A Quiver Full of Arrows

by Jeffrey Archer

  “We speak,” said the third, “of the King of Kings and are come to offer him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.”

  “I know nothing of the King of Kings,” said the boy, now gaining in confidence. “I recognize only Augustus Caesar, Emperor of the known world.”

  The man robed in gold shook his head and, pointing to the sky, inquired of the boy: “You observe that bright star in the east. What is the name of the village on which it shines?”

  The boy looked up at the star, and indeed the village below was clearer to the eye than it had been in sunlight.

  “But that’s only Bethlehem,” said the boy, laughing. “You will find no King of Kings there.”

  “Even there we shall find him,” said the second king, “for did not Herod’s chief priest tell us:

  And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,

  Art not least among the princes of Judah,

  For out of thee shall come a Governor

  That shall rule my people Israel.”

  “It cannot be,” said the boy, now almost shouting at them. “Augustus Caesar rules Israel and all the known world.”

  But the three robed men did not heed his words and left him to ride on toward Bethlehem.

  Mystified, the boy set out on the last part of his journey home. Although the sky had become pitch black, whenever he turned his eyes toward Bethlehem the village was still clearly visible in the brilliant starlight. Once again he started running toward the compound, relieved to see its outline rising up in front of him. When he reached the great wooden gate, he banged loudly and repeatedly until a centurion, sword drawn, holding a flaming torch, came out to discover who it was that disturbed his watch. When he saw the boy, he frowned.

  “Your father is very angry. He returned at sunset and is about to send out a search party for you.”

  The boy darted past the centurion and ran all the way to his family’s quarters, where he found his father addressing a sergeant of the guard. His mother was standing by his side, weeping.

  The father turned when he saw his son and shouted: “Where have you been?”

  “To Bethlehem.”

  “Yes, I know that, but whatever possessed you to return so late? Have I not told you countless times never to be out of the compound after dark? Come to my study at once.”

  The boy looked helplessly toward his mother, who was still crying, but now out of relief, and turned to follow his father into the study. The guard sergeant winked at him as he passed by, but the boy knew nothing could save him now. His father strode ahead of him into the study and sat on a leather stool by his table. His mother followed and stood silently by the door.

  “Now tell me exactly where you have been and why you took so long to return, and be sure to tell me the truth.”

  The boy stood in front of his father and told him everything that had come to pass. He started with how he had gone to the village and taken great care in choosing the food and in so doing had saved half the money his mother had given him. How on the way back he had seen a fat lady on a donkey unable to find a place at the inn, and then he explained why he had given her the food. He went on to describe how the shepherds had shouted and beat their breasts until there was a great light in the sky at which they had all fallen silent on their knees, and then finally how he had met the three robed men who were searching for the King of Kings.

  The father grew angry at his son’s words.

  “What a story you tell,” he shouted. “Do tell me more. Did you find this King of Kings?”

  “No, sir. I did not,” he replied, as he watched his father rise and start pacing around the room.

  “Perhaps there is a more simple explanation of why your face and fingers are stained red with pomegranate juice,” he suggested.

  “No, Father. I did buy an extra pomegranate, but even after I had bought all the food, I still managed to save one silver denarius.”

  The boy handed the coin over to his mother, believing it would confirm his story. But the sight of the piece of silver only made his father more angry. He stopped pacing and stared down into the eyes of his son.

  “You have spent the other denarius on yourself and now you have nothing to show for it?”

  “That’s not true, Father, I…”

  “Then I will allow you one more chance to tell me the truth,” said his father as he sat back down. “Fail me, boy, and I shall give you a thrashing that you will never forget for the rest of your life.”

  “I have already told you the truth, Father.”

  “Listen to me carefully, my son. We were born Romans, born to rule the world because our laws and customs are tried and trusted and have always been based firmly on absolute honesty. Romans never lie; it remains our strength and the weakness of our enemies. That is why we rule while others are ruled and as long as that is so the Roman Empire will never fall. Do you understand what I am saying, my boy?”

  “Yes, Father, I understand.”

  “Then you’ll also understand why it is imperative to tell the truth.”

  “But I have not lied, Father.”

  “Then there is no hope for you,” said the man angrily. “And you leave me only one way to deal with this matter.”

  The boy’s mother wanted to come to her son’s aid, but knew any protest would be useless. The father rose from his chair and removed the leather belt from around his waist and folded it double, leaving the heavy brass studs on the outside. He then ordered his son to touch his toes. The young boy obeyed without hesitation and the father raised the leather strap above his head and brought it down on the child with all his strength. The boy never flinched or murmured, while his mother turned away from the sight and wept. After the father had administered the twelfth stroke he ordered his son to go to his room. The boy left without a word and his mother followed and watched him climb the stairs. She then hurried away to the kitchen and gathered together some olive oil and ointments which she hoped would soothe the pain of her son’s wounds. She carried the little jars up to his room, where she found him already in bed. She went over to his side and pulled the sheet back. He turned onto his chest while she prepared the oils. Then she removed his night tunic gently for fear of adding to his pain. Having done so, she stared down at his body in disbelief.

  The boy’s skin was unmarked.

  She ran her fingers gently over her son’s unblemished body and found it to be as smooth as if he had just bathed. She turned him over, but there was not a mark on him anywhere. Quickly she covered him with the sheet.

  “Say nothing of this to your father, and remove the memory of it from your mind forever, because the very telling of it will only make him more angry.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  The mother leaned over and blew out the candle by the side of the bed, gathered up the unused oils and tiptoed to the door. At the threshold, she turned in the dim light to look back at her son and said:

  “Now I know you were telling the truth, Pontius.”

  Here is an excerpt from

  HONOR AMONG THIEVES

  by

  Jeffrey Archer.

  Available now from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  wherever books are sold

  CHAPTER ONE

  February 15, 1993

  New York

  Antonio Cavalli stared intently at the Arab, who he considered looked far too young to be a Deputy Ambassador.

  “One hundred million dollars,” Cavalli said, pronouncing each word slowly and deliberately, giving them almost reverential respect.

  Hamid Al Obaydi flicked a worry bead across the top of his well-manicured thumb, making a click that was beginning to irritate Cavalli.

  “One hundred million is quite acceptable,” the Deputy Ambassador replied in a clipped English accent.

  Cavalli nodded. The only thing that worried him about the deal was that Al Obaydi had made no attempt to bargain, especially since the figure the American had proposed was double that which he had expected to get. Cava
lli had learned from painful experience not to trust anyone who didn’t bargain. It inevitably meant that he had no intention of paying in the first place.

  “If the figure is agreed,” he said, “all that is left to discuss is how and when the payments will be made.”

  The Deputy Ambassador flicked another worry bead before he nodded.

  “Ten million dollars to be paid in cash immediately,” said Cavalli, “the remaining ninety million to be handed over once we can prove to your satisfaction that everything is in place. The final seventy million to be deposited in a Swiss bank account as soon as the contract has been carried out.”

  “But what do I get for my first ten million?” asked the Deputy Ambassador, looking fixedly at the man whose origins were as hard to hide as his own.

  “Nothing,” replied Cavalli, although he acknowledged that the Arab had every right to ask such a question. After all, if Cavalli didn’t honor his side of the bargain, the Deputy Ambassador had far more to lose than just his government’s money.

  Al Obaydi moved another worry bead, aware that he had little choice—it had taken him two years just to get an interview with Antonio Cavalli. Meanwhile, President Clinton had settled into the White House, while his own leader was growing more and more impatient for revenge. If he didn’t accept Cavalli’s terms, Al Obaydi knew that the chances of finding anyone else capable of carrying out the task before the Fourth of July were about as promising as zero coming up on a roulette wheel with only one spin left.

  Cavalli looked up at the vast portrait that dominated the wall behind the Deputy Ambassador’s desk. His first contact with Al Obaydi had been only days after the war had been concluded. At the time the American had refused to deal with the Arab, as few people were convinced that the Deputy Ambassador’s leader would still be alive by the time a preliminary meeting could be arranged.

  As the months passed, however, it began to look to Cavalli as if his potential client might survive longer than President Bush. So an exploratory meeting was arranged.

  The venue selected was the Deputy Ambassador’s office in New York, on East 79th Street. Despite being a little too public for Cavalli’s taste, it had the virtue of proving the credentials of the party claiming to be willing to invest one hundred million dollars in such a daring enterprise.

  “How would you expect the first ten million to be paid?” inquired Al Obaydi, as if he were asking a real estate agent about a down payment on a small house on the wrong side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “The entire amount must be handed over in used, unmarked hundred-dollar bills and deposited with our bankers in Newark, New Jersey,” said the American, his eyes narrowing. “And Mr. Al Obaydi,” Cavalli added, “I don’t have to remind you that we have machines that can verify—”

  “You need have no anxiety about us keeping to our side of the bargain,” interrupted Al Obaydi. “The money is, as your Western cliché suggests, a mere drop in the ocean. The only concern I have is whether you are capable of delivering your part of the agreement.”

  “You wouldn’t have pressed so hard for this meeting if you doubted we were the right people for the job,” retorted Cavalli. “But can I be as confident about you putting together such a large amount of cash at such short notice?”

  “It may interest you to know, Mr. Cavalli,” replied the Deputy Ambassador, “that the money is already lodged in a safe in the basement of the United Nations building. After all, no one would expect to find such a vast sum deposited in the vaults of a bankrupt body.”

  The smile that remained on Al Obaydi’s face indicated that the Arab was pleased with his little witticism, despite the fact that Cavalli’s lips hadn’t moved.

  “The ten million will be delivered to your bank by midday tomorrow,” continued Al Obaydi as he rose from the table to indicate that, as far as he was concerned, the meeting was concluded. The Deputy Ambassador stretched out his hand and his visitor reluctantly shook it.

  Cavalli glanced up once again at the portrait of Saddam Hussein, turned, and quickly left.

  * * *

  When Scott Bradley entered the room there was a hush of expectancy.

  He placed his notes on the table in front of him, allowing his eyes to sweep around the lecture hall. The room was packed with eager young students holding pens and pencils poised above yellow legal pads.

  “My name is Scott Bradley,” said the youngest professor in the law school, “and this is to be the first of fourteen lectures on Constitutional Law.” Seventy-four faces stared down at the tall, somewhat disheveled man who obviously couldn’t have noticed that the top button of his shirt was missing and who hadn’t made up his mind which side to part his hair on that morning.

  “I’d like to begin this first lecture with a personal statement,” he announced. Some of the pens and pencils were laid to rest. “There are many reasons to practice law in this country,” he began, “but only one which is worthy of you, and certainly only one that interests me. It applies to every facet of the law that you might be interested in pursuing, and it has never been better expressed than in the engrossed parchment of The Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen United States of America.

  “‘Who hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.’ That one sentence is what distinguishes America from every other country on earth.

  “In some aspects, our nation has progressed mightily since 1776,” continued the professor, still not having referred to his notes as he walked up and down tugging the lapels of his well-worn Harris tweed jacket, “while in others, we have moved rapidly backwards. Each of you in this hall can be part of the next generation of lawmakers or lawbreakers”—he paused, surveying the silent gathering—“and you have been granted the greatest gift of all with which to help make that choice, a first-class mind. When my colleagues and I have finished with you, you can if you wish go out into the real world and ignore the Declaration of Independence as if it were worth no more than the parchment it was written on, outdated and irrelevant in this modern age. Or,” he continued, “you may choose to benefit society by upholding the law. That is the course great lawyers take. Bad lawyers, and I do not mean stupid ones, are those who begin to bend the law, which, I submit, is only a step away from breaking it. To those of you in this class who wish to pursue such a course I must advise that I have nothing to teach you, because you are beyond learning. You are still free to attend my lectures, but ‘attending’ is all you will be doing.”

  The room was so silent that Scott looked up to check they hadn’t all crept out. “Not my words,” he continued as he stared at the intent faces, “but those of Dean Thomas W. Swan, who lectured in this theater for the first twenty-seven years of this century. I see no reason not to repeat his philosophy whenever I address an incoming class of the Yale Law School.”

  The professor opened the file in front of him for the first time. “Logic,” he began, “is the science and art of reasoning correctly. No more than common sense, I hear you say. And nothing so uncommon, Voltaire reminds us. But those who cry ‘common sense’ are often the same people who are too lazy to train their minds.

  “Oliver Wendell Holmes once wrote: ‘The life of the law has not been logic, it has been experience.’” The pens and pencils began to scratch furiously across the yellow pages, and continued to do so for the next fifty minutes.

  When Scott Bradley had come to the end of his lecture, he closed his file, picked up his notes and marched quickly out of the room. He did not care to indulge himself by remaining for the sustained applause that had followed his opening lecture for the past ten years.

  * * *

  Hannah Kopec had been considered an outsider as well as a loner from the start, although the latter was often thought by those in authority to be an advantage.

  Hannah had been told that her chances of qualifying were slim, but she h
ad now come through the toughest part, the twelve-month physical training, and although she had never killed anyone—six of the last eight applicants had—those in authority were now convinced she was capable of doing so. Hannah knew she could.

  As the plane lifted off from Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport for Heathrow, Hannah pondered once again what had caused a twenty-five-year-old woman at the height of her career as a model to want to apply to join the Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks—better known as Mossad—when she could have had her pick of a score of rich husbands in a dozen capitals.

  Thirty-nine Scuds had landed on Tel Aviv and Haifa during the Gulf War. Thirteen people had been killed. Despite much wailing and beating of breasts, no revenge had been sought by the Israeli Government because of some tough political bargaining by James Baker, who had assured them that the Coalition Forces would finish the job. The American Secretary of State had failed to fulfill his promise. But then, as Hannah often reflected, Baker had not lost his entire family in one night.

  The day she was discharged from the hospital, Hannah had immediately applied to join Mossad. They had been dismissive of her request, assuming she would, in time, find that her wound had healed. Hannah visited the Mossad headquarters every day for the next two weeks, by which time even they acknowledged that the wound remained open and, more important, was still festering.

  In the third week they reluctantly allowed her to join a course for trainees, confident that she couldn’t hope to survive for more than a few days, and would then return to her career as a model. They were wrong a second time. Revenge for Hannah Kopec was a far more potent drug than ambition. For the next twelve months she worked hours that began before the sun rose and ended long after it had set. She ate food that would have been rejected by a tramp and forgot what it was like to sleep on a mattress. They tried everything to break her, and they failed. To begin with the instructors had treated her gently, fooled by her graceful body and captivating looks, until one of them ended up with a broken leg. He simply didn’t believe Hannah could move that fast. In the classroom the sharpness of her mind was less of a surprise to her instructors, though once again she gave them little time to rest.