Honour Among Thieves

Revolutionary Command Council meet. Not bad,' said Dexter. 'And the device was to be set off by a five-foot-ten, Arabic-speaking Jewish girl?' asked Scott. Kratz nodded. Thirty days? What did I do to deserve thirty days, that's what I want to know.' But no one was listening as Dollar Bill was hustled out of the courtroom, along the corridor and then out through a door at the rear of the building, before being pushed into the back seat of an unmarked car. Three men with military-style haircuts, Ray-Bans, and small earplugs connected to wires running down the backs of their collars, accompanied him. 'Why wasn't I given bail? And what about my appeal? I have the right to a lawyer, damn it. And by the way, where are you taking me?' However many questions he asked, Dollar Bill received no answers. Although he was unable to see anything out of the smoked-glass side windows, Dollar Bill could tell by looking over the driver's shoulder when they reached the Golden Gate Bridge. As they proceeded along Route 101, the speedometer touched fifty-five for the first time, but the driver never once exceeded the speed limit. When twenty minutes later the car swung off the highway at the Belvedere exit, Dollar Bill had no idea where he was. The driver continued up a small, winding road, until the car slowed down as a massive set of wrought-iron gates loomed up in front of them. The driver flashed his lights twice and the gates swung open to allow the car to continue its journey down a long, straight gravel drive. It was another three or four minutes before they came to a halt in front of a large country house which reminded Dollar Bill of his youth in County Kerry, when his mother had been a scullery maid up at the manor house. One of Dollar Bill's escorts leaped out of the car and opened the door for him. Another ran ahead of them up the steps and pressed a bell, as the car sped away across the gravel. The massive oak door opened to reveal a butler in a long black coat and a white bow tie. 'Good evening, Mr O'Reilly,' he declared in a pronounced English accent even before Dollar Bill had reached the top step. 'My name is Charles. Your room is already prepared. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to accompany me, sir.' Dollar Bill followed him into the house and up the wide staircase without uttering a word. He would have tried some of his questions on Charles, but as he was English, Dollar Bill knew he couldn't expect an honest reply. The butler guided him into a small, well-furnished bedroom on the first floor. 'I do hope you will find that the clothes are the correct fitting sir' said Charles, 'and that everything else is tc your liking. Dinner will be served in half an hour.' Dollar Bill bowed and spent the next few minutes looking round the suite. He checked the bathroom. French soap, safety razors and fluffy white towels; even a toothbrush and his favourite toothpaste. He returned to the bedroom and tested the double bed. He couldn't remember when he had last slept on anything so comfortable. He then checked the wardrobe and found three pairs of trousers and three jackets, not unlike the ones he had purchased a few days after returning from Washington. How did they know? He looked in the drawers: six shirts, six pairs of pants and six pairs of socks. They had thought of everything, even if he didn't care that much for their choice of ties. Dollar Bill decided to join in the game. He took a bath, shaved and changed into the clothes provided. They were, as Charles had promised, the correct fitting. He heard a gong sound downstairs, which he took as a clear signal that he had been summoned. He opened the door, stepped into the corridor and proceeded down the wide staircase to find the butler standing in the hall. 'Mr Hutchins is expecting you. You'll find him in the drawing room, sir.' 'Yes, of course I will,' said Dollar Bill, and followed Charles into a large room where a tall, burly man was standing by the fireplace, the stub of a cigar in the corner of his mouth. 'Good evening, Mr O'Reilly,' he said. 'My name is Dexter Hutchins. We've never met before, but I've long been an admirer of your work.' 'That's kind of you, Mr Hutchins, but I don't have the same advantage of knowing what you do to pass the unre-lenting hour.' 'I do apologise. I am the Deputy Director of the CIA.' 'After all these years, I get to have dinner in a large country house with the Deputy Director of the CIA simply because I was involved in a bar-room brawl, I'm