Honor Among Thieves

But Pedersson’s thoughts did not match his expression. “All is not well,” he muttered to himself. “I do not believe that gentleman feels Madame Bertha is in safe hands, and I am certain he is no friend of Mr. Riffat.”

* * *

It surprised Scott to find that he liked Dollar Bill the moment he met him. It didn’t surprise him that once he had seen an example of his work, he also respected him.

Scott landed in San Francisco seventeen hours after he had taken off from Stockholm. The CIA had a car waiting for him at the airport. He was driven quickly up into Marin County and deposited outside the safe house within the hour.

After snatching some sleep, Scott rose for lunch, hoping to meet Dollar Bill straight away, but to his disappointment the forger was nowhere to be seen.

“Mr. O’Reilly takes breakfast at seven and doesn’t appear again before dinner, sir,” explained the butler.

“And what does he do for sustenance in between?” asked Scott.

“At twelve, I take him a bar of chocolate and half a pint of water, and at six, half a pint of Guinness.”

After lunch, Scott read an update on what had been going on at the State Department during his absence, and then spent the rest of the afternoon in the basement gym. He staggered out of the session around five, nursing several aches and pains from excessive exercise and one or two bruises administered by the judo instructor.

“Not bad for thirty-six,” he was told condescendingly by the instructor, who looked as if he might have been only a shade younger himself.

Scott sat in a warm bath trying to ease the pain as he turned the pages of Madame Bertha’s bible. The document had already been translated by six Arabic scholars from six universities within fifty miles of where he was soaking. They had been given two non-consecutive chapters each. Dexter Hutchins had not been idle since his return.

When Scott came down for dinner, still feeling a little stiff, he found Dollar Bill standing with his back to the fire in the drawing room, sipping a glass of water.

“What would you like to drink, Professor?” asked the butler.

“A light beer if you have it,” Scott replied before introducing himself to Dollar Bill.

“Are you here, Professor, out of choice, or were you simply arrested for drunk driving?” was Dollar Bill’s first question. He had obviously decided to give Scott just as hard a time as the judo instructor.

“Choice, I fear,” replied Scott with a smile.

“From such a reply,” said Dollar Bill, “I can only deduce you teach a dead subject or one that is no use to living mortals.”

“I teach constitutional law,” Scott replied, “but I specialize in logic.”

“Then you manage to achieve both at once,” said Dollar Bill as Dexter Hutchins entered the room.

“I’d like a gin and tonic, Charles,” said Dexter as he shook Scott’s hand warmly. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch up with you earlier, but those guys in Foggy Bottom haven’t been off the phone all afternoon.”

“There are many reasons to be wary of your fellow creatures,” Dollar Bill observed, “and by asking for a gin and tonic, Mr. Hutchins has just demonstrated two of them.”

Charles returned a moment later carrying a light beer and a gin and tonic on a silver tray, which he offered to Scott and the Deputy Director.

“In my university days, logic didn’t exist,” said Dollar Bill after Dexter Hutchins had suggested they go through to dinner. “Trinity College, Dublin, would have no truck with the subject. I can’t think of a single occasion in Irish history when any of my countrymen have ever relied on logic.”

“So what did you study?” asked Scott.

“A lot of Fleming, a little of Joyce, with a few rare moments devoted to Plato and Aristotle, but I fear not enough to engage the attention of any member of the board of examiners.”

“And how is the Declaration coming on?” asked Dexter, as if he hadn’t been following the conversation.

“A stickler for the work ethic is our Mr. Hutchins, Professor,” said Dollar Bill as a bowl of soup was placed in front of him. “Mind you, he is a man who would rely on logic to see him through. However, since there is no such thing in life as a free meal, I will attempt to answer my jailer’s question. Today I completed the text as originally written by Timothy Matlock, Assistant to the Secretary of Congress. It took him seventeen hours, you know. I fear it has taken me rather longer.”

“And how long do you think it will take you to finish the names?” pressed Dexter.

“You are worse than Pope Julius II, forever demanding of Michelangelo how long it would take him to finish the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,” said Dollar Bill as the butler removed the soup bowls.

“The names,” demanded Dexter. “The names.”