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empty glass back on the counter. 'You must understand, I'm a perfectionist.' 'That's exactly why I've travelled from one side of the country to the other to find you,' said Angelo quietly. Dollar Bill hesitated and looked at the young man more carefully. 'I'd want $25,000 down and $25,000 on completion, with all expenses paid,' said the Irishman. The young man couldn't believe his luck. Cavalli had authorised him to spend up to $100,000 if he could guarantee the finished article. But then he remembered that his boss never trusted anyone who didn't bargain. '$10,000 when we reach Washington and another $20,000 on completion.' Dollar Bill toyed with his empty glass. '$30,000 on completion if you can't tell the difference between mine and the original.' 'But we'll need to tell the difference,' said Angelo. 'You'll get your $30,000 if no one else can.' Scott heard the phone ringing when he was at the foot of the stairs. His mind was still going over the morning lecture he had just given, but he leaped up the stairs three at a time, pushed open the door of his apartment and grabbed the phone, knocking his mother to the floor. 'Scott Bradley,' he said as he picked up the photograph and replaced it on the sideboard. 'I need you in Washington tomorrow. My office, nine o'clock sharp.' Scott was always impressed by the way Dexter Hutchins never introduced himself, and assumed that the work he did for the CIA was more important than his commitment to Yale. It took Scott most of the afternoon to rearrange his teaching schedule with two understanding colleagues. He couldn't use the excuse of 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