Honour Among Thieves

lipstick. She looked up and smiled. 'I'll have the crab cakes,' she told the maitre d'. 'What did the President have to say?' asked Scott, as if they were still in a State Department briefing. 'Not a lot,' she said, lowering her voice. 'Except that if Saddam were to be assassinated he feels that he would become the Iraqis' number-one target.' 'A human enough response,' suggested Scott. 'Let's not talk politics,' said Susan. 'Let's talk about more interesting things. Why do you feel Ciseri is underrated and Bellini overrated?' she enquired. Scott realised Susan must have also read his internal file from cover to cover. 'So that's why you came. You're an art freak.' For the next hour they discussed Bellini, Ciseri, Caravaggio, Florence and Venice, which kept them fully occupied until the maitre d' reappeared by their side. She recommended the chocolate souffle, and seemed disappointed that they both rejected the suggestion. Over coffee, Scott told his guest about his life at Yale, and Susan admitted that she sometimes regretted she had not taken up an offer to teach at Stanford. 'One of the five universities you've honoured with your scholarship.' 'But never Yale, Professor Bradley,' she said before folding her napkin. Scott smiled. 'Thank you for a lovely evening,' she added as the maitre d' returned with the check. Scott signed it quickly, hoping she couldn't see, and that the CIA accounts department wouldn't query why it was a bill for three people. When Susan went to the ladies' room Scott checked his watch. Ten twenty-five. The last plane had taken off nearly an hour before. He walked down to the front desk and asked if they could book him in for another night. The receptionist pressed a few keys on the computer, studied the result and said, 'Yes, that will be fine, Professor Bradley. Continental breakfast at seven and the Washington Post as usual?' 'Thank you,' he said as Susan reappeared by his side. She linked her arm in his as they walked towards the taxis parked in the cobblestone driveway. The doorman opened the back door of the first taxi as Scott once again kissed Susan on the cheek. 'See you soon, I hope.' 'That will depend on the Secretary of State,' said Susan with a grin as she stepped into the back of the taxi. The doorman closed the door behind her and Scott waved as the car disappeared down Massachusetts Avenue. Scott took a deep breath of Washington air and felt that after two meals a walk round the block wouldn't do him any harm. His mind switched constantly between Saddam and Susan, neither of whom he felt he had the full measure of. He strolled back into the Ritz Carlton about twenty minutes later, but before going up to his room he returned to the restaurant and handed the maitre d' a twenty-dollar bill. 'Thank you, sir,' she said. 'I hope you enjoyed both meals.' 'If you ever need a day job,' Scott said, 'I know an outfit in Virginia that could make good use of your particular talents.' The maitre d' bowed. Scott left the restaurant, took the lift to the fifth floor and strolled down the corridor to room 505. When he removed his key from the lock and pushed the door open he was surprised to find he'd left a light on. He took his jacket off and walked down the short passageway into the bedroom. He stopped and stared at the sight that met him. Susan was sitting up in bed in a rather sheer neglige, reading his notes on the afternoon's meeting, her glasses propped on the end of her nose. She looked up and gave Scott a disarming smile. 'The Secretary of State told me that I was to find out as much as I possibly could about you before our next meeting.' 'When's your next meeting?' 'Tomorrow morning, nine sharp.' button GWINNETT WAS PROVING to be a problem. The writing was spidery and small, and the G sloped forward. It was several hours before Dollar Bill was willing to transfer the signature onto the two remaining parchments. In the days that followed, he used fifty-six different shades of ink and subtle changes of pressure on the dozen nibs he tried out before he felt happy with Lewis Morris, Abraham Clark, Richard Stockton and Caesar Rodney. But he felt his masterpiece was undoubtedly John Hancock, in size, accuracy, shade and pressure. The Irishman completed two copies of the Declaration of Independence forty-eight days after he had accepted a drink from Angelo Santini at a downtown bar in San Francisco. 'One is a perfect copy,' he told Angelo, 'while the other has a tiny flaw.' Angelo stood