Honour Among Thieves Part 17

She might even have drawn back at the last moment if they hadn't threatened to carry out the job themselves, should she refuse. They promised her that if that was the case, it would be a far more unpleasant death.

Just as Hannah was about to take the first pill out of her bag, she had asked Simon for some sugar, one last lifeline.

Why hadn't he grabbed at it? Why didn't he question her, tease her about her weight, do anything that would have made her have second thoughts? But then why, why had he waited so long to tell her the truth?

If he had only realised that she had things to tell him, too. The Amba.s.sador had been called back to Iraq - a promotion, he explained. He was, as Kanuk had been telling everyone, to become Deputy Foreign Minister, which meant that in the absence of Muhammad Saeed A!-Zahiaf, he would be working directly with Saddam Hussein.

His place at the emba.s.sy was to be taken by a Hamid Al Obaydi, the number two at the United Nations, who had recently rendered some great service for Iraq, of which she would eventually learn. The Amba.s.sador had offered her the choice of remaining in Paris to serve under Al Obaydi, or returning to Iraq and continuing to work with him. Only days before, Mossad would have considered such an offer an irresistible opportunity.

Hannah so wanted to tell Simon that she no longer cared about Saddam, that he had made it possible for her to overcome her hatred of the Scuds, even made the death of her family a wound that might in time be healed. She knew that she was no longer capable of killing anyone, as long as she had someone to live for.

But now that Simon was dead, her desire for revenge was even stronger than before.

'Department of Commerce.'

'Rex b.u.t.terworth, please.'

'What agency?'

'I'm not sure I understand,' said the Archivist.

'What agency is Mr b.u.t.terworth with?' asked the operator,p.r.o.nouncing each word slowly, as if she were addressing a four-year-old.

'I have no idea,' admitted the Archivist.

'We don't show anyone by that name.'

'But the White House told me -'

'I don't care what the White House told you. If you don't know which agency -'

'May I have the Personnel Office?'

'Just a minute.' It turned out to be far longer than a minute.

'Office of Personnel.'

'This is Calder Marshall, Archivist of the United States.

May I speak to the director?'

'I'm sorry, but he's not available. Would you like to speak to his executive a.s.sistant, Alex Wagner?' 'Yes. That would be just fine,' said Marshall. 'She's not in today.

Could you call again tomorrow?' 'Yes,' said Marshall with a sigh. 'Glad to have been of a.s.sistance, sir.'

When Kratz's car screeched to a halt outside the Centre Cardio-vasculaire on bois Gilbert there were three doctors, two orderlies and a nurse waiting for them on the hospital steps. The emba.s.sy must have pulled out every stop.

The two orderlies ran forward and lifted the body gently but firmly out of the back seat of the car, carrying Scott quickly up the steps before placing him on a waiting trolley.

Even as the trolley was being wheeled down the corridor the three doctors and the nurse surrounded the body and began their examination. The nurse quickly removed Scott's shirt and trousers while the first doctor opened his mouth to check his breathing. The second, a consultant, lowered his ear onto Scott's chest and tried to listen for a heartbeat, while the third checked his blood pressure; none of them looked hopeful.

The consultant turned to the Mossad leader and said firmly, 'Don't waste any time with lies. How did it happen?'

'We poisoned him, but he turned out not to be -'

'I'm not interested,' he said. 'What poison did you administer?'

'Ergot alkaloid,' said Kratz.

The consultant switched his attention to one of his a.s.sistants. 'Ring the Hospital Widal and get me details of its action and the correct antidote, fast,' he said as the orderlies crashed through the rubber doors and into a private operating theatre.The first doctor had managed to keep Scott's mouth open during the short journey and create an airway. He had already pressed down the tongue to leave a clear pa.s.sageway to the larynx. Once the trolley had come to a stop in the theatre he inserted a clear angled plastic tube of about five inches in length to ensure the tongue could not be swallowed.

The nurse then placed a mask over Scott's nose and mouth that was connected to an oxygen supply on the wall. Attached to the side of the mask was a rubber bag, which she began pumping regularly every three or four seconds with her left hand as she held his head steady with her right. Scott's lungs were immediately filled with oxygen.

The consultant placed an ear over Scott's heart again. He could still hear nothing. He raised his head and nodded to an orderly who began rubbing paste on different parts of Scott's chest. Another nurse followed him, placing small electronic discs on the paste marks. The wires from the discs were connected to a heart monitor machine that stood on a table by the side of the trolley.

The fine line that ran across the machine and registered the strength of the heartbeat produced a weak signal.

The consultant smiled below his mask, as the nurse continued to pump oxygen into the patient's mouth and nose.

Suddenly, without warning, the heart machine gave out a piercing sound. Everyone in the operating theatre turned to face the monitor, which was now showing a thin, flat line running from one side of the screen to the other.

'Cardiac arrest!' shouted the consultant. He jumped forward and placed the heel of his hand over Scott's sternum, and with both arms firmly locked he began to rock backwards and forwards as he tried to push a volume of blood from the heart to resuscitate his patient. Like a proficient weightlifter, he was able to pump away with his arms at a rate of forty to fifty times a minute.

A houseman wheeled forward the defibrillator. The consultant placed two large electric clamps onto the front and side of Scott's chest.

'Two hundred joules,' said the consultant. 'Stand clear.'

They all took a pace back as a shock was transferred from the electric discharge machine and ran through Scott's body.

They stared at the monitor as the consultant jumped forward again and continued to pump Scott's chest with the palms of his hands, but the thin green line did not respond.'Two hundred joules, stand clear,' he repeated firmly, and they all stood back again to watch the effect of the electric shock. But the line remained obstinately flat. The consultant quickly returned to pumping Scott's chest with his hands.

'Three hundred and sixty joules, stand clear,' said the consultant in desperation, but the nurse who raised the number on the dial knew the patient was already dead.

The consultant pressed a b.u.t.ton, and they all watched the highest shock allowed pa.s.s through Scott's body, a.s.suming that must be the end. They turned their attention to the monitor.

'We've lost him,' was on the consultant's lips, when to their astonishment they saw the line begin to show a faint flicker. He leaped forward and began pumping away with the palms of his hands as the flicker continued to show irregular fibrillation. 'Three hundred and sixty joules, stand clear,'

he said once again. The b.u.t.ton was pressed and their attention returned to the monitor. Fibrillation returned to a normal rhythm. The youngest doctor cheered.

The consultant quickly located a vein in Scott's left arm and jabbed a needle directly into it, leaving a cannula sticking out to which a saline drip was quickly attached.

Another doctor rushed into the theatre and, facing his superior, said, 'The antidote is GTN.'

A nurse went straight over to the poisons cabinet and extracted a phial of glyceryl trinitrate, which she pa.s.sed to the consultant, who had a syringe ready. He extracted the blue liquid from the phial, shot a little into the air to be sure it was flowing freely, then pumped the antidote into a side valve of the intravenous drip. He turned to watch the monitor. The flicker maintained a constant rhythm.

The consultant turned to the senior nurse and said, 'Do you believe in miracles?'

'No,' she replied. 'I'm a Jew. Miracles are only for Christians.'

Hannah began to form a plan, a plan that would brook no interference from Kratz. She had made the decision to accept the job as senior secretary to the Amba.s.sador, and to accompany him back to Iraq.

As the hours pa.s.sed, her plan began to take shape. She was aware there would be problems. Not from the Iraqi side, but from her own people. Hannah knew that she would have to circ.u.mvent Mossad's attempts to take her out, which meant that she could never leave the emba.s.sy, even for one moment,until the time came for the Amba.s.sador to return to Iraq. She would use all the techniques they had taught her over the past two years to defeat them.

When she was in Iraq, Hannah would make herself indispensable to the Amba.s.sador, bide her time and, once she had achieved her objective, happily die a martyr's death.

She had been left with only one purpose in life now that Simon was dead. To a.s.sa.s.sinate Saddam Hussein.

'Department of Commerce.'

'Alex Wagner, please,' said the Archivist.

'Who?'

'Alex Wagner. Office of Personnel.'

'Just a minute.' Another stretched minute.

'Personnel.'

'This is Calder Marshall, Archivist of the United States.

I called yesterday for Ms Wagner and you told me to try again today.'

'I wasn't here yesterday, sir.'

'Well, it must have been one of your colleagues. Is Ms Wagner available?'

'Just a minute.'

This time the Archivist waited several minutes.

'Alex Wagner,' said a brisk female voice.

'Ms Wagner, my name is Calder Marshall. I'm the Archivist of the United States, and it's extremely important that I contact Mr Rex b.u.t.terworth, who was recently detailed to the White House by the Commerce Department.'

'Are you a former employer of Mr b.u.t.terworth's?' asked the brisk voice.

'No, I am not,' replied Marshall.

'Are you a relative?'

'No.'

'Then I'm afraid I cannot help you, Mr Marshall.'

'Why's that?' asked the Archivist.

'Because the Privacy Act prohibits us from giving out any personal information about government employees.'

'Can you tell me the name of the Commerce Director, or is that covered by the Privacy Act too?' the Archivist asked.

'd.i.c.k Fielding,' said the voice abruptly.

'Thank you for your a.s.sistance,' said the Archivist.

The phone went dead.

When Scott woke, his first memory was of Hannah. And then he slept.

When he woke a second time, all he could make out wereblurred figures who appeared to be bending over him. And then he slept.

When he woke again, the blurs began to take some shape.

Most of them seemed to be dressed in white. And then he slept.

When he woke the next time it was dark and he was alone.

He felt so weak, so limp, as he tried to remember what had happened. And then he slept.

When he woke, for the first time he could hear their voices, soothing, gentle, but he could not make out the words, however hard he tried. And then he slept.

When he woke again, they had propped him up in bed. They were trying to feed him a warm, tasteless liquid through a plastic straw. And then he slept.

When he woke, a man in a long white coat, with a stethoscope and a warm smile, was asking in a p.r.o.nounced accent, 'Can you hear me?' He tried to nod, but fell asleep.

When he woke, another doctor - this time he could see him clearly - was listening attentively as Scott attempted his first words. 'Hannah. Hannah,' was all he said. And then he slept.

He woke again, and an attractive woman with short dark hair and a caring smile was leaning over him. He returned her smile and asked the time. It must have sounded strange to her, but he wanted to know.

'It's a few minutes after three in the morning,' the nurse told him.

'How long have I been here?' he managed.

'Just over a week, but you were so close to death. I think in English you have the expression "touch and go". If your 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 p.r.o.nouncement,' 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 DexterHutchins, 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?'