gentlemen. The Prince isn't here.'
'Not here?' Rhadi said in disbelief.
'We had an appointment for three o'clock,' the man with the briefcase said.
'Yes. His Royal Highness went for a massage and isn't back yet. You're welcome to come in and wait.'
'Who are you?' the man with the briefcase asked.
'Er - his secretary,' Harry said. 'Smith - Henry Smith.
He's only at the fitness centre. He shouldn't be long.'
Rhadi stared at him. This wasn't in the script.
'Won't you all come in?'
The man with the briefcase exchanged a glance with his bodyguard companion, who gave the matter some thought and then nodded. The bodyguard stepped ahead and did a rapid check of the other rooms.
'Care for a drink?' Harry offered.
They shook their heads.
'Why don't we all sit down?'
Harry's mind was racing. He was certain these were policemen, and he was pretty sure the briefcase contained a video camera. There was an eyelet at one end that could easily be a hidden lens, and it was pointing at him. He said to Rhadi, 'We'd better remind the Prince about this. He's due at the Embassy at four. Why don't you go to the fitness centre and speak to him?'
'Can't you phone?' the bodyguard said.
'You don't phone a member of the royal family,' Harry said with scorn. 'Not when he's in the same building.'
'I'll go and speak to him,' Rhadi said, catching on at last.
The police were as undecided as anyone. Their game plan was in disarray and they had no way of getting fresh instructions without blowing their cover.
Rhadi was allowed to leave. If he had his wits about him, he'd bluff his way past the waiting policemen and go straight to the fitness centre and make his escape from there by a back exit. He was off Harry's conscience.
Alone with the heavy mob, Harry marked time for a bit. He noticed how twitchy they appeared. It made him feel more confident. He crossed the room to the drinks cabinet and was amused to see the briefcase being turned to follow his movement.
'Whisky, anyone? No? I think I will.'
He poured himself a generous measure. The next few minutes were to be a formidable test of the con man's art.
'How long have you worked for the Prince?' the cop with the briefcase asked.
Harry smiled, took a deep breath and answered in a West Coast American accent that amazed everyone.
'Matter of fact, my friends, I don't work for him at all.
I'm on your side. I'm Roscoe Hammerstein, CIA.'
'Say that again.'
'CIA.' Harry put out his hand. 'Put it there, officer.'
The officer just gaped. His companion was frowning.
'Face it, guys,' Harry said, twisting the hand outwards and upwards in a gesture of candour. 'This is one gigantic cock-up. Don't know if my people are responsible, or yours. I spend fifteen months tracking these jerks, getting their confidence. Finally I make it. I'm on the team, and what happens? You guys pull the plug.'
'Are you saying you infiltrated the gang?'
'You work for the CIA?'
'Didn't I say that?'
'What's the CIA's interest in these men?'
'Come on,' Harry said, almost convincing himself, it sounded so plausible. 'You know where they come from.'
'The Middle East.'
'Right on - and where do the world's most dangerous terrorists have their base?' He spread his hands. 'How do they finance their operations? From heists like this. A multi-million-dollar diamond job.'
'Can you prove any of this?'
'You mean do I have my ID with me? You think I'm crazy? There's no more certain way to guarantee a quick death.'
'You must have a control - someone we can call to verify this.'
'Sure,' he said smoothly. 'I can give you a number to call. But shall we decide what happens next? They could be back for a showdown any time now.'
