Free Honour Among Thieves by Jeffrey Archer

not feeling well, as
everyone on campus knew he hadn’t missed a day’s work through illness in nine
years. So he fell back on ‘woman trouble’, which always elicited sympathy from
the older professors, but didn’t lead them to ask too many questions.
    Dexter
Hutchins never gave any details over the phone as to why Scott was needed, but
as all the morning papers had carried pictures of Yitzhak Rabin arriving in
Washington for his first meeting with President Clinton, he made the obvious
assumption.
    Scott
removed the file that was lodged between Tax and Torts and extracted everything
he had about the new Israeli Prime Minister. His policy towards America didn’t
seem to differ greatly from that of his predecessor. He was better educated
than Shamir, more conciliatory and gender in his approach, but Scott suspected
that if it came to a knife fight in a downtown bar, Rabin was the one who would
come out unmarked.
    He
leaned back and started thinking about a blonde named Susan Anderson who had
been present at the last briefing he had been asked to attend with the new
Secretary of State. If she was at the meeting, the trip to Washington might
prove worthwhile.
    The
following morning a black limousine with smoked windows pulled up outside Ohio
State University Hospital. The chauffeur parked in the space reserved for T.
Hamilton McKenzie, as he had been instructed to do.
    His
only other orders were to pick up a patient at ten o’clock and drive him to the
University of Cincinnati and Homes Hospital.
    At
10.10, two white-coated orderlies wheeled a tall, well-built man in a chair out
through the swing doors and, seeing the car parked in the Dean’s space, guided
him towards it. The driver jumped out and quickly opened the back door. Poor
man, he thought, his head all covered in bandages and only a small crack left
for his lips and nostrils. He wondered if it had been burns.
    The
stockily-built man clambered from the wheelchair into the back, sank into the
luxurious upholstery and stretched out his legs. The driver told him, ‘I’m
going to put on your seatbelt,’ and received a curt nod in response.
    He
returned to his seat in the front and lowered his window to say goodbye to the
two orderlies and an older, rather distinguished-looking man who stood behind
them. The driver had never seen such a drained face.
    The
limousine moved off at a sedate pace. The chauffeur had been warned not, under
any circumstances, to break the speed limit.
    T.
Hamilton McKenzie was overcome with relief as he watched the car disappear down
the hospital drive. He hoped the nightmare was at last coming to an end. The
operation had taken him seven hours, and the previous night had been the first
time he had slept soundly for the past week. The last order he had received was
to go home and wait for Sally’s release.
    When
the demand had been put to him by the woman who left five dollars on the table
at the Olentangy Inn, he had considered it impossible. Not,
as he had suggested, on ethical grounds, but because he had thought he could
never achieve a true likeness. He had wanted to explain to her about
autografting, the external epithelium and the deeper corium, and how unlikely
it was that... But when he saw the unnamed man in his private office, he
immediately realised why they had chosen him. He was almost the right height,
perhaps a shade short – an inch, no more – and he might have been five to ten
pounds too light. But shoe lifts and a few Big Macs would sort out both of
those problems.
    The
skull and features were remarkable and bore a stunning resemblance to the
original. In fact in the end it had only proved necessary to perform
rhinoplasty and a partial thickness graft. The results were good, very good.
The surgeon assumed that the man’s red hair was irrelevant because they could
shave his head and use a wig. With a new set of teeth and good make-up, only
his immediate family would be able to tell the difference.
    McKenzie
had had