Honour Among Thieves

to Dexter Hutchins. Dexter read the two words and laughed before passing it on to Scott: 'He's bluffing.' When the two of them had been left alone, Dexter Hutchins also had one question that he needed answering. 'How could you be so sure that we aren't planning to take Saddam out?' 'I'm not,' admitted Scott. 'But I am certain that the Israelis don't have any information to suggest we are.' Dexter smiled and said, 'Thanks for coming down from Connecticut, Scott. I'll be in touch. I've got a hunch the plane to Washington is going to feel like a shuttle for you over the next few months.' Scott nodded, relieved that the term was just about to end and no one would expect to see him around for several weeks. Scott took a cab back to the Ritz Carlton, returned to his room and began to pack his overnight case. During the past year he'd considered a hundred ways that the Israelis might plan to assassinate Saddam Hussein, but all of them had flaws because of the massive protection that always surrounded the Iraqi President wherever he went. Scott felt certain also that Prime Minister Rabin would never sanction such an operation unless there was a good chance that his operatives would get home alive. Israel didn't need that sort of humiliation on top of all its other problems. Scott flicked on the evening news. The President was heading to Houston to carry out a fund-raiser for Senator Bob Krueger, who was defending Lloyd Bentsen's seat in the special May elections. His plane had been late taking off from Andrews. There was no explanation as to why he was behind schedule - the new President was quickly gaining a reputation for working by Clinton Standard Time. All the White House correspondent was willing to say was that he had been locked in talks with the Secretary of State. Scott switched off the news and checked his watch. It was a little after seven, and his flight wasn't scheduled until 9.40. Just enough time to grab a bite before he left for the airport. He had only been offered sandwiches and a glass of milk all day, and considered that the CIA at least owed him a decent meal. Scott went downstairs to the Jockey Club and was taken to a seat in the corner. A noisy congressman was telling a blonde half his age that the President had been locked in a meeting with Warren Christopher because 'they were discussing my amendment to the defence budget'. The blonde looked suitably impressed, even if the maitre d' didn't. Scott ordered the smoked salmon, a sirloin steak and a half bottle of Mouton Cadet before once again going over everything the Israeli Prime Minister had said at the meeting. But he concluded that the shrewd politician had given no clues as to how or when - or even whether - the Israelis would carry out their threat. On the recommendation of the maitre d', he agreed to try the house special, a chocolate souffle. He convinced himself that he wasn't going to be fed like this again for some time and, in any case, he could work it off in the gym the next day. When he had finished the last mouthful, Scott checked his watch: three minutes past eight -just enough time for a coffee before grabbing a taxi to the airport. Scott decided against a second cup, raised his hand and scribbled in the air to indicate that he'd like the check. When the maitre d' returned, he had his MasterCard ready. 'Your guest has just arrived,' said the maitre d', without indicating the slightest surprise. 'My guest. . .?' began Scott. 'Hello, Scott. I'm sorry I'm a little late, but the President just wsnt on and on asking questions.' Scott stood up and slipped his MasterCard back into his pocket before kissing Susan on the cheek. 'You did say eight o'clock, didn't you?' she asked. 'Yes, I did,' said Scott, as if he had simply been waiting for her. The maitre d' reappeared with two large menus and handed them to her customers. 'I can recommend the smoked salmon and the steak,' she said without even a flicker of a smile. 'No, that sounds a bit too much for me,' said Susan. 'But don't let me stop you, Scott.' 'No, President Clinton's not the only one dieting,' said Scott. 'The consomme and the house salad will suit me just fine.' Scott looked at Susan as she studied the menu, her glasses propped on the end of her nose. She had changed from her well-cut dark blue suit into a calf-length pink dress that emphasised her slim figure even more. Her blonde hair now fell loosely on to her shoulders and for the first time in his memory she was wearing