Free Honour Among Thieves by Jeffrey Archer Page B

the paramedics guide the
well-built man towards the ambulance. The siren on the motorcycle brought his
attention back to the policeman who was now directing the ambulance up the exit
ramp so that it could cross the bridge over the highway and begin its journey
back into the city.
    The
whole changeover had taken less than five minutes, leaving the driver in the
limousine feeling somewhat dazed. He then did what he felt he should have done
the moment he saw the policeman, and telephoned his headquarters in Cincinnati.
    ‘We
were just about to call you,’ said the girl on the switchboard. ‘They don’t
need the car any longer, so you may as well come straight back.’
    ‘Suits
me,’ said the driver. ‘I just hope the client pays the bill.’
    ‘They
paid cash in advance last Thursday,’ she replied. The driver clicked the phone
back on its cradle and began his journey to Cincinnati. But something was
nagging in the back of his mind. Why had the policeman stood so close to the
door that he couldn’t get out, and why hadn’t he raised his visor? He dismissed
such thoughts. As long as the company had been paid, it wasn’t his problem.
    He
drove up onto the freeway, and didn’t see the ambulance ignore the signpost to
the city centre and join the stream of traffic going in the opposite direction.
The man behind the wheel was also contacting his headquarters.
    ‘It
went as planned, boss,’ was all he replied to the first question.
    ‘Good,’
said Cavalli. ‘And the chauffeur?’
    ‘On
his way back to Cincinnati, none the wiser.’
    ‘Good,’
Cavalli repeated. ‘And the patient?’
    ‘Fine,
as far as I can tell,’ said the driver, glancing in the rear-view mirror.
    ‘And
the police escort?’
    ‘Mario
took a detour down a side road so he could get changed into his Federal Express
uniform. He should catch up with us within the hour.’
    ‘How
long before the next switch?’
    The
driver checked the milometer. ‘Must be about another ninety miles, just after
we cross the state line.’
    ‘And
then?’
    ‘Four
more changes between there and the Big Apple. Fresh drivers and a different car
each time. The patient should be with you around midnight tomorrow, though he
may have to stop off at a rest room or two along the way.’
    ‘No
rest rooms,’ said Cavalli. ‘Just take him off the highway and hide him behind a
tree.’

Chapter 7
    D OLLAR BILL’S
NEW HOME turned out to be the basement of a house in Georgetown, formerly an
artist’s studio. The room where he worked was well lit without glare and, at
his request, the temperature was kept at sixty-six degrees with a constant
humidity.
    Bill
attempted several ‘dry runs’ as he called them, but he couldn’t get started on
the final document until he had all the materials he needed. ‘Nothing but
perfection will do,’ he kept reminding Angelo. He would not have his name
associated with anything that might later be denounced as a forgery. After all,
he had his reputation to consider.
    For
days they searched in vain for the right pen nibs. Dollar Bill rejected them
all until he was shown a picture of some in a small museum in Virginia. He
nodded his approval and they were in his hands the following afternoon.
    The
curator of the museum told a reporter from the Richmond Times Dispatch that she
was puzzled by the theft. The pens were not of any historic importance or
particularly valuable. There were far more irreplaceable objects in the next
display case.
    ‘Depends
who needs them,’ said Dollar Bill when he was shown the press cutting.
    The
ink was a little easier once Bill had found the right shade of black. When it
was on the paper he knew exactly how to control the viscosity by temperature
and evaporation to give the impression of old age. Several pots were tested
until he had more than enough to carry out the job.
    While
others were searching for the materials he needed, Dollar Bill read several
books from the Library of Congress and spent a few