Joni had taken considerable time to select an appropriate outfit for the occasion, and was disappointed that her husband didn’t even seem to notice.
“We’ll have to go without her,” was all he said. “If Sally hopes to be a doctor one day she’ll have to learn that people have a tendency to die when you keep them waiting.”
“Shouldn’t we give her just a li’l longer, honey?” asked Joni.
“No,” he barked, and without even looking back set off for the garage. Joni spotted her husband’s notes on the hall table and stuffed them into her handbag before she pulled the front door closed and double-locked it. By the time she reached the road, her husband was already waiting behind the wheel of his car, drumming his fingers on the gear shift.
They drove in silence towards Columbus School for Girls. T. Hamilton McKenzie checked every car heading towards Upper Arlington to see if his daughter was in the back seat.
A small reception party, led by the director, was waiting for them at the foot of the stone steps at the school’s main entrance. The director walked forward to shake hands with the distinguished surgeon as he stepped out of the car, followed by Joni McKenzie. Her eyes searched beyond them for Sally. She raised an eyebrow.
“Sally never came home,” Dr. McKenzie explained.
“She’ll probably join us in a few minutes, if she’s not already here,” suggested his wife. The director knew Sally was not on the school grounds, but did not consider it courteous to correct the guest of honor’s wife, especially as she’d just received a call from the car service that required an explanation.
At fourteen minutes to six they walked into the director’s study, where a young lady of Sally’s age offered the guests a choice of dry sherry or orange juice. McKenzie suddenly remembered that in the anxiety of waiting for his daughter he had left his notes on the hall table. He checked his watch and realized that there wasn’t enough time to send his wife back for them. In any case, he was unwilling to admit such an oversight in front of this particular gathering. Damn it, he thought. Teenagers are never an easy audience, and girls are always the worst. He tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort of order.
At three minutes to six, despite there still being no sign of Sally, the director suggested they should all make their way to the Great Hall.
“Can’t keep the girls waiting,” she explained. “It would set a bad example.”
Just as they were leaving the room, Joni took her husband’s notes out of her handbag and passed them over to him. He looked relieved for the first time since 4:50.
At one minute to six, the director led the guest of honor onto the stage. He watched the four hundred girls rise and applaud him in what the director would have described as a “ladylike” manner.
When the applause had faded away, the director raised and lowered her hands to indicate that the girls should be seated again, which they did with the minimum of noise. She then walked over to the lectern and gave an unscripted eulogy on T. Hamilton McKenzie that would have surely impressed the Nobel Committee. She talked of Edward Zeir, the founder of modern plastic surgery, of J. R. Wolte and Wilhelm Krause, and reminded her pupils that T. Hamilton McKenzie had followed in their great tradition by advancing the still-burgeoning science. She said nothing about Sally and her many achievements while at the school, although it had been in her original script. It was still possible to be punished for breaking school rules even if you had just won an endowed national scholarship.
When the director returned to her place in the center of the stage, T. Hamilton McKenzie made his way to the lectern. He looked down at his notes, coughed and then began his dissertation.
“Most of you in the audience, I imagine, think plastic surgery is about straightening noses, removing double chins and getting rid of bags from under your eyes. That, I can assure you, is not plastic but cosmetic surgery. Plastic surgery,” he continued—to the disappointment, his wife suspected, of most of those seated in front of him—“is something else.” He then lectured for forty minutes on z-plasty, homografting, congenital malformation and third-degree burns without once raising his head.
When he finally sat down, the applause was not quite as loud as it had been when he’d entered the room. T. Hamilton McKenzie assumed that was because showing their true feelings would have been considered “unladylike.”
On returning to the director’s study, Joni asked the secretary if there had been any news of Sally.
“Not that I’m aware of,” replied the secretary, “but she might have been seated in the hall.”
During the lecture, versions of which Joni had heard a hundred times before, she’d scanned every face in the room, and knew that her daughter was not among them.
More sherry was poured, and after a decent interval T. Hamilton McKenzie announced that they ought to be getting back. The director nodded her agreement and accompanied her guests to their car. She thanked the surgeon for a lecture of great insight, and waited at the bottom of the steps until the car had disappeared from view.
“I have never known such behavior in all my days,” she declared to her secretary. “Tell Miss McKenzie to report to me before chapel tomorrow. The first thing I want to know is why she canceled the car I arranged for her.”
* * *
Scott Bradley also gave a lecture that evening, but in his case only sixteen students attended, and none of them was under the age of thirty-five. Each was a senior CIA officer, and when they talked of logic, it had a more practical application than the one suggested when Scott lectured his younger students at Yale.
These men were all operating on the front line, stationed right across the globe. Often Professor Bradley pressed them to go over, detail by detail, decisions they had made under pressure, and whether those decisions had achieved the result they’d originally hoped for.
They were quick to admit their mistakes. There was no room for personal pride—only pride in the service was considered acceptable. When Scott had first heard this sentiment he thought they were being corny, but after nine years of working with them in the classroom and in the gym, he’d learned otherwise.
For over an hour Bradley threw test cases at them, while at the same time suggesting ways of how to think logically, always weighing known facts with subjective judgment before reaching any firm conclusion.
Over the past nine years, Scott had learned as much from them as they had from him, but he still enjoyed helping them put his knowledge to practical use. Scott had often felt he too would like to be tested in the field, and not simply in the lecture theater.
When the session was over, Scott joined them in the gym for another workout. He climbed ropes, pumped iron and practiced karate exercises, and they never once treated him as anything other than a full member of the team. Anyone who patronized the visiting professor from Yale often ended up with more than his ego bruised.
Over dinner that night—no alcohol, just Quibel—Scott asked the Deputy Director if he was ever going to be allowed to gain some field experience.
“It’s not a vacation job, you know,” came back Dexter Hutchins’s reply as he lit up a cigar. “Give up Yale and join us full-time and then perhaps we’ll consider the merits of allowing you out of the classroom.”
“I’m due for a sabbatical next year,” Bradley reminded his superior.
“Then take that trip to Italy you’ve always been promising yourself. After dining with you for the last seven years, I think I know as much about Bellini as ballistics.”
“I’m not going to give up trying for a field job—you realize that, Dexter, don’t you?”
“You’ll have to when you’re fifty, because that’s when we’ll retire you.”
“But I’m only thirty-six…”
“You rise too easily to make a good field officer,” said the Deputy Director, puffing away at his cigar.
When T. Hamilton McKenzie opened the front door of his house, he ignored the ringing phone as he shouted, “Sally? Sally?” at the t
op of his voice but he received no response.
He finally snatched the phone, assuming it would be his daughter. “Sally?” he repeated.
“Dr. McKenzie?” asked a calmer voice.
“Yes, it is,” he said.
“If you’re wondering where your daughter is, I can assure you that she’s safe and well.”
“Who is this?” demanded McKenzie.
“I’ll call later this evening, Dr. McKenzie, when you’ve had time to calm down,” said the quiet voice. “Meanwhile, do not, under any circumstances, contact the police or any private agency. If you do, we’ll know immediately, and we’ll be left with no choice but to return your lovely daughter—” he paused “—in a coffin.” The phone went dead.
T. Hamilton McKenzie turned white, and in seconds was covered in sweat.
“What’s the matter, honey?” asked Joni, as she watched her husband collapse onto the sofa.
“Sally’s been kidnapped,” he said, aghast. “They said not to contact the police. They’re going to call again later this evening.” He stared at the phone.
“Sally’s been kidnapped?” repeated Joni, in disbelief.
“Yes,” snapped her husband.
“Then we ought to tell the police right away,” Joni said, jumping up. “After all, honey, that’s what they’re paid for.”
“No, we mustn’t. They said they’d know immediately if we did, and would send her back in a coffin.”
“A coffin? Are you sure that’s what they said?” Joni asked quietly.
“Damn it, of course I’m sure, but they told me she’ll be just fine as long as we don’t talk to the police. I don’t understand it. I’m not a rich man.”
“I still think we ought to call the police. After all, Chief Dixon’s a personal friend.”
“No, no!” shouted McKenzie. “Don’t you understand? If we do that they’ll kill her.”
“All I understand,” replied his wife, “is that you’re out of our depth and your daughter is in great danger.” She paused. “You should call Chief Dixon right now.”
“No!” repeated her husband at the top of his voice. “You just don’t begin to understand.”
“I understand only too well,” said Joni, her voice remarkably calm. “You intend to play Chief of Police for Columbus as well as Dean of the Medical School, despite the fact that you’re quite unqualified to do so. How would you react if a state trooper marched into your operating room, leaned over one of your patients and demanded a scalpel?”
T. Hamilton McKenzie stared coldly at his wife, and assumed it was the strain that had caused her to react so irrationally.
The two men listening to the conversation on the other side of town glanced at each other. The man with earphones said, “I’m glad it’s him and not her we’re going to have to deal with.”
When the phone rang again an hour later both T. Hamilton McKenzie and his wife jumped as if they had been touched by an electric wire.
McKenzie waited for several rings as he tried to compose himself. Then he picked up the phone. “McKenzie,” he said.
“Listen to me carefully,” said the quiet voice, “and don’t interrupt. Answer only when instructed to do so. Understood?”
“Yes,” said McKenzie.
“You did well not to contact the police as your wife suggested,” continued the quiet voice. “Your judgment is better than hers.”
“I want to talk to my daughter,” interjected McKenzie.
“You’ve been watching too many late-night movies, Dr. McKenzie. There are no heroines in real life—or heroes, for that matter. So get that into your head. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” said T. Hamilton McKenzie.
“You’ve wasted too much of my time already,” said the quiet voice. The line went dead.
It was over an hour before the phone rang again, during which time Joni tried once more to convince her husband that they should contact the police. This time T. Hamilton McKenzie picked up the receiver without waiting. “Hello? Hello?”
“Calm down, Dr. McKenzie,” said the quiet voice, “and this time, listen. Tomorrow morning at eight-thirty you’ll leave home and drive to the hospital as usual. On the way you’ll stop at the Olentangy Inn and take any table in the corner of the coffee shop that is not already occupied. Make sure it can only seat two. Once we’re confident that no one has followed you, you’ll be joined by one of my colleagues and given your instructions. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“One false move, Doctor, and you will never see your daughter again. Try to remember, it’s you who is in the business of extending life. We’re in the business of ending it.”
The phone went dead.
Chapter Five
Hannah was sure that she could carry it off. After all, if she couldn’t deceive them in London, what hope was there that she could do so in Baghdad?
She chose a Tuesday morning for the experiment, having spent several hours reconnoitering the area the previous day. She decided not to discuss her plan with anyone, fearing that one of the Mossad team might become suspicious if she were to ask one question too many.
She checked herself in the hall mirror. A clean white T-shirt and baggy sweater, well-worn jeans, sneakers, tennis socks and her hair looking just a little untidy.
She packed her small, battered suitcase—the one family possession they’d allowed her to keep—and left the little terraced house a few minutes after ten o’clock. Mrs. Rubin had gone earlier to do what she called her “big shop,” an attempt to stock up at Sainsbury’s for the next couple of weeks.
Hannah walked slowly down the road, knowing that if she were caught they’d put her on the next flight home. She disappeared into the tube station, showed her travel-card to the ticket collector, went down in the elevator and walked to the far end of the brightly lit platform as the train rumbled into the station.
At Leicester Square she changed to the Piccadilly line, and when the train pulled into South Kensington, Hannah was among the first to reach the escalator. She didn’t run up the steps, which would have been her natural inclination, because running attracted attention. She stood quietly on the escalator, studying the advertisements on the wall so that no one could see her face. The new fuel-injected Rover 200, Johnnie Walker whisky, a warning against AIDS and Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Sunset Boulevard at the Adelphi glared back at her. Once she’d emerged into the sunlight, Hannah quickly checked left and right before she crossed Harrington Road and walked towards the Norfolk Hotel, an inconspicuous medium-sized hostelry that she had carefully selected. She had checked it out the day before, and could walk straight to the ladies’ rest room without having to ask for directions.
Hannah pushed the door open, and after quickly checking to confirm she was alone, chose the end cubicle, locked the door and flicked open the catch of the battered suitcase. She began the slow process of changing identity.
Two sets of footsteps entered and left while she was undressing. During that time, Hannah sat hunched up on the toilet seat, continuing only when she was confident she was alone.
The exercise took her nearly twenty minutes. When she emerged, she checked herself in the mirror and made a few minor adjustments.
And then she prayed, but not to their God.
Hannah left the ladies’ room and made her way slowly up the stairs and back into the lobby of the hotel. She handed over her little case to the hall porter, telling him she’d collect it again in a couple of hours. She pushed a pound coin across the counter, and in return she received a little red ticket. She followed a tour party through the revolving doors and seconds later was back on the pavement.
She knew exactly where she was going and how long it would take her to reach the front door, since she’d carried out a dry run the previous day. She only hoped her Mossad instructor was right about the internal layout of the building. After all, no other agent had ever been inside before.
Hannah walked slowly along the sidewalk towards Brompto
n Road.
She knew she couldn’t afford to hesitate once she reached the front door. With twenty yards to go, she nearly decided to walk straight past the building. But once she reached the steps she found herself climbing up them and then boldly knocking on the door. A few moments later, the door was opened by a bull of a man who towered a full six inches over her. Hannah marched in, and to her relief the guard stepped to one side, looked up and down the road and then slammed the door closed.
She walked down the corridor towards the dimly lit staircase without ever looking back. Once she reached the end of the fading carpet, she slowly climbed the wooden staircase. They’d assured her that it was the second door on the left on the second floor, and when she reached the landing she saw a door to the left of her, with peeling brown paint and a brass handle that looked as if it hadn’t been polished for months. She turned the handle slowly and pushed the door open. As she entered, she was greeted by a babble of noise that suddenly ceased. The occupants of the room all turned to stare at her.
How could they know that Hannah had never been there before, when all they could see were her eyes?
Then one of them began talking again, and Hannah quietly took a seat in the circle. She listened carefully, and found that even when three or four of them were speaking at once she could understand almost every word. But the tougher test came when she decided to join in the conversation herself. She volunteered that her name was Sheka and that her husband had just arrived in London, but had only been allowed to bring one wife. They nodded their understanding and expressed their disbelief at British Immigration’s inability to accept polygamy.
For the next hour, she listened to and discussed with them their problems. How dirty the English were, how decadent, all dying of AIDS. They couldn’t wait to go home and eat proper food, drink proper water. And would it ever stop raining? Without warning, one of the black-clad women rose and bade her friends farewell. When a second got up to join her, Hannah realized this was her chance to leave. She followed the two women silently down the stairs, remaining a few paces behind. The massive man who guarded the entrance opened the door to let the three of them out. Two of them climbed into the back of a large black Mercedes and were whisked away, while Hannah turned west and began to retrace her steps to the Norfolk Hotel.