Honor Among Thieves

“Glad to have been of assistance, 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 center 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 toilet, 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 embassy, 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 pass 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 honorable but anonymous grave, she suspected. They would argue that it must be in the interest of 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.

She might even have drawn back at the last moment if they hadn’t threatened to carry out the job themselves, should she refuse. They promised her that if that was the case, it would be a far more unpleasant death.

Just as Hannah was about to take the first pill out of her bag, she had asked Simon for some sugar, one last lifeline. Why hadn’t he grabbed at it? Why didn’t he question her, tease her about her weight, do anything that would have made her have second thoughts? But then why, why had he waited so long to tell her the truth?

If he had only realized that she had things to tell him, too. The Ambassador had been called back to Iraq—a promotion, he explained. He was, as Kanuk had been telling everyone, to become Deputy Foreign Minister, which meant that in the absence of Muhammad Saeed Al-Zahiaf, he would be working directly with Saddam Hussein.

His place at the embassy was to be taken by a Hamid Al Obaydi, the number two at the United Nations, who had recently rendered some great service for Iraq, of which she would eventually learn. The Ambassador had offered her the choice of remaining in Paris to serve under Al Obaydi, or returning to Iraq and continuing to work with him. Only days before, Mossad would have considered such an offer an irresistible opportunity.

Hannah so wanted to tell Simon that she no longer cared about Saddam, that he had made it possible for her to overcome her hatred of the Scuds, even made the death of her family a wound that might in time be healed. She knew that she was no longer capable of killing anyone, as long as she had someone to live for.

But now that Simon was dead, her desire for revenge was even stronger than before.

“Department of Commerce.”

“Rex Butterworth, please.”

“What agency?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” said the Archivist.

“What agency is Mr. Butterworth with?” asked the operator, pronouncing each word slowly, as if she were addressing a four-year-old.

“I have no idea,” admitted the Archivist.

“We don’t show anyone by that name.”

“But the White House told me—”

“I don’t care what the White House told you. If you don’t know which agency—”

“May I have the Personnel Office?”

“Just a minute.” It turned out to be far longer than a minute.

“Office of Personnel.”

“This is Calder Marshall, Archivist of the United States. May I speak to the Director?”

“I’m sorry, but he’s not available. Would you like to speak to his Executive Assistant, Alex Wagner?”

“Yes. That would be just fine,” said Marshall.

“She’s not in today. Could you call again tomorrow?”

“Yes,” said Marshall with a sigh.