Honour Among Thieves Part 4

'Tomorrow you get the other earring,' the woman continued. 'On Friday the first ear.

On Sat.u.r.day the other ear. If you keep on worrying about your ethics, Dr McKenzie, there won't be much of your daughter left by this time next week.'

'You wouldn't...'

'Ask John Paul Getty III if we wouldn't.'

T. Hamilton McKenzie rose from the table and leaned across.

'We can speed the whole process up if that's the way you want it,' she added, displaying not the slightest sign of fear.

McKenzie slumped back into his seat and tried to compose himself.

'Good,' she said. 'That's better. At least we now seem to understand each other.'

'So what happens next?' he asked.

'We'll be back in touch with you sometime later today. So make sure you're in. Because I feel confident that by then you'll have come to terms with your professional ethics.'

McKenzie was about to protest when the woman stood up, took a five-dollar bill out of her bag and placed it on the table.'Can't have Columbus's leading surgeon was.h.i.+ng up the dishes, can we?' She turned to leave and had reached the door before it struck McKenzie that they even knew he had left the house without his wallet.

T. Hamilton McKenzie began to consider her proposition, not certain if he had been left with any alternative.

But he was certain of one thing. If he carried out their demands, then President Clinton was going to end up with an even bigger problem.

A QUIET MAN sat on a stool at the end of the bar emptying the final drops in his gla.s.s. The gla.s.s had been almost empty of Guinness for some time, but the Irishman always hoped that the movement would arouse some sympathy in the barman, and he might just be kind enough to pour a drop more into the empty gla.s.s. But not this particular barman.

'b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' he said under his breath. It was always the young ones who had no heart.

The barman didn't know the customer's real name. For that matter, few people did except the FBI and the San Francisco Police Department.

The file at the SFPD gave William Sean O'Reilly's age as fifty-two. A casual onlooker might have judged him to be nearer sixty-five, not just because of his well-worn clothes, but from the p.r.o.nounced lines on his forehead, the wrinkled bags under his eyes and the extra inches around his waist.

O'Reilly blamed it on three alimonies, four jail sentences and going too many rounds in his youth as an amateur boxer.

He never blamed it on the Guinness.

The problem had begun at school when O'Reilly discovered by sheer chance that he could copy his cla.s.smates' signatures when they signed chits to withdraw pocket money from the school bank. By the time he had completed his first year at Trinity College, Dublin, he could forge the signatures of the provost and the bursar so well that even they believed that they had awarded him a bursary.

While at St Patrick's Inst.i.tution for Offenders, Bill was introduced to the banknote by Liam the Counterfeiter. When they opened the gates to let him out, the young apprentice had nothing left to learn from the master. Bill discovered that his mother was unwilling to allow him to return to the bosom of the family, so he forged the signature of the American Consul in Dublin and departed for the brave new world.By the age of thirty, he had etched his first dollar plate. The work was so good that, during the trial that followed its discovery, the FBI acknowledged that the counterfeit was a masterpiece which would never have been detected without the help of an informer. O'Reilly was sentenced to six years and the crime desk of the San Francisco Chronicle dubbed him 'Dollar Bill'.

When Dollar Bill was released from jail, he moved on to tens, twenties and later fifties, and his sentences increased in direct proportion. In between sentences he managed three wives and three divorces. Something else his mother wouldn't have approved of.

His third wife did her best to keep him on the straight and narrow, and Bill responded by producing doc.u.ments only when he couldn't get any other work - the odd pa.s.sport, the occasional driver's licence or social security claim - nothing really criminal, he a.s.sured the judge. The judge didn't agree and sent him back down for another five years.

When Dollar Bill was released this time, n.o.body would touch him, so he had to resort to doing tattoos at fairgrounds and, in desperation, pavement paintings which, when it didn't rain, just about kept him in Guinness.

Bill lifted the empty gla.s.s and stared once again at the barman, who returned a look of stony indifference. He failed to notice the smartly-dressed young man who took a seat on the other side of him.

'What can I get you to drink, Mr O'Reilly?' said a voice he didn't recognise. Bill looked round suspiciously. 'I'm retired,' he declared, fearing that it was another of those young plain-clothes detectives from the San Francisco Police Department who hadn't made his quota of arrests for the month.

'Then you won't mind having a drink with an old con, will you?' said the younger man, revealing a slight Bronx accent.

Bill hesitated, but the thirst won.

'A pint of draught Guinness,' he said hopefully.

The young man raised his hand and this time the barman responded immediately.

'So what do you want?' asked Bill, once he'd taken a swig and was sure the barman was out of earshot.

'Your skill.'

'But I'm retired. I already told you.'

'And I heard you the first time. But what I require isn't criminal.''So what are you hoping I'll knock up for you? A copy of the Mona Lisa, or is it to be the Magna Carta?'

'Nearer home than that,' said the young man.

'Buy me another,' said Bill, staring at the empty gla.s.s that stood on the counter in front of him, 'and I'll listen to your proposition. But I warn you, I'm still retired.'

After the barman had filled Bill's gla.s.s a second time, the young man introduced himself as Angelo Santini, and began to explain to Dollar Bill exactly what he had in mind. Angelo was grateful that at four in the afternoon there was no one else around to overhear them.

'But there are already thousands of those in circula- tion,' said Dollar Bill when Angelo had finished. 'You could buy a good reproduction from any decent tourist shop.'

'Maybe, but not a perfect copy,' insisted the young man.

Dollar Bill put down his drink and thought about the statement.

'Who wants one?'

'It's for a client who's a collector of rare ma.n.u.scripts,'

Angelo said. 'And he'll pay a good price.'

Not a bad lie, as lies go, thought Bill. He took another sip of Guinness. 'But it would take me weeks,' he said, almost under his breath. 'In any case, I'd have to move to Was.h.i.+ngton.'

'We've already found a suitable place for you in Georgetown, and I'm sure we can lay our hands on all the materials you'd need.'

Dollar Bill considered this claim for a moment, before taking another gulp and declaring, 'Forget it - it sounds too much like hard work. As I explained, it would take me weeks and, worse, I'd have to stop drinking,' he added, placing his empty gla.s.s back on the counter. 'You must understand, I'm a perfectionist.'

'That's exactly why I've travelled from one side of the country to the other to find you,' said Angelo quietly.

Dollar Bill hesitated and looked at the young man more carefully.

'I'd want $25,000 down and $25,000 on completion, with all expenses paid,' said the Irishman.

The young man couldn't believe his luck. Cavalli had authorised him to spend up to $100,000 if he could guarantee the finished article. But then he remembered that his boss never trusted anyone who didn't bargain.

'$10,000 when we reach Was.h.i.+ngton and another $20,000 oncompletion.'

Dollar Bill toyed with his empty gla.s.s.

'$30,000 on completion if you can't tell the difference between mine and the original.'

'But we'll need to tell the difference,' said Angelo.

'You'll get your $30,000 if no one else can.'

Scott heard the phone ringing when he was at the foot of the stairs. His mind was still going over the morning lecture he had just given, but he leaped up the stairs three at a time, pushed open the door of his apartment and grabbed the phone, knocking his mother to the floor.

'Scott Bradley,' he said as he picked up the photograph and replaced it on the sideboard.

'I need you in Was.h.i.+ngton tomorrow. My office, nine o'clock sharp.'

Scott was always impressed by the way Dexter Hutchins never introduced himself, and a.s.sumed that the work he did for the CIA was more important than his commitment to Yale.

It took Scott most of the afternoon to rearrange his teaching schedule with two understanding colleagues. He couldn't use the excuse of not feeling well, as everyone on campus knew he hadn't missed a day's work through illness in nine years. So he fell back on 'woman trouble', which always elicited sympathy from the older professors, but didn't lead them to ask too many questions.

Dexter Hutchins never gave any details over the phone as to why Scott was needed, but as all the morning papers had carried pictures of Yitzhak Rabin arriving in Was.h.i.+ngton for his first meeting with President Clinton, he made the obvious a.s.sumption.

Scott removed the file that was lodged between Tax and Torts and extracted everything he had about the new Israeli Prime Minister. His policy towards America didn't seem to differ greatly from that of his predecessor. He was better educated than Shamir, more conciliatory and gender in his approach, but Scott suspected that if it came to a knife fight in a downtown bar, Rabin was the one who would come out unmarked.

He leaned back and started thinking about a blonde named Susan Anderson who had been present at the last briefing he had been asked to attend with the new Secretary of State. If she was at the meeting, the trip to Was.h.i.+ngton might prove worthwhile.

The following morning a black limousine with smokedwindows pulled up outside Ohio State University Hospital. The chauffeur parked in the s.p.a.ce reserved for T. Hamilton McKenzie, as he had been instructed to do.

His only other orders were to pick up a patient at ten o'clock and drive him to the University of Cincinnati and Homes Hospital.

At 10.10, two white-coated orderlies wheeled a tall, well-built man in a chair out through the swing doors and, seeing the car parked in the Dean's s.p.a.ce, guided him towards it. The driver jumped out and quickly opened the back door.

Poor man, he thought, his head all covered in bandages and only a small crack left for his lips and nostrils. He wondered if it had been burns.

The stockily-built man clambered from the wheelchair into the back, sank into the luxurious upholstery and stretched out his legs. The driver told him, 'I'm going to put on your seatbelt,' and received a curt nod in response.

He returned to his seat in the front and lowered his window to say goodbye to the two orderlies and an older, rather distinguished-looking man who stood behind them. The driver had never seen such a drained face.

The limousine moved off at a sedate pace. The chauffeur had been warned not, under any circ.u.mstances, to break the speed limit.

T. Hamilton McKenzie was overcome with relief as he watched the car disappear down the hospital drive. He hoped the nightmare was at last coming to an end. The operation had taken him seven hours, and the previous night had been the first time he had slept soundly for the past week. The last order he had received was to go home and wait for Sally's release.

When the demand had been put to him by the woman who left five dollars on the table at the Olentangy Inn, he had considered it impossible. Not, as he had suggested, on ethical grounds, but because he had thought he could never achieve a true likeness. He had wanted to explain to her about autografting, the external epithelium and the deeper corium, and how unlikely it was that... But when he saw the unnamed man in his private office, he immediately realised why they had chosen him. He was almost the right height, perhaps a shade short - an inch, no more - and he might have been five to ten pounds too light. But shoe lifts and a few Big Macs would sort out both of those problems.

The skull and features were remarkable and bore a stunningresemblance to the original. In fact in the end it had only proved necessary to perform rhinoplasty and a partial thickness graft. The results were good, very good. The surgeon a.s.sumed that the man's red hair was irrelevant because they could shave his head and use a wig. With a new set of teeth and good make-up, only his immediate family would be able to tell the difference.

McKenzie had had several different teams working with him during the seven hours in the operating theatre. He'd told them he needed fresh help whenever he began to tire. No one ever questioned T. Hamilton McKenzie inside the hospital, and only he had seen the final result.

He had kept his side of the bargain.

She parked the Ford Taurus - America's most popular car - a hundred yards from the house, but not before she'd swung it round to face the direction in which she would be leaving.

She changed her shoes in the car. The only time she had nearly been caught was when some mud had stuck to the soles of her shoes and the FBI had traced it to within yards of a spot she had visited a few days before.

She swung her bag over her shoulder and stepped out onto the road. She began to walk slowly towards the house.

They had chosen the location well. The farmhouse was several miles from the nearest building - and that was an empty barn - at the end of a track that even desperate lovers would have thought twice about.

There was no sign of anyone being in the house, but she knew they were there, waiting, watching her every move. She opened the door without knocking and immediately saw one of them in the hall.

'Upstairs,' he said, pointing. She did not reply as she walked past him and began to climb the stairs.

She went straight into the bedroom and found the young girl sitting on the end of the bed reading. Sally turned and smiled at the slim woman in the green Laura Ashley dress, hoping that she had brought another book with her.

The woman placed a hand in her bag and smiled shyly, before pulling out a paperback and pa.s.sing it over to the young girl.

'Thank you,' said Sally, who took the book, checked the cover and then quickly turned it over to study the plot summary.

While Sally became engrossed by the promised story, the woman unclipped the long plaited rope that was attached tothe two sides of her shopping bag.

Sally opened the book at the first chapter, having already decided she would have to read every page very slowly. After all, she couldn't be sure when the next offering might come.

The movement was so fast that she didn't even feel the rope go round her neck. Sally's head jerked back and with one flick her vertebra was broken. Her chin slumped onto her chest.

Blood began to trickle out of her mouth, down her chin and onto the cover of A Time to Love and a Time to...

The driver of the limousine was surprised to be flagged down by a traffic cop just as he was about to take the exit ramp onto the freeway. He felt sure he hadn't broken the speed limit. Then he spotted the ambulance in his rear-view mirror, and wondered if they simply wanted to pa.s.s him. He looked to the front again to see the motorcycle cop was firmly waving him onto the hard shoulder.

He immediately obeyed the order and brought the car to a standstill, puzzled as to what was going on. The ambulance drew in and stopped behind him. The cop dismounted from his motorcycle, walked up to the driver's door and tapped on the window. The chauffeur touched a b.u.t.ton in the armrest and the window slid silently down.

'Is there a problem, officer?'

'Yes, sir, we have an emergency on our hands,' the policeman said without raising his visor. 'Your patient has to return to the Ohio State University Hospital immediately. There have been unforeseen complications. You're to transfer him to the ambulance and I will escort them back into the city.'

The wide-eyed driver agreed with a series of consenting nods. 'Should I go back to the hospital as well?' he asked.

'No, sir, you're to continue to Cincinnati and report to your office.'

The driver turned his head to see two paramedics dressed in white overalls standing by the side of the car. The policeman nodded and one of them opened the back door while the other released the seatbelt so that he could help the patient out.

The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror and watched the paramedics guide the well-built man towards the ambulance.

The siren on the motorcycle brought his attention back to the policeman who was now directing the ambulance up the exit ramp so that it could cross the bridge over the highway andbegin its journey back into the city.

The whole changeover had taken less than five minutes, leaving the driver in the limousine feeling somewhat dazed.

He then did what he felt he should have done the moment he saw the policeman, and telephoned his headquarters in Cincinnati.

'We were just about to call you,' said the girl on the switchboard. 'They don't need the car any longer, so you may as well come straight back.'