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‘Yes?’ repeated William.

‘Yes, Miles Faulkner is still in the States, and yes, we have been keeping a close eye on him.’

‘And?’ asked William.

‘I’m sure you know that a rare copy of the Declaration of Independence, handwritten by Thomas Jefferson in 1776 and known as the Fair Copy, is coming up for auction at Christie’s next week.’

‘Yes, I did know, and I am well aware that Faulkner is the seller. Any more clues?’ asked William, pen poised.

‘The Declaration is going on sale along with five letters written by the former President,’ said James as he flicked through the catalogue, ‘all sent to a Member of Parliament called David Hartley.’

‘I will be seeing Lady Hartley tomorrow,’ said William.

‘Who’s she?’ asked James.

‘The titled lady mentioned in the catalogue.’

‘So where does she fit in?’

‘It’s a long story, James, but what I can tell you is you’ve supplied several missing pieces of the jigsaw.’

‘I’m lost,’ said James.

‘So were we until I called you,’ admitted William, who spent the next twenty minutes filling in the gaps of the jigsaw, telling his old FBI friend the connection between Miles Faulkner, Lady Hartley and her son, now locked up in a Saudi jail.

‘But how did Faulkner ever get his hands on the Fair Copy of the Declaration in the first place?’ asked James.

‘I don’t know the answer to that question,’ admitted William, ‘but I expect I will by this time tomorrow.’

•••

Hani Khalil arrived outside the front gate of ‘Ulaysha Prison lugging a heavy suitcase. One tap on the door and it was immediately unlocked by the officer of the watch. Khalil followed him into the reception area as if he were a guest at an hotel and wanted to book a room. He placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.

Without a word passing between them, the officer of the watch pocketed the money before leading the visitor out of reception and across a yard, where the searchlights had been switched off.

Once they reached the other side with the help of a pen torch, the officer unlocked a door that led into the administrative block. Once inside, the officer accompanied his after-hours guest along a dimly lit corridor, only stopping when he reached the door at the far end. He knocked once, opened it, and stood aside to allow Mr Khalil to enter the Governor’s office.

‘Good morning,’ said the Governor, which was only just accurate as it was three minutes past midnight, an hour chosen by the Governor to ensure that no one other than the three of them was aware the meeting had ever taken place.

Once the door had been closed, Khalil heaved his heavy suitcase up onto the Governor’s desk, unzipped it and lifted the lid to reveal row upon row of freshly minted hundred-dollar bills in neat cellophane packets, that filled every inch of space available.

The Governor continued to stare at the bribe, like a parched man in a desert who had finally come across an oasis. He was in the desert, but happily staring at his pension plan.

The Governor rose from his place, lowered the lid and zipped the case back up. He shook hands with his visitor to seal a deal that wouldn’t require any paperwork.

Khalil left the office to find the only other person involved in the subterfuge waiting for him in the corridor. He followed him back to reception, where, having not checked in, he didn’t check out. The officer of the watch unlocked the front gate and Khalil slipped him another hundred-dollar bill, as if he were tipping a doorman. The officer returned to his post and switched the searchlights back on.

Khalil stepped out of the prison into the cold night air to find his chauffeur waiting for him.

As he was driven home, Khalil thought about what had taken place during the past sixteen minutes. A decision that had caused him to empty his bank account, in preference to digging his own grave.

The empty bank account would be temporary once the French had been awarded the arms contract. But death is permanent.

He would call Mr Faulkner in the morning.

CHAPTER 22

‘ISHOULD HAVE WORN MYpink dress,’ said Christina.