Honour Among Thieves

friends had been a moment -' And then he slept. When he woke, the doctor told Scott that when he'd first arrived they thought it was too late, and twice he'd been pronounced technically dead. 'Antidotes and electrostimulation of the heart, combined with a rare determination to live and one nurse's theory that you might be a Gentile, defied the technical pronouncement,' he declared with a smile. Scott asked if someone called Hannah had been to see him. The doctor checked the board at the end of his bed. There had been only two visitors that he was aware of, both of them men. They came every day. And then Scott slept. When he woke, the two men the doctor had mentioned were standing one on each side of his bed. Scott smiled at Dexter Hutchins, who was trying not to cry. Grown men don't cry, he wanted to say, especially when they work for the CIA. He turned to the other man. He had never seen a face so full of shame, so ridden with guilt, or eyes so red from not sleeping. Scott tried to ask what had caused him such unhappiness. And then he slept. When he woke, both men were still there, now resting on uncomfortable chairs, half asleep. 'Dexter,' he whispered, and they both woke immediately. 'Where's Hannah?' The other man, who Scott noticed was recovering from a black eye and a broken nose, took some time answering his question. And then Scott slept, never wanting to wake again. 'department of commerce.' 'The Director, please.' 'Who's calling?' 'Marshall, Calder Marshall.' 'Is he expecting your call?' 'No, he is not.' 'Mr Fielding only takes calls from people who have previously booked to speak to him.' 'What about his secretary?' asked Marshall. 'She never takes calls.' 'So how do I get a booking with Mr Fielding?' 'You have to speak to Miss Zelumski in reservations.' 'Can I be put through to Miss Zelumski, or do I have to make a reservation to speak to her as well?' 'There is no need to be sarcastic, sir. I'm only doing my job.' 'I'm sorry. Perhaps you'd put me through to Miss Zelumski.' Marshall waited patiently. 'Miss Zelumski speaking.' 'I'd like to reserve a call to speak to Mr Fielding.' 'Is it domestic, most-favoured status or foreign?' asked a bored-sounding voice. 'It's personal.' 'Does he know you?' 'No, he doesn't.' 'Then I can't help. I only deal with domestic, most-favoured status or foreign.' The Archivist hung up before Miss Zelumski was given the chance to say 'Glad to have been of assistance, sir.' Marshall tapped his fingers on the desk. The time had come to play by new rules. Cavalli had checked into the Hotel de la Paix in Geneva the previous evening. He had booked a modest suite overlooking the lake. Neither expensive nor conspicuous. After he had undressed, he climbed into bed and tuned in to CNN. He watched for a few moments, but found that the news of Bill Clinton having his hair cut on board Air Force One while it was parked on a runway at Los Angeles airport was getting more coverage than the Americans shooting down a plane in the no-fly zone over Iraq. It seemed the new President was determined to prove to Saddam that he was every bit as tough as Bush. When Cavalli woke in the morning, he jumped out of bed, strolled across to the window, opened the curtains and admired the fountain in the centre of the lake whose water spouted like a gushing well high into the air. He turned to see that an envelope had been pushed under the door. He tore it open to discover a note confirming his appointment to 'take tea' with his banker, Monsieur Franchard, at eleven o'clock that morning. Cavalli was about to drop the card into the waste-paper basket when he noticed some words scribbled on the bottom: After a light breakfast in his room, Cavalli packed his suitcase and hanging bag before going downstairs. The doorman answered his questions in perfect English, and confirmed the directions to Franchard et cie. In Switzerland hall porters know the location of banks, just as their London counterparts can direct you to theatres and football grounds. As Cavalli left the hotel and started the short walk to the bank, he couldn't help feeling something wasn't quite right. And then he realised that the streets were clean, the people he passed were well-dressed, sober and silent. A contrast in every way to New York. Once he reached the front door of the bank, Cavalli pressed the discreet bell under the equally discreet brass plate announcing 'Franchard et cie'. A doorman responded to the call. Cavalli walked into a