interjected Scott. 'In any case, he's away at a conference in Seattle, isn't he?'

She scribbled a note and pa.s.sed it over to Dexter Hutchins. Dexter read the two words and laughed before pa.s.sing it on to Scott: 'He's bluffing.'When the two of them had been left alone, Dexter Hutchins also had one question that he needed answering.

'How could you be so sure that we aren't planning to take Saddam out?'

'I'm not,' admitted Scott. 'But I am certain that the Israelis don't have any information to suggest we are.'

Dexter smiled and said, 'Thanks for coming down from Connecticut, Scott. I'll be in touch. I've got a hunch the plane to Washington is going to feel like a shuttle for you over the next few months.' Scott nodded, relieved that the term was just about to end and no one would expect to see him around for several weeks.

Scott took a cab back to the Ritz Carlton, returned to his room and began to pack his overnight case. During the past year he'd considered a hundred ways that the Israelis might plan to a.s.sa.s.sinate Saddam Hussein, but all of them had flaws because of the ma.s.sive protection that always surrounded the Iraqi President wherever he went. Scott felt certain also that Prime Minister Rabin would never sanction such an operation unless there was a good chance that his operatives would get home alive. Israel didn't need that sort of humiliation on top of all its other problems.

Scott flicked on the evening news. The President was heading to Houston to carry out a fund-raiser for Senator Bob Krueger, who was defending Lloyd Bentsen's seat in the special May elections. His plane had been late taking off from Andrews. There was no explanation as to why he was behind schedule - the new President was quickly gaining a reputation for working by Clinton Standard Time. All the White House correspondent was willing to say was that he had been locked in talks with the Secretary of State. Scott switched off the news and checked his watch. It was a little after seven, and his flight wasn't scheduled until 9.40. Just enough time to grab a bite before he left for the airport. He had only been offered sandwiches and a gla.s.s of milk all day, and considered that the CIA at least owed him a decent meal.

Scott went downstairs to the Jockey Club and was taken to a seat in the corner. A noisy congressman was telling a blonde half his age that the President had been locked in a meeting with Warren Christopher because 'they were discussing my amendment to the defence budget'. The blonde looked suitably impressed, even if the maitre d' didn't.

Scott ordered the smoked salmon, a sirloin steak and ahalf bottle of Mouton Cadet before once again going over everything the Israeli Prime Minister had said at the meeting. But he concluded that the shrewd politician had given no clues as to how or when - or even whether - the Israelis would carry out their threat.

On the recommendation of the maitre d', he agreed to try the house special, a chocolate souffle. He convinced himself that he wasn't going to be fed like this again for some time and, in any case, he could work it off in the gym the next day. When he had finished the last mouthful, Scott checked his watch: three minutes past eight -just enough time for a coffee before grabbing a taxi to the airport.

Scott decided against a second cup, raised his hand and scribbled in the air to indicate that he'd like the check.

When the maitre d' returned, he had his MasterCard ready.

'Your guest has just arrived,' said the maitre d', without indicating the slightest surprise.

'My guest...?' began Scott.

'h.e.l.lo, Scott. I'm sorry I'm a little late, but the President just wsnt on and on asking questions.'

Scott stood up and slipped his MasterCard back into his pocket before kissing Susan on the cheek.

'You did say eight o'clock, didn't you?' she asked.

'Yes, I did,' said Scott, as if he had simply been waiting for her.

The maitre d' reappeared with two large menus and handed them to her customers.

'I can recommend the smoked salmon and the steak,' she said without even a flicker of a smile.

'No, that sounds a bit too much for me,' said Susan. 'But don't let me stop you, Scott.'

'No, President Clinton's not the only one dieting,' said Scott. 'The consomme and the house salad will suit me just fine.' Scott looked at Susan as she studied the menu, her gla.s.ses propped on the end of her nose. She had changed from her well-cut dark blue suit into a calf-length pink dress that emphasised her slim figure even more. Her blonde hair now fell loosely on to her shoulders and for the first time in his memory she was wearing lipstick. She looked up and smiled.

'I'll have the crab cakes,' she told the maitre d'.

'What did the President have to say?' asked Scott, as if they were still in a State Department briefing.

'Not a lot,' she said, lowering her voice. 'Except that ifSaddam were to be a.s.sa.s.sinated he feels that he would become the Iraqis' number-one target.'

'A human enough response,' suggested Scott.

'Let's not talk politics,' said Susan. 'Let's talk about more interesting things. Why do you feel Ciseri is underrated and Bellini overrated?' she enquired. Scott realised Susan must have also read his internal file from cover to cover.

'So that's why you came. You're an art freak.'

For the next hour they discussed Bellini, Ciseri, Caravaggio, Florence and Venice, which kept them fully occupied until the maitre d' reappeared by their side.

She recommended the chocolate souffle, and seemed disappointed that they both rejected the suggestion.

Over coffee, Scott told his guest about his life at Yale, and Susan admitted that she sometimes regretted she had not taken up an offer to teach at Stanford.

'One of the five universities you've honoured with your scholarship.'

'But never Yale, Professor Bradley,' she said before folding her napkin. Scott smiled. 'Thank you for a lovely evening,' she added as the maitre d' returned with the check.

Scott signed it quickly, hoping she couldn't see, and that the CIA accounts department wouldn't query why it was a bill for three people.

When Susan went to the ladies' room Scott checked his watch. Ten twenty-five. The last plane had taken off nearly an hour before. He walked down to the front desk and asked if they could book him in for another night. The receptionist pressed a few keys on the computer, studied the result and said, 'Yes, that will be fine, Professor Bradley. Continental breakfast at seven and the Washington Post as usual?'

'Thank you,' he said as Susan reappeared by his side.

She linked her arm in his as they walked towards the taxis parked in the cobblestone driveway. The doorman opened the back door of the first taxi as Scott once again kissed Susan on the cheek.

'See you soon, I hope.'

'That will depend on the Secretary of State,' said Susan with a grin as she stepped into the back of the taxi. The doorman closed the door behind her and Scott waved as the car disappeared down Ma.s.sachusetts Avenue.

Scott took a deep breath of Washington air and felt that after two meals a walk round the block wouldn't do him any harm. His mind switched constantly between Saddam and Susan,neither of whom he felt he had the full measure of.

He strolled back into the Ritz Carlton about twenty minutes later, but before going up to his room he returned to the restaurant and handed the maitre d' a twenty-dollar bill.

'Thank you, sir,' she said. 'I hope you enjoyed both meals.'

'If you ever need a day job,' Scott said, 'I know an outfit in Virginia that could make good use of your particular talents.' The maitre d' bowed. Scott left the restaurant, took the lift to the fifth floor and strolled down the corridor to room 505.

When he removed his key from the lock and pushed the door open he was surprised to find he'd left a light on. He took his jacket off and walked down the short pa.s.sageway into the bedroom. He stopped and stared at the sight that met him.

Susan was sitting up in bed in a rather sheer neglige, reading his notes on the afternoon's meeting, her gla.s.ses propped on the end of her nose. She looked up and gave Scott a disarming smile.

'The Secretary of State told me that I was to find out as much as I possibly could about you before our next meeting.'

'When's your next meeting?'

'Tomorrow morning, nine sharp.'

b.u.t.ton GWINNETT WAS PROVING to be a problem. The writing was spidery and small, and the G sloped forward. It was several hours before Dollar Bill was willing to transfer the signature onto the two remaining parchments. In the days that followed, he used fifty-six different shades of ink and subtle changes of pressure on the dozen nibs he tried out before he felt happy with Lewis Morris, Abraham Clark, Richard Stockton and Caesar Rodney. But he felt his masterpiece was undoubtedly John Hanc.o.c.k, in size, accuracy, shade and pressure.

The Irishman completed two copies of the Declaration of Independence forty-eight days after he had accepted a drink from Angelo Santini at a downtown bar in San Francisco.

'One is a perfect copy,' he told Angelo, 'while the other has a tiny flaw.'

Angelo stood looking at the two doc.u.ments in amazement, unable to think of the words that would adequately express his admiration.

'When William J. Stone was asked to make a copy back in 1820, it took him nearly three years,' said Dollar Bill.

'And, more important, he had the blessing of Congress.''Are you going to tell me the one difference between the final copy you've chosen and the original?'

'No, but I will tell you it was William J. Stone who pointed me in the right direction.'

'So what's next?' asked Angelo.

'Patience,' said the craftsman, 'because our little souffle needs time to rise.'

Angelo watched as Dollar Bill transferred the two parchments carefully onto a table in the centre of the room where he had rigged up a water-cooled Xenon lamp. 'This gives out a light similar to daylight, but of much greater intensity,' he explained. He flicked the switch on and the room lit up like a television studio. 'If I've got my calculations right,' said Bill, 'that should achieve in thirty hours what nature took over two hundred years to do for the original.' He smiled. 'Certainly enough time to get drunk.'

'Not yet,' said Angelo, hesitating. 'Mr Cavalli has one more request.'

'And what might that be?' asked Dollar Bill in his warm Irish brogue.

He listened to Mr Cavalli's latest whim with interest. 'I feel I ought to be paid double in the circ.u.mstances,' was the forger's only response.

'Mr Cavalli has agreed to pay you another ten thousand,'

said Angelo.

Dollar Bill looked down at the two copies, shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

Thirty-six hours later, the chairman and the chief executive of Skills boarded a shuttle for Washington.

They had two a.s.sessments to make before flying back to New York. If both came out positively, they could then arrange a meeting of the executive team they hoped would carry out the contract.

If, however, they came away unconvinced, Cavalli would return to Wall Street and make two phone calls. One to Mr Al Obaydi, explaining why it would be impossible to fulfil his request, and the second to their contact in the Lebanon to tell him that they could not deal with a man who had demanded that ten per cent of the money be lodged in a Swiss bank account in his name. Cavalli would even supply the number of the account they had opened in Al Obaydi's name in Geneva, and thus the blame for failure would be shifted from the Cavallis to the Deputy Amba.s.sador from Iraq.When the two men stepped out of the main terminal, a car was waiting to ferry them into Washington. Crossing the 14th Street bridge they proceeded east on Const.i.tution Avenue where they were dropped outside the National Gallery, a building that neither of them had ever visited before.

Once inside the East Wing, they took a seat on a little bench against the wall just below the vast Calder mobile and waited.

It was the clapping that first attracted their attention.

When they looked up to see what was causing the commotion, they watched as flocks of tourists quickly stood to one side, trying to make a clearing.

When they saw him for the first time, the Cavallis automatically stood. A group of bodyguards, two of whom Antonio recognised, was leading the man through a human pa.s.sage while he shook hands with as many people as possible.

The chairman and the chief executive took a few paces forward to get a better view of what was taking place. It was remarkable: the broad smile, the gait and walk, even the same turn of the head. When he stopped in front of them and bent down to speak to a little boy for a moment they might, if they hadn't known the truth, have believed it themselves.

When the man reached the front of the building, the bodyguards led him towards the third limousine in a line of six. In moments he had been whisked away, the sound of sirens fading into the distance.

'That two-minute exercise cost us one hundred thousand dollars,' said Tony as they made their way back towards the entrance. As he pushed through the revolving door a little boy rushed past him shouting at the top of his voice, 'I've just seen the President! I've just seen the President!'

'Worth every penny,' said Tony's father. 'Now all we need to know is whether Dollar Bill also lives up to his reputation.'

Hannah received an urgent call asking her to attend a meeting at the emba.s.sy when there was still another four months of her course to complete. She a.s.sumed the worst.

In the exams which were conducted every other Friday, Hannah had consistently scored higher marks than the other five trainee agents who were still in London. She was d.a.m.ned if she was going to be told at this late stage that she wasn't up to it.

The unscheduled appointment with the Councillor for Cultural Affairs, a euphemistic t.i.tle for Colonel Kratz,Mossad's top man in London, was for six that evening.

At her morning tutorial, Hannah failed to concentrate on the works of the Prophet Mohammed, and during the afternoon she had an even tougher time with The British Occupation and Mandate in Iraq, 1917-32. She was glad to escape at five o'clock without being set any extra work.

The Israeli Emba.s.sy had, for the past two months, been forbidden territory for all the trainee agents unless specifically invited. If you were summoned you knew it was simply to collect your return ticket home: we no longer have any use for you. 'Goodbye,' and, if you were lucky, 'Thank you.' Two of the trainees had already taken that route during the past month.

Hannah had only seen the emba.s.sy once, when she was driven quickly past it on her first day back in the capital. She wasn't even sure of its exact location. After consulting an A-Z map of London, she discovered it was in Palace Green, Kensington, slightly back from the road.

Hannah stepped out of the High Street Kensington underground station a few minutes before six. She strolled up the wide pavement into Palace Green and on as far as the Philippine Emba.s.sy before turning back to reach the Israeli Mission just before the appointed hour. She smiled at the policeman as she climbed the steps up to the front door.

Hannah announced her name to the receptionist, and explained she had an appointment with the Councillor for Cultural Affairs. 'First floor. Once you reach the top of the stairs, it's the green door straight in front of you.'

Hannah climbed the wide staircase slowly, trying to gather her thoughts. She felt a rush of apprehension as she knocked on the door. It was immediately opened with a flourish.

'A pleasure to meet you, Hannah,' said a young man she had never seen before. 'My name is Kratz. Sorry to call you in at such short notice, but we have a problem. Please take a seat,' he added, pointing to a comfortable chair on the other side of a large desk. Not a man given to small talk, was Hannah's first conclusion.

Hannah sat bolt upright in the chair and stared at the man opposite her, who looked far too young to be the Councillor for Cultural Affairs. But then she recalled the real reason for the Colonel's posting to London. Kratz had a warm, open face, and if he hadn't been going prematurely bald at the front, he might even have been described as handsome.His ma.s.sive hands rested on the desk in front of him as he looked across at Hannah. His eyes never left her and she began to feel unnerved by such concentration.

Hannah clenched her fists. If she was to be sent home she would at least state her case, which she had already prepared and rehea.r.s.ed.

The Councillor hesitated as if he were deciding how to express what needed to be said. Hannah wished he would get on with it. It was worse than waiting for the result of an exam you knew you had failed.

'How are you settling in with the Rubins?' Kratz enquired.

'Very well, thank you,' said Hannah, without offering any details. She was determined not to hold him up from the real purpose of their meeting.

'And how's the course working out?'

Hannah nodded and shrugged her shoulders.

'And are you looking forward to going back to Israel?'

asked Kratz.

'Only if I've got a worthwhile job to go back to,' Hannah replied, annoyed that she had lowered her guard. She wished Kratz would look away for just a moment.

'Well, it's possible you may not be going back to Israel,'

said Kratz.

Hannah shifted her position in the chair.

'At least, not immediately,' added Kratz. 'Perhaps I ought to explain. Although you have four more months of your course to complete' - he opened a file that lay on the desk in front of him - 'your tutor has informed us that you are likely to perform better in the final exams than any of the other five remaining agents, as I'm sure you know.'

It was the first time she had ever been described as an agent.