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
the faces of his two visitors. “But, gentlemen, you have only seen her exterior, and I can promise you that what she has to offer is more than skin deep.
“First, I must tell you that Madame Bertha will not allow anyone to enter her without a personal introduction. She is, gentlemen, not a promiscuous lady, despite what you may have been told about the Swedes. She requires to know three things about you before she will consider revealing her innermost parts.”
Although the two guests remained puzzled as to what he meant, they did not interrupt Mr. Pedersson’s steady flow.
“And so, gentlemen, to begin with you must study Bertha’s chest. You will observe three red lights above three small dials. By knowing the six-number code on all three dials, you will be able to turn one of the lights from red to green. Allow me to demonstrate. First number to the right, second to the left, third to the right, fourth to the left, fifth to the right, sixth to the left. The first number for the first dial is zero, the second is four, the third is two, the fourth eight, the fifth three and the sixth seven. Zero-four-two-eight-three-seven.”
“The date of Sayedi’s birthday,” said the tall, fair-haired visitor.
“Yes, I worked that one out, Mr. Bernstrom,” said Pedersson. “The second,” he said, turning his attention to the middle dial, “is zero-seven-one-six-seven-nine.” He turned the final number to the left.
“The day Sayedi became President.”
“We also managed that one, Mr. Riffat. But I confess the third sequence fooled us completely. No doubt you will know what our client has planned for that particular day.” Mr. Pedersson began twirling the third dial: zero-seven-zero-four-nine-three.
Pedersson looked hopefully towards Mr. Bernstrom, who shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve no idea,” he lied.
“You will now note, gentlemen, that after entering the correct figures on all three dials, only one of Madame Bertha’s lights has turned green, while two still remain obstinately red. But now that you have discovered her three codes, she will consider a more personal relationship. You will observe that below the three dials there is painted a small white square about the size of your hand. Watch carefully.” Pedersson took a pace forward and placed his right hand firmly on the white square. He left it there for several seconds, until the second light turned green.
“Even when she knows your palm print, she still won’t open her heart. Not until I have spoken to her. If you look even more closely, gentlemen, you will see that the white square conceals a thin wire mesh, which houses a voice activator.” Both men stepped forward to look.
“At the present time, Bertha is programmed to react only to my vocal cords. It doesn’t matter what I say, because as soon as she recognizes the voice, the third light will turn green. But she will not even consider listening to me unless the first two lights are already green.”
Pedersson stepped forward and placed his lips opposite the wire mesh. “Two gentlemen have come from America to see you, and desire to know what you look like inside.”
Even before he had finished the sentence, the third red light had flicked to green, and a noisy unclamping sound could be heard.
“Now, gentlemen, we come to the part of the demonstration of which my company is particularly proud. The door, which weighs over a ton, is nevertheless capable of being opened by a small child. Our company has developed a system of phosphor-bronze bearings that are a decade ahead of their time. Please, Mr. Riffat, why don’t you try for yourself?”
The shorter man stepped forward, gripped the handle of the safe firmly and pulled. All three lights immediately turned red, and a noisy clamping sound began again.
Pedersson chuckled. “You see, Mr. Riffat, unless Madame Bertha knows you personally, she clams up and sends you back to the red-light district.” He laughed at a joke his guests suspected he had told many times before. “The hand that opens the safe,” he continued, “must be the same one that passed the palm-print test. A good safety device, I think you’ll agree.” Both men nodded in admiration as Pedersson quickly fiddled with the three dials, placed his hand on the square and then spoke to Madame Bertha. One by one the three lights dutifully turned from red to green.
“She is now prepared to let me, and me alone, open her up. So watch carefully. Although, as I said, the door weighs a ton, it can be opened with the gentlest persuasion, thus.”
Pedersson pulled back the ton of massive steel with no more exertion than he would have used to open the front door of his home. He jumped inside the safe and began walking around, first with his arms outstretched to show that he could not touch the sides while standing in the center, and then with his hands above his head, showing he was unable to reach the roof. “Do please enter, gentlemen,” he cried from inside.
The two men stepped up gingerly to join him.
“In this case, three is not a crowd,” said Pedersson, laughing again. “And you will be happy to discover that it is impossible for me to get myself locked in.” He gripped the handle on the inside of the safe and pulled the great door shut.
Two of the occupants did not find this part of the experiment quite so appealing.
“You see, gentlemen,” continued Pedersson, who could not hide the satisfaction in his voice, “Bertha cannot lock herself again unless it is my hand on the outside handle.” With one small push, the door swung open and Pedersson stepped out, closely followed by his two customers.
“I once had to spend an evening inside her before the system was perfected—a sort of one-night stand, you might call it,” said Pedersson. He laughed even louder as he pushed the door back in place. The three lights immediately flashed to red and the clamps noisily closed in place.
He turned to face them. “So, gentlemen, you have been introduced to Madame Bertha. Now, if you would be kind enough to accompany me back to my office, I will present you with a delivery note and, more important, Bertha’s bible.”
As they returned across the yard, Pedersson explained to his two visitors that the book of instructions had been treated by the company as top secret. They had produced one in Swedish, which the company retained in its own safe, and another in Arabic, which Pedersson said he would be happy to hand over to them.
“The bible itself is 108 pages in length, but simple enough to understand if you’re an engineer with a first-class honors degree.” He laughed again. “We Swedish are a thorough race.”
Neither of the men felt able to disagree with him.
“Will you require anyone to accompany Madame Bertha on her journey?” Pedersson asked, his eyes expressing hope.
“No, thank you,” came back the immediate reply. “I think we can handle the problem of transport.”
“Then I have only one more question for you,” Pedersson said, as he entered his office. “When do you plan to take her away?”
“We hoped to collect the safe this afternoon. We understood from the fax you sent to the United Nations that your company has a crane that can lift the safe, and a dolly on which it can be moved from place to place.”
“You are right in thinking we have a suitable crane, and a dolly that has been specially designed to carry Madame Bertha on short journeys. I am also confident I can have everything ready for you this afternoon. But that doesn’t cover the problem of transport.”
“We already have our own vehicle standing by in Stockholm.”
“Excellent, then it is settled,” said Mr. Pedersson. “All I need to do in your absence is to program out my hand and voice so that it can accept whoever you select to take my place.” Pedersson looked forlorn for a second time. “I look forward to seeing you again this afternoon, gentlemen.”
“I’ll be coming back on my own,” said Riffat. “Mr. Bernstrom will be returning to America.”
Pedersson nodded and watched the two men climb into their car before he walked slowly back to his office. The phone on his desk was ringing.
He picked it up, said, “Bertil Pedersson speaking,” and listened to the caller’s request. He placed the
receiver on his desk and ran to the window, but the car was already out of sight. He returned to the phone. “I am so sorry, Mr. Al Obaydi,” said Pedersson, “the two gentlemen who came to see the safe have just this moment left, but Mr. Riffat will be returning this afternoon to take her away. Shall I let him know you called?”
* * *
Al Obaydi put the phone down in Baghdad, and began to consider the implications of what had started out as a routine call.
As Deputy Ambassador to the UN, it was his responsibility to keep the sanctions list up-to-date. He had hoped to pass on the file within a week to his as-yet-unappointed successor.
In the past two days, despite phones that didn’t connect and civil servants who were never at their desks—and even when they were, were too terrified to answer the most basic questions—he was almost in a position to complete the first draft of his report.
The problem areas had been: agricultural machinery, half of which the UN Sanctions Committee took for granted was military equipment under another name; hospital supplies, including pharmaceuticals, on which the UN accepted most of their request; and food, which they were allowed to purchase—although most of the produce that came across the border seemed to disappear on the black market long before it reached the Baghdad housewife.
A fourth list was headed “miscellaneous items,” and included among these was a massive safe which, when Al Obaydi checked its measurements, turned out to be almost the size of the room he was presently working in. The safe, an internal report confirmed, had been ordered before the planned liberation of the Nineteenth Province, and was now sitting in a warehouse in Kalmar, waiting to be collected. Al Obaydi’s boss at the UN had confessed privately that he was surprised that the Sanctions Committee had lifted the embargo on the safe, but this did not deter him from assuring the Foreign Minister that they had only done so as a result of his painstaking negotiating skills.
Al Obaydi sat at his laden desk for some time, considering what his next move should be. He wrote a short list of headings on the notepad in front of him:
Honor Among Thieves Page 24