Honour Among Thieves

Chapter Thirty-Five

The official statement issued by the Iraqi government on July 2nd was that there was no truth in the report that there had been a shooting incident on the border posts at Kirkuk in which several Iraqi soldiers had been killed and more wounded.

The Kurdish leaders were unable to offer any opinion on the subject, as the only two satellite phones in Iraqi Kurdistan had been permanently engaged with requests for assistance from the State Department in Washington.

When Charles Streator, the American Ambassador in Istanbul, was telephoned and asked by the Reuters Bureau Chief in the Middle East why a U.S. Air Force jet had landed at the American base in Silope on the Turkish border, and then returned to Washington with two unknown passengers as its cargo, His Excellency told his old friend that he had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. The Bureau Chief considered the Ambassador to be an honest man, although he accepted that it was part of the job to lie for his country.

The Ambassador had in fact been up all night following a call from the Secretary of State requesting that one of their helicopters should be dispatched to the outskirts of Kirkuk to pick up five passengers, one American, one Arab and three Israelis, who were then to be flown back to the base at Silope.

The Ambassador had called Washington later that morning to inform Warren Christopher that unfortunately only two people had managed to cross the border alive: an American named Scott Bradley and an Israeli woman, Hannah Kopec. He had no information on the other three.

The American Ambassador was totally thrown by the Secretary of State’s final question. Did Professor Bradley have a cardboard tube with him? The Ambassador was only disappointed that the Reuters correspondent hadn’t asked him the same thing, because then he would have been telling him the truth when he said, “I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

Scott and Hannah slept for most of the flight back to the United States. When they stepped off the plane at Andrews Air Force Base they found Dexter Hutchins at the bottom of the steps waiting to greet them. Neither of them was surprised when customs showed little interest in Scott’s canvas bag. A CIA car whisked them off in the direction of Washington.

On the journey into the capital, Dexter warned them that they would be going directly to the White House for a top-level meeting, and briefed them on who else would be present.

They were met at the West Wing reception entrance by the President’s Chief of Staff, who conducted them to the Oval Office. Scott couldn’t help feeling that, as it was his first meeting with the President, he would have preferred to have shaved at some time during the last forty-eight hours, and not to have been dressed in the same clothes that he’d worn for the past three days.

Warren Christopher was there to greet them at the door of the Oval Office, and he introduced Scott to the President. Bill Clinton welcomed Scott home, and thanked Hannah for the part she had played in securing the safe return of the Declaration.

Scott was delighted to meet Calder Marshall for the first time, Mr. Mendelssohn for the second time and to be reunited with Dollar Bill.

Dollar Bill bowed to Hannah. “Now I understand why the professor was willing to cross the earth to bring you back,” was all the little Irishman had to say.

The moment the handshakes were over, none of them could hide their impatience to see the Declaration. Scott unzipped his bag and carefully took out a bath towel, from which he extracted the document before handing it over to its rightful custodian, the Secretary of State. Christopher slowly unrolled the parchment. No one in the room was able to hide their dismay at the state the Declaration was in.

The Secretary passed the document over to the Archivist who, accompanied by the Conservator and Dollar Bill, walked across to the large window overlooking the South Lawn. The first word they checked was “Brittish,” and the Archivist smiled.

But it was only a few moments more before Calder Marshall announced their combined judgment. “It’s a fake,” was all he said.

“How can you be so certain?” asked the President.

“Mea Fecit,” said Dollar Bill, looking a little sheepish.

“So does that mean that Saddam is still in possession of the original?” asked the Secretary of State in disbelief.

“No, sir, he has the copy Scott took to Baghdad,” said Dollar Bill. “So clearly he was already in possession of a fake before Scott did the exchange.”

“Then who has the original?” the other four asked in unison.

“Alfonso Mario Cavalli would be my guess,” said Dollar Bill.

“And who’s he?” asked the President, no wiser.

“The gentleman who paid me to make the copy that is currently in the National Archives,” said Dollar Bill, “and to whom I released the only other copy, which I am now holding in my hands.”

“But if the word ‘Brittish’ is spelled with two t’s, how can you be so certain it’s a fake?” asked Dexter Hutchins.

“Because, of the fifty-six signatures on the original Declaration, six have the Christian name George. Five of them signed Geo, which was the custom of the time. Only George Wythe of Virginia appended his full name. On the copy I presented to Cavalli I made the mistake of also writing Geo for Congressman Wythe, and had to add the letters rge later. Although the lettering is perfect, I used a slightly lighter shade of ink. A simple mistake, and discernible only to an expert eye.”

“And even then, only if they knew what they were looking for,” added Mendelssohn.

“I never bothered to tell Cavalli,” continued Dollar Bill, “because once he had checked the word ‘Brittish’ he seemed quite satisfied.”

“So, at some time Cavalli must have switched his copy with the original, and then passed it on to Al Obaydi?” said Dexter Hutchins.

“Well done, Deputy Director,” said Dollar Bill.

“And Al Obaydi in turn handed the copy on to the Iraqi Ambassador in Geneva, who had it delivered to Saddam in Iraq. And, since Al Obaydi had seen Dollar Bill’s copy on display at the National Archives with ‘British’ spelled correctly, he was convinced he was in possession of the original,” said Dexter Hutchins.

“You’ve finally caught up with the rest of us,” said Dollar Bill. “Though to be fair, sir, I should have known what Cavalli was capable of doing when I said to you a month ago: ‘Is there no longer honor among thieves?”

“So, where is the original now?” demanded the President.

“I suspect it’s hanging on a wall in a brownstone in Manhattan,” said Dollar Bill, “where it must have been for the past ten weeks.”

The light on the telephone console to the right of the President began flashing. The President’s Chief of Staff picked up an extension and listened. The normally unflappable man turned white. He pushed the “hold” button.

“It’s Bernie Shaw at CNN for me, Mr. President. He says Saddam is claiming that the bombing of Baghdad last weekend was nothing more than a smokescreen set up to give a group of American terrorists the chance to retrieve the Declaration of Independence, which a Mafia gang had tried to sell him but as an act of good will, he has personally handed over to a man called Bradley. Saddam’s apparently most apologetic about the state the Declaration is in, but he has television pictures of Bradley spitting and stamping on the document before nailing it to a wall.

“If you don’t believe Saddam, he says you can check the copy of the Declaration that’s on display at the National Archives, because anyone who can spell ‘British’ will realize it’s a fake. Shaw’s asking if you have any comment to make, as Saddam intends to hold a press conference tomorrow morning to let the whole world know the truth.”

The President pursed his lips.

“My bet is that Saddam has given CNN an exclusive on this story, but probably only until tomorrow,” the Chief of Staff added.

“Whatever you do,” said Hutchins, “try to keep it off the air for tonight.”

The Chief of Staff hesitated for a moment until he saw the President nodding his agreement. He pressed the button to reengage the call. “If you want to go on the air with a story like that, Bernie, it’s your reputation on the line, not mine.”

The Chief of Staff listened carefully to Shaw’s reply while everyone else in the room waited in silence.

“Be my guest,” were the last words the Chief of Staff offered before putting the phone down.

He turned to the President and told him: “Shaw says he will have a crew outside the National Archives the moment the doors open at ten tomorrow morning, and, I quote: if the word ‘British’ is spelled correctly, he’ll crucify you.”

The President glanced up at the carriage clock that stood on the mantelpiece below the portrait of Abraham Lincoln. It was a few minutes after seven. He swiveled his chair around to face the Deputy Director of the CIA.

“Mr. Hutchins,” he said, “you’ve got fifteen hours to prevent me being crucified. Should you fail, I can assure you there won’t be a second coming for me in three years, let alone three days.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

The leak started in the early morning of Sunday July 4th, in the basement of number 21, the home of the Prestons, who were on vacation in Malibu.

When their Mexican housekeeper answered the door a few minutes after midnight, she assumed the worst. An illegal immigrant with no Green Card lives in daily fear of a visit from any government official.

The housekeeper was relieved to discover that these particular officials were only from the gas company. Without much prompting, she agreed to accompany them down to the basement of the brownstone and show them where the gas meters were located.

Once they had gained entry it only took a few moments to carry out the job. The loosening of two gas valves ensured a tiny leak which gave off a smell that would have alarmed any layman. The explosives expert assured his boss that there was no real cause for concern as long as the New York City Fire Department arrived within twenty minutes.

The senior official calmly asked the housekeeper to phone the fire department and warn them they had a gas leak in number 21 which, if not dealt with quickly, could cause an explosion. He told her the correct code to give.

The housekeeper dialed 911, and when she was finally put through to the fire department, stammered out the problem, adding that it was 21 East 75th, between Park and Madison.

“Get everyone out of the building,” instructed the Fire Chief, “and we’ll be right over.”

“Yes, sir,” said the housekeeper, not pausing for a moment before fleeing onto the street. The expert quickly repaired the damage he had caused, but the smell still lingered.

To their credit, seven minutes later a New York City Fire Department hook and ladder, sirens blasting, sped into 75th Street. Once the Fire Chief had carried out an inspection of the basement of number 21 he agreed with the official — whom he had never met before — that safety checks would also have to be carried out on numbers 17, 19, 23 and 25, especially as the gas pipe ran parallel to the city’s sewage system.

The Deputy Director of the CIA then retired to the far side of the road to watch the Fire Chief go about his work. Since the sirens had woken almost everyone in the neighborhood, it wasn’t proving too hard to coax the residents out onto the street.

Dexter Hutchins lit a cigar and waited. As soon as he had left the White House, he had begun rounding up a select team of agents who rendezvoused in a New York hotel two hours later for a briefing, or, to be more accurate, half a briefing. Because once the Deputy Director had explained to them that this was a Level 7 inquiry, the old-timers realized they would be told only half the story, and not the better half.

It had taken another two hours before they got their first break, when one of the agents discovered that the Prestons in number 21 were on vacation. Dexter Hutchins and his explosives expert had arrived on the doorstep of number 21 just after midnight. The Mexican immigrant without a Green Card turned out to be a bonus.

The Deputy Director relit his cigar, his eyes fixed on one particular doorway. He breathed a sigh of relief when Tony Cavalli and his father emerged in their bathrobes, accompanied by a butler. He decided it would be sensible to wait for another couple of minutes before he asked the Fire Chief’s permission to inspect number 23.

The whole operation could have been under way a lot earlier if only Calder Marshall hadn’t balked at the idea of removing the fake Declaration from the vault of the National Archives and placing it at Dexter Hutchins’s disposal. The Archivist made two stipulations before he finally agreed to the Deputy Director’s request: should the CIA fail to replace the copy with the original before ten o’clock the following morning, Marshall’s resignation statement, dated May 25th, would be released an hour before the President or the Secretary of State made any statement of their own.

“And your second condition, Mr. Marshall?” the President had asked.

“That Mr. Mendelssohn be allowed to act as custodian of the copy remaining with the Deputy Director at all times, so that he will be present should they locate the original.”

Dexter Hutchins realized he had little choice but to go along with Marshall’s conditions. The Deputy Director stared across at the Conservator, who was standing between Scott and the explosives expert, on the pavement opposite number 23. Dexter Hutchins had to admit that Mendelssohn looked more convincing as an official from the gas company than anyone else in his team.

As soon as Hutchins saw two of his agents emerging from number 19 he stubbed out his cigar and strolled across the road in the direction of the Fire Chief. His three colleagues followed a few paces behind.

“All right for us to check on number 23 now?” he asked casually.

“Fine by me,” said the Fire Chief. “But the owners are insisting the butler sticks with you.”

Hutchins nodded his agreement. The butler led the four of them into the lobby, down to the basement and directly to the cupboard that housed the gas supply. He assured them that there had not been the slightest smell of gas before he went to bed, some time after his master had retired.

The explosives expert carried out his job deftly, and in moments the basement stank of gas. Hutchins recommended to the butler that for his own safety he should return to the street. With a handkerchief covering his nose and mouth Martin reluctantly agreed, leaving them to try and locate the leak.

While the expert repaired the damage, Scott and Dexter began checking every room in the basement. Scott was the first to enter Cavalli’s study and discover the parchment hanging on the wall, exactly where Dollar Bill had promised it would be. Within seconds the other two had joined him. Mendelssohn stared lovingly at the document. He checked the word “Brittish” before lifting the glass frame gently off the wall and placing it on the boardroom table. Scott unzipped the large tool bag one of the agents had put together earlier in the evening, containing screwdrivers of all sizes, knives of all lengths, chisels of several widths and even a small drill, in fact everything that would be required by a professional picture framer.

The Conservator checked the back of the frame and requested a medium-sized screwdriver. Scott selected one and passed it across to him.

Mendelssohn slowly and methodically removed all eight of the screws that held the two large steel clamps to the back of the frame. Then he turned the glass over on its front. Dexter Hutchins couldn’t help thinking that he might have shown a little more sense of urgency.

The Conservator, oblivious to the Deputy Director’s impatience, rummaged around in the bag until he had selected an appropriate chisel. He wedged it between the two pieces of laminated glass at the top right-hand corner of the frame. At the same time, Scott extracted from the cylinder supplied by Mendelssohn the copy of the Declaration they had taken from the National Archives earlier that evening.

When the Conservator lifted the top piece of the laminated glass and rested it on the boardroom table, Scott could tell from the smile on his face that he believed he was staring down at the original.

“Come on,” said Dexter, “or they’ll start getting suspicious.”

Mendelssohn didn’t seem to hear the Deputy Director’s urgings. He once again checked the spelling of “Brittish” and, satisfied, turned his attention to the five “Geo’s” and one “George” before glancing, first quickly and then slowly, over the rest of the parchment. The smile never left his face.

Without a word, the Conservator slowly rolled up the original, and Scott replaced it with the copy from the National Archives. Once Scott had the sheets of glass back in position he screwed the two steel clamps firmly in place.

Mendelssohn deposited the cylinder in the tool bag while Scott hung the copy on the wall.

They both heard Dexter Hutchins’s deep sigh of relief.

“Now for Christ’s sake let’s get out of here,” said the Deputy Director as six cops, guns drawn, burst into the room and surrounded them.

“Freeze!” said one of them. Mendelssohn fainted.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

All four were arrested, handcuffed and had their rights read to them. They were then driven in separate police cars to the Nineteenth Precinct.

When they were questioned, three refused to speak without an attorney present. The fourth pointed out to the Desk Sergeant that if the bag which had been taken from him was opened at any time other than in the presence of his attorney, a writ would be issued and a separate action taken out against the NYPD.

The Desk Sergeant looked at the smartly dressed, distinguished-looking man and decided not to take any risks. He labeled the bag with a red tag and threw it in the night safe.

The same man insisted on his legal right to make one phone call. The request was granted, but not until another form had been completed and signed. Dexter Hutchins put a collect call through to the Director of the CIA at 2:27 that morning.

The Director confessed to his subordinate that he hadn’t been able to sleep. He listened intently to Hutchins’s report and praised him for not revealing his name or giving the police any details of the covert assignment. “We don’t need anyone to know who you are,” he added. “We must be sure at all times not to embarrass the President.” He paused for a moment. “Or, more important, the CIA.”

When the Deputy Director put the phone down, he and his three colleagues were hustled away to separate cells.

The Director of the CIA put on his bathrobe and went down to his study. After he had written up a short summary of the conversation he had had with his Deputy, he checked a number on his desk computer. He slowly dialed the 212 area code.

The Commissioner of the New York City Police Department uttered some choice words when he answered the phone, until he was sufficiently alert to take in who it was sounding so wide awake on the other end of the line. He then switched on the bedside light and began to make some notes on a pad. His wife turned over, but not before she had added a few choice words of her own.

The Director of the CIA ended his part of the conversation with the comment, “I owe you one.”

“Two,” said the Commissioner. “One for trying to sort out your problem.”

“And the second?” asked the Director.

“For waking up my wife at three o’clock in the morning.”

The Commissioner remained seated on the edge of the bed while he looked up the home number of the Captain in charge of that particular precinct.

The Captain recognized his chief’s voice immediately when he picked up the phone, and simply said, “Good morning, Commissioner,” as if it were a routine mid-morning call.

The chief briefed the Captain without making any mention of a call from the Director of the CIA or giving any clues about who the four men languishing in his night cells were — not that he was absolutely certain himself. The Captain scribbled down the salient facts on the back of his wife’s copy of Good Housekeeping. He didn’t bother to shower or shave, and dressed quickly in the clothes he had worn the previous day. He left his apartment in Queens at 3:21 and drove himself into Manhattan, leaving his car outside the front of the precinct a few minutes before four.

Those officers, who were fully awake at that time in the morning, were surprised to see their boss running up the steps and into the front hall, especially since he looked disheveled, unshaven and was carrying a copy of Good Housekeeping under his arm.

He strode into the office of the Duty Lieutenant, who quickly removed his feet from the desk.

The Lieutenant looked mystified when asked about the four men who’d been arrested earlier, since he’d only just finished interrogating a drug pusher.

The Desk Sergeant was called for and joined the Captain in the Duty Lieutenant’s office. The veteran policeman, who thought he had seen most things during a long career in the force, admitted to booking the four men, but remained puzzled by the whole incident, because he couldn’t think of anything to charge them with — despite the fact that one of the homeowners, a Mr. Antonio Cavalli, had called within the last few minutes to ask if the four men were still being held in custody, as a complication had arisen. None of the residents had reported anything stolen, so theft did not apply. There could be no charge of breaking and entering, as on each occasion they had been invited into the buildings. There was certainly no assault involved, and trespass couldn’t be considered, as they had left the premises the moment they were asked to do so. The only charge the Sergeant could come up with was impersonating gas company officials.

The Captain didn’t show any interest in whether or not the Desk Sergeant could find something to charge them with. All he wanted to know was: “Has the bag been opened?”

“No, Captain,” said the Sergeant, trying to think where he had put it.

“Then release them on bail, pending further charges,” instructed the Captain. “I’ll deal with the paperwork.”

The paperwork took the Captain some considerable time, and the four men were not released until a few minutes after six.

When they ran down the precinct steps together, the little one with the pebble-rim glasses was clinging firmly to the unopened bag.

Antonio Cavalli woke with a start. Had he dreamed that he’d been dragged out of bed and onto the street in the middle of the night?

He flicked on the bedside light and picked up his watch. It was 3:57. He began to recall what had taken place a few hours earlier.

Once they were out on the street, Martin had accompanied the four men back into the house. Too many for a simple gas leak, Cavalli had thought. And what gas company employee would smoke cigars and could afford a Saks Fifth Avenue suit? After they had been inside for fifteen minutes, Cavalli had become even more suspicious. He asked the Fire Chief if the men were personally known to him. The Chief admitted that, although they had been able to give him the correct code over the phone, he had never come across them before. He decided Mr. Cavalli was right when he suggested that perhaps the time had come to make some checks with the gas company. Their switchboard informed him that they had no service men out on call that night on 75th Street. The Fire Chief immediately passed this information on to the police. A few minutes later six police officers had entered number 23 and arrested all four men.

After they had been driven away to the station, his father and Martin had helped Tony check every room in the house, but as far as they could see nothing was missing. They had gone back to bed around 1:45.

Cavalli was now fully awake, though he thought he could hear a noise coming from the ground floor. Was it the same noise that had woken him? Tony cheeked his watch again. His father and Martin often rose early, but rarely between the hours of three and four.

Cavalli swung out of bed and placed his feet on the ground. He still felt sure he could hear voices.

He slipped on a bathrobe and walked over to the bedroom door. He opened it slowly, went out on to the landing and peered over the balustrade. He could see a light shining from under the door of his father’s study.

Cavalli moved swiftly down the one flight of stairs and silently across the carpeted hallway until he came to a halt outside the study. He tried to remember where the nearest gun was.

He listened carefully, but could hear no movement coming from inside. Then, suddenly, a gravelly voice began cursing loudly. Tony flung open the door to find his father, also in his bathrobe, standing in front of the Declaration of Independence and holding a magnifying glass in his right hand. He was studying the word “British.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Tony asked his father.

“You should have killed Dollar Bill when I told you to,” was his father’s response.

“But why?” asked Tony.

“Because they’ve stolen the Declaration of Independence.”

“But you’re standing in front of it,” said Tony.

“No I’m not,” said his father. “Don’t you understand what they’ve done?”

“No, I don’t,” admitted Tony.

“They’ve exchanged the original for that worthless copy you put in the National Archives.”

“But the copy on the wall was the other one made by Dollar Bill,” said Tony. “I saw him present it to you.”

“No,” said his father. “Mine was the original, not a copy.”

“I don’t understand,” said Tony, now completely baffled. The old man turned and faced his son for the first time.

“Nick Vicente and I switched them when you brought the Declaration back from Washington.” Tony stared at his father in disbelief. “You didn’t think I’d allow part of our national heritage to fall into the hands of Saddam Hussein?”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” asked Tony.

“And let you go to Geneva knowing you were in possession of a fake, while the deal still hadn’t been closed? No, it was always part of my plan that you would believe the original had been sent to Franchard et cie, because if you believed it, Al Obaydi would believe it.”

Tony said nothing.

“And you certainly wouldn’t have put up such a fight over the loss of fifty million if you’d known all along that the document you had in Geneva was a counterfeit.”

“So where the hell is the original now?” asked Tony.

“Somewhere in the offices of the Nineteenth Precinct, would be my bet,” replied his father. “That is, assuming they haven’t already got clean away. And that’s what I intend to find out right now,” he added as he walked over to his desk and picked up the phone book.

The chairman dialed seven digits and asked to speak to the duty officer. He checked his watch as he waited to be put through. It was 4:22.

When the Desk Sergeant came on the line, Cavalli explained who he was, and asked two questions. He listened carefully to the replies, then put the phone back on the hook.

Tony raised an eyebrow.

“They’re still locked up in the cells, and the bag’s been placed in a safe. Have we got anybody on the Nineteenth Precinct payroll?” asked his father.

“Yes, a lieutenant who’s done very little for us lately.”

“Then the time has come for him to pay his dues,” said his father as he began walking towards the door.

Tony passed him, taking the stairs three at a time on the way back to his bedroom. He was dressed within minutes, and walked back down the staircase, expecting to have to wait some time for his father to reappear, but he was already standing in the hallway.

His father unlocked the front door and Tony followed him out onto the sidewalk, passing him to look up the street in search of a Yellow Cab. But none chose to turn right down 75th Street at that time in the morning.

“We’ll have to take the car,” shouted his father, who had already begun to cross the road in the direction of the all-night garage. “We can’t afford to waste another minute.” Tony dashed back into the house and removed the car keys from the drawer of the hall table. He caught up with his father long before he reached their parking space.

As Tony fastened his seatbelt, he turned and asked his father, “If we do manage to get the Declaration back, what the hell do you intend to do then?”

“To start with, I’m going to kill Dollar Bill myself, so I can be certain that he never makes another copy. And then—” Tony turned the key in the ignition.

The explosion that followed woke the entire neighborhood for the second time that morning.

The four men came running down the precinct steps. The smallest of them was clutching a bag. A car whose engine had been running for the past hour swung across the road and came to a halt by their side. One of the men walked off into the halflight of the morning, still not certain why his expertise had been required in the first place.

Dexter Hutchins joined the driver in the front, while Scott and the Conservator climbed quickly into the back.

“La Guardia,” said Dexter and then thanked the agent for sitting up half the night. Scott looked between the two front seats as the digital clock changed from 6:11 to 6:12.

The agent swung in to the outside lane.

“Don’t break the speed limit,” ordered Dexter. “We don’t need any more delays at this stage.” The agent edged back into the center lane.

“What time’s the next shuttle?” asked Scott.

“Delta, seven-thirty,” replied the driver. Dexter picked up the phone and punched in eleven numbers. When a voice at the other end said, “Yes,” the Deputy Director simply replied, “We’re on our way, sir. We should have everything back in place by ten o’clock.”

Dexter replaced the phone and turned around to assure himself that the silent Conservator was still with them. He was clutching the bag that was resting on his legs.

“Better take everything out of the bag other than the cylinder,” said Dexter. “Otherwise we’ll never get past security.”

Mendelssohn unzipped the bag and allowed Scott to remove the screwdrivers, knives, chisels and finally the drill, which he placed on the floor between them. He zipped the bag back up.

At 6:43 the driver pulled off the highway and followed the signs for La Guardia. No one spoke until the car came to a halt at the curb opposite the Marine Air terminal entrance.

As Dexter stepped out of the car, three men in tan Burberrys jumped out of a car that had parked immediately behind them, and preceded the Deputy Director into the terminal. Another man in a smart charcoal-gray suit, with a raincoat over his arm, held out an envelope as Dexter passed him. The Deputy Director took the package like a good relay runner, without breaking his stride, as he continued towards the departure lounge, where three more agents were waiting for him.

Once he had checked in, Dexter Hutchins would have liked to pace up and down as he waited to board the aircraft. Instead he stood restlessly one yard away from the Declaration of Independence, surrounded by a circle of agents.

“The shuttle to Washington is now boarding at Gate Number 4,” announced a voice over the intercom. Nine men waited until everyone else had boarded the aircraft. When the agent standing by the gate nodded, Dexter led his team past the ticket collector, down the boarding ramp and onto the aircraft. They took their seats, 1A-F and 2A-F. Seat 2E was occupied only by the bag, 2D and 2F by two men who weighed five hundred pounds between them.

The pilot welcomed them aboard and warned them there might be a slight delay. Dexter checked his watch: 7:27. He began drumming his fingers on the armrest that divided him from Scott. The flight attendant offered every one of the nine men in the first two rows a copy of USA Today. Only Mendelssohn took up her offer.

At 7:39 the aircraft taxied onto the runway to prepare for takeoff. When it stopped, Dexter asked the flight attendant what was holding them up.

“The usual early-morning traffic,” she replied. “The Captain has just told me that we’re seventh in the line, so we should be airborne in about ten to fifteen minutes.”

Dexter continued drumming his fingers on the armrest, while Scott couldn’t take his eyes off the bag. Mendelssohn turned another page of his USA Today.

The plane swung around onto the take-off runway at 7:51, its jets revving before it moved slowly forward, then gathered speed. The wheels left the ground at 7:53.

Within moments the flight attendant returned, offering them all breakfast. She didn’t get a positive response until she reached row seven. When later she gave the three crew members on the flight deck their usual morning coffee, she asked the Captain why rows three to six were unoccupied, especially as it was Independence Day.

The Captain couldn’t think of a reason, and simply said, “Better keep your eye on the passengers in rows one and two.” He became even more curious about the nine men at the front of the aircraft when he was cleared for landing as soon as he announced to air traffic control that he was seventy miles away from Washington.

He began his descent at 8:33, and was at the gate on schedule for the first time in months. When he had turned the engine off, three men immediately blocked the gangway and remained there until the Deputy Director and his party were well inside the terminal. When Dexter Hutchins emerged into the Delta gate area, one agent played John the Baptist, while three others fell in behind, acting as disciples. The Director had obviously taken seriously that fine line between protection and drawing attention. Dexter spotted four more agents as he passed through the terminal, and suspected there were at least another twenty hidden at strategic points on his route to the car.

As Dexter passed under the digital clock, its red numbers clicked to 9:01. The doors slid open and he marched out onto the sidewalk. Three black limousines were waiting in line with drivers by their doors.

As soon as they saw the Deputy Director, the drivers of the first and third cars jumped behind their wheels and turned on their engines, while the driver of the second car held open the back door to allow Scott and Mendelssohn to climb in. The Deputy Director joined the agent in the front.

The lead car headed out in the direction of the George Washington Parkway, and within minutes the convoy was crossing the 14th Street Bridge. As the Jefferson Memorial came into sight Dexter checked his watch yet again. It was 9:12. “Easily enough time,” he remarked. Less than a minute later, they were caught in a traffic jam.

“Damn!” said Dexter. “I forgot the streets would be cordoned off for the Independence Day parade.”

When they had moved only another half a mile in the next three minutes, Dexter told his driver they were left with no choice. “Hit the sirens,” he said.

The driver flashed his lights, turned on his siren at full blast and watched as the lead car veered into the inside lane and managed a steady forty miles per hour until they came off the highway.

Dexter was now checking his watch every thirty seconds as the three cars tried to maneuver themselves from lane to lane, but some of Washington’s citizens, unmoved by sirens and flashing lights, weren’t willing to let them through.

The lead car swerved between two police barriers and turned into Constitution Avenue at 9:37. When Dexter saw the floats lining up for the parade, he gave the order to turn the sirens off. The last thing he needed was inquisitive eyes when they finally came to a halt outside the National Archives.

It was Scott who saw them first. He tapped Dexter on the shoulder and pointed ahead of him. A television crew was standing in the front of a long line outside the main door of the National Archives.

“We’ll never get past them,” said Dexter. Turning to Mendelssohn, he asked, “Are there any alternative routes into the building?”

“There’s a delivery entrance on 7th Street,” replied Mendelssohn.

“How appropriate,” said Dexter Hutchins.

“Drive past the front door and then drop me off on the corner,” said the Conservator. “I’ll cross Constitution and go in by the side door.”

“Drop you off on the corner?” said Dexter in disbelief.

“If I’m surrounded by agents, everyone will...” began Mendelssohn.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said the Deputy Director, trying to think. He picked up the phone and instructed the two other cars to peel off.

“We’re going to have to risk it,” said Scott.

“I know,” said Dexter. “But at least you can go with him. After all, you’ve never looked like an agent.” Scott wasn’t sure whether he should take the remark as a compliment or not.

As they drove slowly past the National Archives, Dexter looked away from the impatient camera crew.

“How many of them?” he asked.

“About six,” said Scott. “And I think that must be Shaw with his back to us.”

“Show me exactly where you want the car to stop,” said the Deputy Director, turning to face Mendelssohn.

“Another fifty yards,” came back the reply.

“You take the bag, Scott.”

“But...” began Mendelssohn. When he saw the expression on Dexter Hutchins’s face, he didn’t bother with a second word.

The car drew into the curb and stopped. Scott grabbed the bag, jumped out and held the door open for Mendelssohn. Eight agents were walking up and down the sidewalk trying to appear innocent. None of them was looking towards the steps of the National Archives. The two unlikely looking companions quickly crossed Constitution Avenue and began running up 7th Street.

When they reached the delivery entrance, Scott came face to face with an anxious Calder Marshall, who had been pacing back and forth at the bottom of the ramp.

“Thank God,” was all the Archivist said when he saw Scott and the Conservator running down the ramp. He led them silently into the open freight elevator. They traveled up two floors and then ran along the corridor until they reached the staircase that led down to the vault. Marshall turned to check that the two men were still with him before he began running down the steps, something no member of staff had ever seen him do before. Scott chased after the Archivist, followed by Mendelssohn. None of them stopped until they reached a set of massive steel doors.

Marshall nodded, and a slightly breathless Conservator leaned forward and pressed a code into a little box beside the door. The steel grid opened slowly to allow the three of them to enter the vault. Once they were inside, the Conservator pressed another button, and the door slid back into place.

They paused in front of the great concrete blocks that had been built to house the Declaration of Independence, just as a priest might in front of an altar. Scott checked his watch. It was 9:51.

Mendelssohn pressed the red button and the familiar clanking and whirling sound began as the concrete blocks parted and the massive empty glass casing came slowly into sight. He touched the button again when the frame had reached chest height.

The Archivist and the Conservator walked forward while Scott unzipped the bag. The Archivist took two keys from his jacket pocket and passed one over to his colleague. They immediately set about unlocking the twelve bolts that were evenly spaced around the thick brass rim. Once they had completed the task they leaned over and heaved across the heavy frame until it came to rest like an open book.

Scott removed the container and passed it over to the Archivist. Marshall eased the cap off the top of the cylinder, allowing Mendelssohn to carefully extract the parchment.

Scott watched as the Archivist and the Conservator slowly unpeeled the Declaration of Independence, inch by inch, onto the waiting glass, until the original parchment was finally restored to its rightful place. Scott leaned over and took one last look at the misspelled word before the two men heaved the brass cover back into place.

“My God, the British still have a lot to answer for,” was all the Archivist said.

Calder Marshall and the Conservator quickly tightened up the twelve bolts surrounding the frame and took a step back from the Declaration.

They paused for only a second while Scott checked his watch again. 9:57. He looked up to find Marshall and Mendelssohn hugging each other and jumping up and down like children who had been given an unexpected gift.

Scott coughed. “It’s nine fifty-eight, gentlemen.” The two men immediately reverted to character.

The Archivist walked back over to the concrete blocks. He paused for a moment and then pressed the red button. The massive frame rose, continuing its slow journey upward to the gallery on the ground floor to be viewed by the waiting public.

Calder Marshall turned to face Scott. A flicker of a smile showed his relief. He bowed like a Japanese warrior to indicate that he felt honor had been satisfied. The Conservator shook hands with Scott and then walked over to the door, punched a code into the little box and watched the grid slide open.

Marshall accompanied Scott out into the corridor, up the staircase and back down in the freight elevator to the delivery entrance.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said as they shook hands on the loading dock. Scott loped up the ramp and turned to look back once he had reached the sidewalk. There was no sign of the Archivist.

He jogged across 7th Street and joined Dexter in the waiting car.

“Any problems, Professor?” asked the Deputy Director.

“No. Not unless you count two decent men who look as if they’ve aged ten years in the past two months.”

The tenth chime struck on the Old Post Office Tower clock. The doors of the National Archives swung open and a television crew charged in.

The Deputy Director’s car moved out into the center of Constitution Avenue, where it got caught up between the floats for Tennessee and Texas. A police officer ran across and ordered the driver to pull over into 7th Street.

When the car came to a halt, Dexter wound down his window, smiled at the officer and said, “I’m the Deputy Director of the CIA.”

“And I’m Uncle Sam,” the officer replied as he began writing out a ticket.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Deputy Director of the CIA phoned the Director at home to tell him that it was business as usual at the National Archives. He didn’t mention the traffic ticket.

The Conservator phoned his wife and tried to explain why he hadn’t come home the previous night.

A woman holding a carrier bag with a rope handle contacted the Iraqi Ambassador to the UN on her mobile phone and let him know that she had killed two birds with one stone. She gave the Ambassador an account number for a bank in the Bahamas.

The Director of the CIA rang the Secretary of State and assured him that the document was in place. He avoided saying “back in place.”

Susan Anderson rang Scott to congratulate him on the part he had played in restoring the document to its rightful home. She also mentioned in passing the sad news that she had decided to break off her engagement.

The Iraqi Ambassador to the UN instructed Monsieur Dummond to transfer the sum of nine hundred thousand dollars to the Royal Bank of Canada in the Bahamas and at the same time to close the Al Obaydi account.

The Secretary of State rang the President at the White House to inform him that the press conference scheduled for eleven o’clock that morning had been canceled.

A reporter on the New York Daily News crime beat filed his first-edition copy from a phone booth in an underground garage on 75th Street. The headline read “Mafia Slaying in Manhattan.”

Lloyd Adams’s phone never stopped ringing, as he was continually being offered parts in everything from endorsements to a feature film.

The Archivist did not return a call from one of the President’s Special Assistants at the White House, inviting him to lunch.

A CNN producer called in to the news desk to let them know that it must have been a hoax. Yes, he had verified the spelling of “Brittish,” and only Dan Quayle could have thought it had two t’s.

Scott phoned Hannah and told her how he wanted to spend Independence Day.