Honour Among Thieves (5 page)

At
three minutes to six, despite there still being no sign of Sally, the
headmistress suggested they should all make their way to the Great Hall.

‘Can’t
keep the girls waiting,’ she explained. ‘It would set a bad example.’

Just
as they were leaving the room, Joni took her husband’s notes out of her handbag
and passed them over to him. He looked relieved for the first time since 4.50.

At
one minute to six, the headmistress led the guest of honour onto the stage. He
watched the four hundred girls rise and applaud him in what the headmistress
would have described as a ‘ladylike’ manner.

When
the applause had faded away, the headmistress raised and lowered her hands to
indicate that the girls should be seated again, which they did with the minimum
of noise. She then walked over to the lectern and gave an unscripted eulogy on
T. Hamilton McKenzie that would have surely impressed the Nobel Committee. She
talked of Edward Zeir, the founder of modern plastic surgery, of J.R. Wolte and
Wilhelm Krause, and reminded her pupils that T. Hamilton McKenzie had followed
in their great tradition by advancing the still-burgeoning science. She said
nothing about Sally and her many achievements while at the school, although it
had been in her original script. It was still possible to be punished for
breaking school rules even if you had just won an endowed national scholarship.

When
the headmistress returned to her place in the centre of the stage, T. Hamilton McKenzie
made his way to the lectern. He looked down at his notes, coughed, and then
began his dissertation.

‘Most
of you in the audience, I should imagine, think plastic surgery is about
straightening noses, removing double chins and getting rid of bags from under
your eyes. That, I can assure you, is not plastic but cosmetic surgery. Plastic
surgery,’ he continued – to the disappointment, his wife suspected, of most of
those seated in front of him – ‘is something else.’ He then lectured for forty
minutes on z-plasty, homograting, congenital malformation and third-degree
burns without once raising his head.

When
he finally sat down, the applause was not quite as loud as it had been when he
had entered the room. T. Hamilton McKenzie assumed that was because showing
their true feelings would have been considered ‘unladylike’.

On
returning to the headmistress’s study, Joni asked the secretary if there had
been any news of Sally.

‘Not
that I am aware of,’ replied the secretary, ‘but she might have been seated in
the hall.’

During
the lecture, versions of which Joni had heard a hundred times before, she had
scanned every face in the room, and knew that her daughter was not among them.

More
sherry was poured, and after a decent interval T. Hamilton McKenzie announced
that they ought to be getting back. The headmistress nodded her agreement and
accompanied her guests to their car. She thanked the surgeon for a lecture of
great insight, and waited at the bottom of the steps until the car had
disappeared from view.

‘I
have never known such behaviour in all my days,’ she declared to her secretary.
‘Tell Miss McKenzie to report to me before chapel tomorrow. The first thing I
want to know is why she cancelled the car I arranged for her.’

Scott
Bradley also gave a lecture that evening, but in his case only sixteen students
attended, and none of them was under the age of thirty-five. Each was a senior
CIA field officer, and as fit as any quarterback in America. When they talked
of logic, it had a more practical application than the one suggested when Scott
lectured his younger students at Yale.

These
men were all operating in the front line, stationed right across the globe.
Often Professor Bradley pressed them to go over, detail by detail, decisions
they had made under pressure, and whether those decisions had achieved the
result they’d originally hoped for.

They
were quick to admit their mistakes. There was no room for personal pride – only
pride in the service was considered acceptable. When Scott had first heard this
sentiment he thought they were being corny, but after nine years of working
with them in the classroom and in the gym, he’d learned otherwise.

For
over “an hour Bradley threw test cases at them, at the same time suggesting
ways of how to dunk logically, always weighing known facts with subjective
judgement before reaching any firm conclusion.

Over
the past nine years, Scott had learned as much from them as they had from him,
but he still enjoyed helping them put his knowledge to practical use. Scott had
often felt he too would like to be tested in the field, and not simply in the
lecture theatre.

When
the session was over, Scott joined them in the gym for another workout. He
climbed ropes, pumped iron and practised karate exercises, and they never once
treated him as anything other than a full member of the team. Anyone who
patronised the visiting professor from Yale often ended up with more than their
egos bruised.

Over
dinner that night – no alcohol, just Quibel...

Scott
asked the Deputy Director if he was ever going to be allowed to gain some field
experience.

‘It’s
not a vacation job, you know,’ came back Dexter Hutchins’ reply as he lit up a
cigar. ‘Give up Yale and join us full time and then perhaps we’ll consider the
merits of allowing you out of the classroom.’

‘I’m
due for a sabbatical next year,’ Bradley reminded his superior.

‘Then
take that trip to Italy you’ve always been promising yourself. After dining
with you for the last seven years, I think I know as much about Bellini as
ballistics.’

‘I’m
not going to give up trying for a field job – you realise that, Dexter, don’t
you?’

‘You’ll
have to when you’re fifty, because that’s when we’ll retire you.’

‘But
I’m only thirty-six...’

‘You
rise too easily to make a good field officer,’ said the Deputy Director,
puffing away at his cigar.

When
T. Hamilton McKenzie opened the front door of his house, he ignored the ringing
phone as he shouted, ‘Sally? Sally?’ at the top of his voice, but he received
no response.

He
finally snatched the phone, assuming it would be his daughter. ‘Sally?’ he
repeated.

‘Dr
McKenzie?’ asked a calmer voice.

‘Yes,
it is,’ he said.

‘If
you’re wondering where your daughter is, I can assure you that she’s safe and
well.’

‘Who
is this?’ demanded McKenzie.

‘I’ll
call later this evening, Dr McKenzie, when you’ve had time to calm down,’ said
the quiet voice. ‘Meanwhile, do not, under any circumstances, contact the
police or any private agency. If you do, we’ll know immediately, and will be
left with no choice but to return your lovely daughter -’ he paused ‘- in a
coffin.’ The phone went dead.

T.
Hamilton McKenzie turned white, and in seconds was covered in sweat.

‘What’s
the matter, honey?’ asked Joni, as she watched her husband collapse onto the
sofa.

‘Sally’s
been kidnapped,’ he said, aghast. ‘They said not to contact the police. They’re
going to call again later this evening.’ He stared at the phone.

‘Sally’s
been kidnapped?’ repeated Joni in disbelief.

‘Yes,’
snapped her husband.

‘Then
we ought to tell the police right away,’ Joni said, jumping up. ‘After all,
honey, that’s what they’re paid for.’

‘No,
we mustn’t. They said they’d know immediately if we did, and would send her
back in a coffin.’

‘A
coffin? Are you sure that’s what they said?’ Joni asked quietly.

‘Damn
it, of course I’m sure, but they told me she’ll be just fine as long as we
don’t talk to the police. I don’t understand it. I’m not a rich man.’

‘I
still think we ought to call the police. After all, Chief Dixon’s a personal
friend.’

‘No,
no!’ shouted McKenzie. ‘Don’t you understand? If we do that they’ll kill her.’

‘All
I understand,’ replied his wife, ‘is that you’re out of your depth and our
daughter is in great danger.’ She paused. ‘You should call Chief Dixon right
now.’

‘No!’
repeated her husband at the top of his voice. ‘You just don’t begin to
understand.’

‘I
understand only too well,’ said Joni, her voice remarkably calm. ‘You intend to
play Chief of Police for Columbus as well as Dean of the Medical School,
despite the fact that you’re quite unqualified to do so. How would you react if
a State Trooper marched into your operating theatre, leaned over one of your
patients and demanded a scalpel?’

T.
Hamilton McKenzie stared coldly at his wife, and assumed it was the strain that
had caused her to react so irrationally.

The
two men listening to the conversation on the other side of town glanced at each
other. The man with earphones said, ‘I’m glad it’s him and not her we’re going
to have to deal with.’

When
the phone rang again an hour later both T. Hamilton McKenzie and his wife
jumped as if they had been touched by an electric wire.

McKenzie
waited for several rings as he tried to compose himself. Then he picked up the
phone. ‘McKenzie,’ he said.

‘Listen
to me carefully,’ said the quiet voice, ‘and don’t interrupt. Answer only when
instructed to do so. Understood?’

‘Yes,’
said McKenzie.

‘You
did well not to contact the police as your wife suggested,’ continued the quiet
voice. ‘Your judgement is better than hers.’

‘I
want to talk to my daughter,’ interjected McKenzie.

‘You’ve
been watching too many late-night movies, Dr McKenzie. There are no heroines in
real life – or heroes, for that matter. So get that into your head. Do I make
myself clear?’

‘Yes,’
said McKenzie.

‘You’ve
wasted too much of my time already,’ said the quiet voice. The line went dead.

It
was over an hour before the phone rang again, during which time Joni tried once
more to convince her husband that they should contact the police. This time T.
Hamilton McKenzie picked up the receiver without waiting. ‘Hello? Hello?’

‘Calm
down, Dr McKenzie,’ said the quiet voice. ‘And this time, listen. Tomorrow
morning at 8.30 you’ll leave home and drive to the hospital as usual. On the way
you’ll stop at the Olentangy Inn and take any table in the corner of the coffee
shop that is not already occupied. Make sure it can only seat two. Once we’re
confident that no one has followed you, you’ll be joined by one of my
colleagues and given your instructions. Understood?’

‘Yes.’

‘One
false move, Doctor, and you will never see your daughter again. Try to
remember, it’s you who are in the business of extending life. We’re in the
business of ending it.’

The
phone went dead.

H
ANNAH WAS SURE
that she could carry it off. After all, if she couldn’t deceive them in London,
what hope was there that she could do so in Baghdad?

She
chose a Tuesday morning for the experiment, having spent several hours
reconnoitring the area the previous day. She decided not to discuss her plan
with anyone, fearing that one of the Mossad team might become suspicious if she
were to ask one question too many.

She
checked herself in the hall mirror. A clean white T-shirt and baggy sweater,
well-worn jeans, sneakers, tennis socks and her hair looking just a little
untidy.

She
packed her small, battered suitcase – the one family possession they’d allowed
her to keep – and left the little terraced house a few minutes after ten
o’clock. Mrs Rubin had gone earlier to do what she called her ‘big shop’, an
attempt to stock up at Sainsbury’s for a fortnight.

Hannah
walked slowly down the road, knowing that if she were caught they’d put her on
the next flight home. She disappeared into the tube station, showed her
travel-card to the ticket collector, went down in the lift and walked to the
far end of the brightly-lit platform as the train rumbled into the station.

At
Leicester Square she changed to the Piccadilly line, and when the train pulled
in to South Kensington, Hannah was among the first to reach the escalator. She
didn’t run up the steps, which would have been her natural inclination, because
running attracted attention. She stood quietly on the escalator, studying the
advertisements on the wall so that no one could see her face. The new
fuel-injected Rover 200, Johnnie Walker whisky, a warning against AIDS, and
Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Sunset Boulevard at the Adelphi glared back at her. Once
she’d emerged into the sunlight, Hannah quickly checked left and right before
she crossed Harrington Road and walked towards the Norfolk Hotel, an
inconspicuous medium-sized hostelry that she had carefully selected. She had
checked it out the day before, and could walk straight to the ladies’ rest room
without having to ask for directions.

Hannah
pushed the door open, and after quickly checking to confirm she was alone,
chose the end cubicle, locked the door, and flicked open the catch of the
battered suitcase. She began the slow process of changing identity.