Honor Among Thieves

Her eyes rested on a small photo lodged between his fingers. She snatched it from his grasp. Written on the back were the words “Katherine Bradley—Summer ’66.” It must have been his mother. She grabbed the passport 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 modeling 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, God, 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 dialed 17 and screamed, “Please God, let one pill not be enough. Answer, answer, answer!” she shrieked at the phone as the doors of Scott’s apartment flew open. Hannah turned to see Kratz and another man whom she didn’t recognize 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 bastard, you bastard!” she screamed. “You made me kill the only person I ever really loved! I hope you rot in hell!” 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 passed, maybe two, before she crawled back to the table, opened her bag and removed the second pill.

Chapter Eighteen

“White House.”

“Mr. Butterworth, 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 pat

iently, made aware as each second passed 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 Butterworth, Special Assistant to the President.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Marshall, Calder Marshall, Archivist.”

“Of—?”

“Of the United States of America.”

There was another long silence.

“The name Butterworth rings no bells with me, sir, but I’m sure you realize there are more than forty Special and Deputy Assistants to the President.”

“No, I didn’t realize,” 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 assignment.”

“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.”