Honor Among Thieves

“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 all 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 couldn’t find out 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 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 oversensitive? 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 Provençal. “Madam’s favorite, 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 theater, 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 empt

y.

“And now we shall end on my pièce de résistance.” 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.