Honour Among Thieves

he tried to take a pace towards her. She stood staring at him helplessly as he lurched forward before attempting to take a second step. Then he tried again, but this time he stumbled and collapsed across the table, finally landing with a thud on the floor at her feet. 'I can't blame you if you don't feel the same way as ...' were his final words, as the leather case burst open, disgorging its contents all around a body that was suddenly still. Hannah fell on her knees and took his head in her hands. She began to sob uncontrollably. 'I love you, of course I love you, Simon. But why didn't you trust me enough to tell me the truth?' 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 modelling 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 dialled 17 and screamed, 'Please God, let one pill not be enough. Answer, answer, answer!' she shrieked at the phone as the door of Scott's apartment flew open. Hannah turned to see Kratz and another man whom she didn't recognise 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 slowly back to the table, opened her bag and removed the second pill. '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 patiently, 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 realise there are more than forty Special and Deputy Assistants to the President.' 'No, I didn't realise,' 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.' '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 centre 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 lavatory, 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