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 s.e.xy.

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 thetable laid for two with its red-and-white check tablecloth and two sets of unmatching cutlery.

Scott poured her a gla.s.s 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 sheremoved 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 onthis 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 Const.i.tutional 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 cla.s.sroom.'

She looked more anx'ous.

'You need have no fears,' he said, trying to rea.s.sure 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 toldme..."

'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 a.s.sist 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.'

'I'm afraid not, Hannah. This time it's all true,' he said. 'You must believe me. I only ended up in Paris after years of demanding to be tested in the field, because, with all my theoretical knowledge, I a.s.sumed I'd be a whizz if they just gave me the chance to prove myself. Scott Bradley, Professor of Const.i.tutional Law. Infallible in the eyes of his adoring students at Yale and the senior CIA operatives at Langley. There'll be no standing ovation after this performance, of that we can both be sure.'

Hannah stood and stared down at him. 'Tell me it's not true, Simon,' she said. 'It mustn't be true. Why did you choose me? Why me?'

He stood and took her in his arms. 'I didn't choose you, I fell in love with you. They chose me. My people ... my people needed to find out why Mossad had put you ... put you in the Jordanian Emba.s.sy attached to the Iraqi Interest Section.' He was finding it difficult to remain coherent, and couldn't understand why he felt so sleepy.

'But why you?' she asked, clinging on to him for the first time that evening. 'Why not a regular CIA agent?'

'Because . .. because they wanted to put someone in ...

someone who wouldn't be recognised by any of the professionals.'

'Oh, my G.o.d, who am I meant to believe?' she said, breaking away. She stared helplessly at him.

'You can believe me, because I'll prove ... prove all I've said is true.' Scott began to move away from the table.He felt unsteady as he walked slowly over to the sideboard, bent down to pull open the bottom drawer, and after some rummaging around removed a small leather case with the initials S.B. printed in gold on the top right-hand corner. He smiled a triumphant smile and turned back. He attempted to steady himself by resting one hand on the sideboard. He looked towards the blurred figure of the woman he loved, but could no longer see the desperate look on her face. He tried to remember how much he had already told her and how much she still needed to know.

'Oh, my darling, what have I done?' she said, her eyes now pleading.

'Nothing, it's all been my fault,' said Scott. 'But we'll have the rest of our lives to laugh about it. That, by the way, was a proposal. Feeble, I agree, but I couldn't love you any more than I do. You must surely realise that,' he added as he tried to take a pace towards her. She stood staring at him helplessly as he lurched forward before attempting to take a second step. Then he tried again, but this time he stumbled and collapsed across the table, finally landing with a thud on the floor at her feet.

'I can't blame you if you don't feel the same way as ...'

were his final words, as the leather case burst open, disgorging its contents all around a body that was suddenly still.

Hannah fell on her knees and took his head in her hands.

She began to sob uncontrollably. 'I love you, of course I love you, Simon. But why didn't you trust me enough to tell me the truth?'

Her eyes rested on a small photo lodged between his fingers. She s.n.a.t.c.hed it from his grasp. Written on the back were the words 'Katherine Bradley - Summer '66'. It must have been his mother. She grabbed the pa.s.sport that lay by the side of his head and quickly turned the pages, trying to read through her tears. Male. Date of birth: 11.7.56.

Profession: University Professor. She turned another page and a photo from Paris Match fell out.

She stared at herself modelling an Ungaro suit from the spring collection of 1990.

'No, no. Don't let it be true,' Hannah said as she lifted him back into her arms. 'Let it be just more lies.'

And then her eyes settled on the envelope simply addressed 'Hannah'. She lowered his body gently to the ground, picked up the envelope and ripped it open.'No!' she screamed, 'No!' almost unable to read his words through her tears.

'Please, G.o.d, no,' she wept as her head fell on his chest.

'I love you, too, Simon. I love you so much.'

'No, no, no...' Hannah cried as she bent down to kiss him. She suddenly leaped up and rushed over to the phone. She dialled 17 and screamed, 'Please G.o.d, let one pill not be enough. Answer, answer, answer!' she shrieked at the phone as the door of Scott's apartment flew open. Hannah turned to see Kratz and another man whom she didn't recognise come bursting in.

She dropped the phone on the floor and ran towards them, throwing herself at Kratz and knocking him to the ground.

'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' she screamed. 'You made me kill the only person I ever really loved! I hope you rot in h.e.l.l!' she said as her fists pumped down into his face.

The unknown man moved quickly across and threw Hannah to one side, before the two of them picked up Scott's limp body and carried him out of the room.

Hannah lay in the corner, weeping.

An hour pa.s.sed, maybe two, before she crawled slowly back to the table, opened her bag and removed the second pill.

'white house.'

'Mr b.u.t.terworth, please.'

There was a long silence. 'I don't show anyone by that name, sir. Just a moment and I'll put you through to Personnel.'

The Archivist waited patiently, made aware as each second pa.s.sed that the new telephone system ordered by the Clinton administration was clearly overdue.

'Personnel office,' said a female voice. 'How can I help you?'

'I'm trying to locate Mr Rex b.u.t.terworth, Special a.s.sistant to the President.'

'Who's calling?'

'Marshall, Calder Marshall, Archivist.'

'Of-?'

'Of the United States of America.'

There was another long silence.

'The name b.u.t.terworth rings no bells with me, sir, but I'm sure you realise there are more than forty Special and Deputy a.s.sistants to the President.'

'No, I didn't realise,' admitted Marshall. There followed another long silence.'According to our records,' said the female voice, 'he seems to have returned to the Department of Commerce. He was a Schedule A - just here on temporary a.s.signment.'

'Would you have a number where I might reach him?'

'No, I don't. But if you call the department locator at the Commerce Department, I'm sure they will find him for you.'

'Thank you for your help.'

'Glad to have been of a.s.sistance, sir.'

Hannah could never recall how long she had lain huddled up in the corner of Simon's room. She couldn't think of him as Scott, she would always think of him as Simon. An hour, possibly two. Time no longer had any relevance for her. She could remember crawling back to the centre of the room, avoiding overturned chairs and tables that would have looked more appropriate in a nightclub that had just experienced a drunken brawl.

She removed the pill from her bag and flushed it down the lavatory, the automatic action of any well-drilled agent. She then began to search among the debris for any photographs she could find and, of course, the letter addressed simply to 'Hannah'. She stuffed these few mementoes into her bag and tried, with the help of a fallen chair, to get back on her feet.

Later that night she lay in her bed at the emba.s.sy, staring up at the blank white ceiling, unable to recall her journey back, the route she had taken or even if she had climbed the fire escape or entered by the front door. She wondered how many nights it would be before she managed to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. How much time would have to pa.s.s before he wasn't her every other thought?

She knew Mossad would want to take her out, hide her, protect her - as they saw it - until the French police had completed their investigation. Governments would have their diplomatic arms twisted up their diplomatic backs. The Americans would expect a lot in return for killing one of their agents, but eventually a bargain would be struck. Hannah Kopec, Simon Rosenthal and Professor Scott Bradley would become closed files. For all three of them were numbers: interchangeable, dispensable and, of course, replaceable.

She wondered what they would do with his body, the body of the man she loved. An honourable but anonymous grave, she suspected. They would argue that it must be in the interestof the greater good. Wherever they buried him, she knew they would never allow her to find his grave.

She wouldn't have dropped the pill in the coffee in the first place if Kratz hadn't talked again and again of the thirty-nine Scuds that had landed on the people of Israel, and in particular of the one which had killed her mother, her brother and her sister.