his driver spoke on the entire journey. It was a pleasant trip out of the city that Wednesday morning, but Scott smiled wryly as he watched commuters blocking all three lanes going in the opposite direction.
When he arrived at Dexter Hutchins’s office ten minutes before his appointment, Tess, the Deputy Director’s secretary, waved him straight through.
Dexter greeted Scott with a firm handshake and a cursory attempt at an apology.
“Sorry to pull you in at such short notice,” he said, removing the butt of a cigar from his mouth, “but the Secretary of State wants you to be present for his working meeting with the Israeli Prime Minister. They’re having one of the usual official lunches, rack of lamb and irrelevant small talk, and they expect to start the working session around three.”
“But why would Mr. Christopher want me there?” asked Scott.
“Our man in Tel Aviv says Rabin is going to come up with something that isn’t officially on the agenda. That’s all he could find out. No details. You know as much about the Middle East as anyone in the department, so Christopher wants you around. He isn’t taking any risks. I’ve had Tess put the latest data together so that you’ll be right up-to-date by the time we get to this afternoon’s meeting.” Dexter Hutchins picked up a pile of files from the corner of his desk and handed them to Scott. The inevitable “Top Secret” was stamped on each of them, despite the fact that a lot of the information they contained could be found strewn across the Foreign Desk of the Washington Post.
“The first file is on the man himself and Labor Party policy; the others are on the PLO, Lebanon, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia and Jordan, all in reference to our current defense policy. If Rabin’s hoping to get more money out of us, he can think again, especially after Clinton’s speech last week on domestic policy. There’s a copy in the bottom file.”
“Marked ‘Top Secret,’ no doubt,” said Scott.
Dexter Hutchins raised his eyebrows as Scott bundled up the files and left without another word. Tess unlocked a door that led to a small empty office next to her own. “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed, Professor,” she promised.
Scott turned the pages of the first file, and began to study a report on the secret talks that had been taking place in Norway between the Israelis and the PLO. When he came to the file on the Iraq-Iran conflict there was a whole section he’d written himself only two weeks before, recommending a surprise bombing mission on the Mukhbarat headquarters in Baghdad if the UN inspection team continued to be frustrated in their efforts to check Iraqi defense installations.
At twelve o’clock Tess brought in a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk as he began to read the reports on no-fly zones beyond the 36th and 32nd parallels in Iraq. When he had finished reading the President’s speech, Scott spent another hour trying to puzzle out what change of course or surprise the new Prime Minister of Israel might have in mind. He was still deep in thought when Dexter Hutchins stuck his head around the door and said, “Five minutes.”
In the car on the way to the State Department, Dexter asked Scott if he had any theories about what the Israeli leader might surprise them with.
“Several, but I need to observe the man in action before I try to anticipate anything. After all, I’ve only seen him once before, and on that occasion he still thought Bush might win the election.”
When they arrived at the C Street entrance it took almost as long for the two men from the CIA to reach the seventh floor as it always did for Scott to penetrate the inner sanctum of Langley.
At 2:53 they were ushered into an empty conference room. Scott selected a chair against the wall, just behind where Warren Christopher would be seated but slightly to his left so he would have a clear view of Prime Minister Rabin across the table. Dexter sat on Scott’s right.
At one minute to three, five senior staffers entered the room, and Scott was pleased to see that Susan Anderson was among them. Her fine fair hair was done up in a coil, making her look rather austere, and she wore a tailored blue suit that accentuated her slim figure. The spotted white blouse with the little bow at the neck would have frightened off most men; it appealed to Scott.
“Good afternoon, Professor Bradley,” she said when Scott stood up. But she took a seat on the other side of Dexter Hutchins, and informed him that the Secretary of State would be joining them in a few moments.
“So how are the Orioles doing?” Scott asked, leaning forward and looking straight across at Susan, trying not to stare at her slim, shapely legs. Susan blushed. From some file, Scott had recalled that she was a baseball fan, and when she wasn’t accompanying the Secretary of State abroad, she never missed a game. Scott knew only too well that they had lost their last three games.
“Doing about as well as Georgetown did in the NCAAs,” came back her immediate reply.
Scott could think of no suitable reply. Georgetown had failed to make the national tournament for the first time in years.
“Fifteen all,” said Dexter, who was obviously enjoying sitting on the high stool between them.
The door suddenly swung open and Warren Christopher entered the room, accompanied by the Prime Minister of Israel, and followed by officials from both countries. They split down each side of the long table, taking their places according to seniority.
When the Secretary of State reached his seat in the center of the table, in front of the American flag, he spotted Scott for the first time, and nodded an acknowledgment of his presence.
Once everyone was settled, the Secretary of State opened the meeting with a predictably
banal speech of welcome, most of which could have been used for anyone from Yeltsin to Mitterrand. The Prime Minister of Israel responded in kind.
For the next hour they discussed a report on the meeting in Norway between representatives of the Israeli government and the PLO.
Rabin expressed his conviction that an agreement was progressing satisfactorily, but it remained vital that any further exchanges should continue in the utmost secrecy, as he feared that if his political opponents in Jerusalem got to hear of it, they could still scupper the whole plan before he was ready to make a public announcement.
Christopher nodded his agreement, and said it would be appreciated by the State Department if any such announcement could be made in Washington. Rabin smiled, but made no concession. The game of poker had begun. If he was to deliver the Americans such a public relations coup, he would expect something major in return. Only one more hand remained to be dealt before the home team discovered what that “something” was.
It was during “any other business” that Rabin raised the subject no one had anticipated. The Prime Minister circled around the problem for a few minutes, but Scott could see exactly where he was heading. Christopher was obviously being given the opportunity, if he wanted it, to kill any discussion stone dead before Rabin raised it officially.
Scott scribbled a note on a piece of paper and passed it over to Susan. She read his words, nodded, leaned across and placed the note on the blotting pad in front of the Secretary of State. He unfolded the single sheet, glanced at the contents but showed no sign of surprise. Scott assumed that Christopher had also worked out the size of the bombshell that was about to be dropped.
The Prime Minister had switched the discussion to the role of Israel in relation to Iraq, and reminded the Secretary of State three times that they had gone along with the Allied policy on Operation Desert Storm, when it was Tel Aviv and Haifa that were being hit by Scuds, not New York or Little Rock. It amused Scott that at the last meeting Rabin had said “New York or Kennebunkport.”
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