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 Ambassador, and to accompany him back to Iraq.
As the hours passed, 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 circumvent Mossad’s attempts to take her out, which meant that she could never leave the embassy, even for one moment, until the time came for the Ambassador 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 Ambassador, 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 assassinate 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 Butterworth, who was recently detailed to the White House by the Commerce Department.”
“Are you a former employer of Mr. Butterworth’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 Secretary, or is that covered by the Privacy Act too?” the Archivist asked.
“Dick Fielding,” said the voice abruptly.
“Thank you for your assistance,” 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 were blurred 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 pronounced 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 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.
Chapter Nineteen
“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-favored 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-favored 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 Hôtel 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.