Honour Among Thieves (25 page)

‘Well,
perhaps permanently,’ he admitted.

She
kissed him gently on the cheek and whispered, ‘I must get back to the embassy,
Simon. Don’t come down with me, it’s too risky.’

He
held her in his arms and wanted to protest but settled for ‘When will I see you
again?’

‘Whenever
the Ambassador’s wife feels in need of a swim,’ Hannah said. She broke away. ‘But
I’ll keep on reminding her how good it is for her figure, and that perhaps she
ought to be taking even more exercise.’ She laughed and left without another
word.

Scott
stood by the window, waiting for her to reappear. He hated the fact that he
couldn’t just phone, write or make contact with her whenever he felt like it.
He longed to send her flowers, letters, cards and notes to let her know how
much he loved her.

Hannah
ran out onto the pavement, a smile on her face. She looked up and blew Scott a kiss
before she vanished around the corner.

Another
man, who was cold and tired from hours of waiting, also watched her, not from a
window in a warm room but from a doorway on the opposite side of the road.

The
moment Scott disappeared from sight, the man stepped out of the shadows and
followed the Ambassador’s second secretary back to the embassy compound.

‘I
don’t believe you,’ she said.

‘I
fear that the truth of the matter is you don’t want to believe me,’ said Kratz,
who had flown in from London that morning.

‘But
he can’t be working for any enemy of Israel.’

‘If
that’s the case, perhaps you can explain why he passed himself off as a Mossad
agent?’

.For
the last two hours Hannah had tried to think of a logical reason why Simon
would have deceived her, but had to admit that she had been unable to come up
with a convincing answer.

‘Have
you told us everything you passed on to him?’ Kratz demanded.

‘Yes,’
she said, suddenly feeling ashamed. ‘But have you checked with all the friendly
agencies?’

‘Of
course we have,’ said Kratz. ‘No one in Paris has ever heard of the man. Not
the French, not the British, and certainly not the CIA. Their Head of Station
told me personally that they have never had anyone on their books called Simon
Rosenthal.’

‘So
what will happen to me now?’ asked Hannah.

‘Do
you wish to continue working for your country?’

‘You
know I do,’ she said, glaring back at him.

‘And
are you still hoping to be included in the team for Baghdad?’

‘Yes,
of course I am. Why would I have put myself through ail this in the first place
if I didn’t want to be part of the final operation?’

‘Then
you will also want to abide by the oath you swore in the presence of your
colleagues in Herzliyah.’

‘Nothing
would make me break that oath. You know that. Just tell me what you expect me
to do.’

‘I
expect you to kill Rosenthal.’

Scott
was delighted when Hannah confirmed on Thursday afternoon that she would be
able to slip away for dinner on Friday evening, and might even find it possible
to stay overnight. It seemed that the Ambassador had been called away to Geneva
again. Something big was happening, but she still didn’t know exactly what.

Scott
had already decided that three things were going to take place when they next
met. First, he would cook the meal himself, despite Hannah’s comments about his
inadequate kitchen. Second, he was going to tell her the truth about himself,
whatever interruptions occurred. And third...

Scott
felt more relaxed than he had in weeks once he had decided to ‘come clean’, as
his mother had described it whenever he’d tried to get away with something. He
knew that he would be recalled to the States once he had informed Dexter of
what had happened, and that a few weeks later he would be quietly discharged.
But that was no longer of any significance, because third, and most important
of all, he was going to ask Hannah to come back to America with him, as his
wife.

Scott
spent the afternoon shopping in the market for freshly baked bread, the finest
wild mushrooms, succulent lamb chops and tiny ripe oranges. He returned home to
prepare a feast he hoped she would never forget. He had also prepared a speech
he believed she would, in time, find it possible to forgive.

During
the evening, Scott found himself looking up at the kitchen clock every few
moments. He felt robbed if she was ever more than a few minutes late. She had
failed to turn up for their previous meeting, though he accepted that she had
no way of letting him know when something unexpected came up. He was relieved
to see her walk through the door soon after the clock had struck eight.

Scott
smiled when Hannah removed her coat, and he saw she was wearing the dress he
had chosen for her when they’d gone shopping together for the first time. A
long blue dress that hung loosely off the shoulders, and made her appear both
elegant and sexy.

He
immediately took her in his arms, and was surprised by her response. She seemed
distant, almost cold. Or was he being over-sensitive? Hannah broke away and
stared at the table laid for two with its red-and-white check tablecloth and
two sets of unmatching cutlery.

Scott
poured her a glass of the white wine he had selected to go with the first
course before he disappeared into the kitchen to put the final touches to his
culinary efforts, aware that he and Hannah always had so little time together.

‘What
are you cooking?’ she asked, in a dull, flat voice.

‘Wait
and see,’ he replied. ‘But I can tell you the starter is something I learned
when -’ He stopped himself. ‘Many years ago,’ he added rather lamely.

He
didn’t see her grimace at his failure to finish the original sentence.

Scott
returned to join her a few
moments
later, carrying two
plates of piping-hot wild mushrooms, with a small slice of garlic bread. ‘But
not too much garlic,’ he promised her, ‘for obvious reasons.’ No witty or sharp
response came flying back, and he wondered if she was unable to stay overnight.
He might have questioned her more closely had he not been concentrating on the
dinner as well as wanting to get his speech over with.

‘I
wish we could get out of Paris and see Versailles, like normal people,’ said
Scott as he dug his fork into a mushroom.

‘That
would be nice,’ she said.

‘And
even better...’ She looked up and stared at him.

‘A
weekend at the Colmendor. I promised myself long ago when I first read the life
of Matisse at...” He hesitated once again, and she lowered her head. ‘And
that’s only France,’ he said, trying to recover. ‘We could take a lifetime over
Italy. They have a hundred Colmendors.’

He
looked hopefully towards her but her eyes remained staring at the half-empty
plate.

What
had he done? Or was she fearful of telling him something? He dreaded the
thought of learning that she was going to Baghdad when all he wanted to do was
take her to Venice, Florence and Rome. If it was Baghdad that was making her
anxious, he would do everything in his power to change her mind.

Scott
cleared away the plates to return a few moments later with the succulent lamb
Provencal. ‘Madam’s favourite, if I remember correctly.’ But he was rewarded only
with a weak smile.

‘What
is it, Hannah?’ he asked as he took the seat opposite her. He leaned across to
touch her hand, but she removed it quickly from the table.

‘I’m
just a little tired,’ she replied unconvincingly. ‘It’s been a long week.’

Scott
tried to discuss her work, the theatre, the Clodion exhibition at the Louvre
and even Clinton’s attempts to bring the three living Beatles together, but
with each new effort he received the same bland response. They continued to eat
in silence until his plate was empty.

‘And
now, we shall end on my piece de resistance.’ He expected to be playfully
chastised about his efforts as a chef; instead he received only the flicker of
a smile and a distant, sad look from those dark, beautiful eyes. He disappeared
into the kitchen and returned immediately, carrying a bowl of freshly sliced
oranges with a touch of Cointreau. He placed the delicate morsels in front of
her, hoping they would change her mood. But while Scott continued with his
monologue Hannah remained an unreceptive audience.

He
removed the bowls, his empty, hers hardly touched, and returned moments later
with coffee, hers made exactly as she liked it: black, with a touch of cream
floating across the top, and no sugar. His black, steaming, with too much sugar.

Just
as he sat down opposite her, determined this was the moment to tell her the
truth, she asked for some sugar. Scott jumped up, somewhat surprised, returned
to the kitchen, tipped some sugar into a bowl, grabbed a teaspoon and came back
to see her snapping closed her tiny evening bag.

After
he had sat down and placed the sugar on the table he smiled at her. He had
never seen such sadness in those eyes before. He poured them both a brandy,
whirled his round the balloon, took a sip of his coffee and then faced her. She
had not touched her coffee or brandy, and the sugar she had asked for remained
in the centre of the table, its little mound undented.

‘Hannah,’
Scott began softly, ‘I have something important to tell you, and I wish I had
told you a long time ago.’ He looked up, to find her on the verge of tears.

He
would have asked her why, but feared that if he allowed her to change the
subject he might never tell her the truth.

‘My
name is not Simon Rosenthal,’ he said quietly. Hannah looked surprised, but not
in the way he had expected – more anxious than curious. He took another sip of
coffee and then continued. ‘I have lied to you from the day we met, and the
more deeply I fell in love with you, the more I lied.’

She
didn’t speak, for which he was grateful, because on this occasion, like his
lectures, he needed to proceed without interruption. His throat began to feel a
little dry, so he sipped his coffee again.

‘My
name is Scott Bradley. I am an American, but not from Chicago as I told you
when we first met. I’m from Denver.’ A puzzled look came into Hannah’s eyes,
but she still didn’t interrupt him. Scott ploughed on.

‘I
am not Mossad’s agent in Paris writing a travel book. Far from it, though I
confess the truth is much stranger than the fiction.’ He held her hand and this
time she didn’t try to remove it. ‘Please, let me explain, and then perhaps
you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.’ His throat suddenly felt drier. He
finished his coffee and quickly poured himself another cup, taking an extra teaspoonful
of sugar. She still hadn’t touched hers. ‘I was born in Denver, where I went to
school. My father was a local lawyer who ended up in jail for fraud. I was so
ashamed that when my mother died, I took a post at Beirut University because I
could no longer face anyone I knew.’ Hannah looked up and her eyes began to
show sympathy. It gave Scott the confidence to go on.

‘I
do not work for Mossad in any capacity, nor have I ever done so.’ Her lips
formed a straight line. ‘My real job is nowhere near as romantic as that. After
Beirut I returned to America to become a university professor.’

She
looked mystified, and then her expression suddenly changed to one of anxiety.

‘Oh,
yes,’ he said, his words beginning to sound slightly slurred, ‘this time I’m
telling the truth. I teach Constitutional Law at Yale. Let’s face it, no one
would make up a story like that,’ he added, trying to laugh.

He
drank more coffee. It tasted less bitter than the first cup.

‘But
I am also what they call in the trade a part-time spy, and as it’s turned out,
not a very good one. Despite many years of training and lecturing other people
on how it should be done.’ He paused. ‘But that was only in the classroom.’

She
looked more anx’ous.

‘You
need have no fears,’ he said, trying to reassure her. ‘I work for the good
side, though I suppose even that depends on where you’re looking from. I’m
currently a temporary Field Officer with the CIA.’

‘The
CIA?’ she stammered in disbelief. ‘But they told me...”

‘What
did they tell you?’ he asked quickly.

‘Nothing,’
she said, and lowered her head again.

Had
she already known about his background, or perhaps guessed his original story
didn’t add up? He didn’t care. All he wanted to do was tell the woman he loved
everything about himself. No more lies. No more deceit. No more secrets. ‘Well,
as I’m confessing, I mustn’t exaggerate,’ he continued. ‘I go to Virginia
twelve times a year to discuss with agents the problems they’ve faced while
working in the field. I was full of bright ideas to assist them in the peace
and comfort of Langley, but I’ll treat them with more respect now I’ve
experienced some of the problems they come up against, especially having made
such a mess of things myself.’

‘It
can’t be true,’ she said suddenly. ‘Tell me you’re making it up, Simon.’