Cavalli turned to see a police truck, tailgate down, parked in front of the District Building. Barriers were being lifted off and carried onto the sidewalk to make sure innocent passersby did not stray onto the set during those crucial three minutes when the filming would be taking place.
Lloyd Adams had spent the previous day going over his lines one last time and dipping into yet another book on the history of the Declaration of Independence. That night he had sat in bed replaying again and again a video of Bill Clinton on his Georgia Avenue walk, noting the tilt of the head, the Razorback accent, the way he subconsciously bit his lower lip. The Monday before, Adams had purchased a suit that was identical to the one the President had worn to welcome the British Prime Minister in February—straight off the rack from Dillard’s Department Store. He chose a red, white and blue tie, a rip-off of the one Clinton wore on the cover of the March issue of Vanity Fair. A Timex Ironman had been the final addition to his wardrobe. During the past week a second wig had been made, this time a little grayer, which Adams felt more comfortable with. The director and Cavalli had taken him through a dress rehearsal the previous evening: word perfect—though Johnny had commented that his collapse at the end of the scene was a bad case of overacting. Cavalli felt the Archivist would be far too overwhelmed to notice.
Cavalli walked over to Al Calabrese and asked him to go over the breakdown of his staff yet again. Al tried not to sound exasperated, as he had gone over it in great detail during their last three board meetings: “Twelve drivers, six outriders,” he rattled off. “Four of them are ex-cops or military police and all of them have worked with me before. But as none of them are going into the National Archives, they’ve simply been told they’re involved in a movie. Only those working directly under Gino Sartori know what we’re really up to.”
“But are they fully briefed on what’s expected of them once they reach the Archives?”
“You’d better believe it,” replied Al. “We went over it at least half a dozen times yesterday, first on a map in my office, and then we came down here in the afternoon and walked the route. They drive down Pennsylvania Avenue at ten miles an hour while they’re being filmed and continue east until they reach 7th Street. Then they take a sharp right, when they’ll be out of sight of everyone involved in the filming, not to mention the police. Then they turn right again at the delivery entrance of the National Archives, where they’ll come to a halt in front of the loading dock. Angelo, Dollar Bill, Debbie, you and the counter-assault team leave their vehicles and accompany the actor into the building, where they’ll be met by Calder Marshall.
“Once your party has entered the building the cars will go back up the ramp and take a right on 7th Street, another right on Constitution Avenue and then right on 14th Street before returning to the location where the filming began. By then, Johnny will be ready for a second take. On the signal from you that the Declaration of Independence has been exchanged for our forgery, the second take will begin immediately, except this time we’ll be picking up the thirteen operatives we dropped outside the National Archives.”
“And, if all goes according to plan, the Declaration of Independence as well,” said Cavalli. “Then what happens?” he asked, wanting to be sure that nothing had changed since their final board meeting in New York.
“The limos leave Washington by six separate routes,” continued Al. “Three of them return to the capital during the afternoon, but not until they’ve changed their license plates; two others go on to New York, and one drives to a destination known only to you; that will be the vehicle carrying the Declaration.”
“If it all runs as smoothly as that, Al, you’ll have earned your money. But it won’t, and that’s when we’ll really find out how good you are.” He nodded as Al left to grab a mug of coffee and rejoin his men.
Cavalli checked his watch: 7:22. When he looked up he saw Johnny heading towards him, red in the face. Thank God I don’t have to work in Hollywood, thought Cavalli.
“I’m having trouble with a cop who says I can’t put my lighting equipment on the sidewalk until nine-thirty. That means I won’t be able to begin filming until well after ten, and if I’ve only got forty-five minutes to start with—”
“Calm down, Johnny,” said Cavalli, and checked his list of personnel. He looked up and began to search the crowd of workers that was flowing off Freedom Plaza onto the sidewalk. He spotted the man he needed. “You see the tall guy with gray hair practicing his charm on Debbie?” he said, pointing.
“Yeah,” said Johnny.
“That’s Tom Newbolt, ex-Deputy Chief of the DCPD, now a security consultant. We’ve hired him for the day. So go and tell him what your problem is, and then we’ll find out if he’s worth the five thousand dollars his company is charging me.”
Cavalli smiled as Johnny stormed off in Newbolt’s direction.
* * *
Angelo stood over the slumbering body. He leaned across, grabbed Dollar Bill’s shoulders and began to shake him furiously.
The little Irishman was belching out a snore that sounded more like an old tractor than a human being. Angelo leaned closer, only to find Dollar Bill smelled as if he had spent a night in the local brewery.
Angelo realized that he should never have left Bill the previous evening, even for a moment. If he didn’t get the bastard to the Archives on time, Cavalli would kill them both. He even knew who’d carry out the job, and the method she would use. He went on shaking, but Dollar Bill’s eyes remained determinedly closed.
At eight o’clock a Klaxon sounded and the film crew took a break for breakfast.
“Thirty minutes. Union regulations,” explained Johnny when Cavalli looked exasperated. The crew surrounded a parked trailer—another expensive import—on the sidewalk, where they were served eggs, ham and hash browns. Cavalli had to admit that the crowds gathered behind the police barriers and the passersby lingering on the sidewalk never seemed to doubt for a moment that this was a film crew getting ready for a shoot.
Cavalli decided to use the thirty-minute break to check for himself that, once the cars had turned right on 7th Street, they could not be seen by anyone involved in the filming back on Pennsylvania Avenue.
He strode briskly away from the commotion, and when he reached the corner of 7th Street he turned right. It was as if he’d entered a different world. He joined a group of people who were quite unaware of what was taking place less than half a mile away. It was just like Washington on a normal Tuesday morning. He was pleased to spot Andy Borzello sitting on the bench in the bus shelter near the loading dock entrance to the National Archives, reading the Washington Post.
By the time Cavalli had returned, the film crew was beginning to move back and start their final checks, no one wanted to be the person responsible for a retake.
The crowds at the barriers were growing thicker by the minute, and the police spent a considerable amount of their time explaining that a film was going to be shot, but not for at least another couple of hours. Several people looked disappointed at this information and moved on, only to allow others to take up the places they had vacated.
Cavalli’s cellular phone began ringing. He pressed the talk button and was greeted by the sound of his father’s Brooklyn vowels. The chairman was cautious over the phone, and simply asked if there were any problems.
“Several,” admitted Tony. “But none so far that we hadn’t anticipated or can’t overcome.”
“Don’t forget, cancel the entire operation if you’re not satisfied with the response to your nine o’clock phone call. Either way, he mustn’t be allowed to return to the White House.” The line went dead. Cavalli knew that his father was right on both counts.
Cavalli checked his watch again: 8:43. He strolled over to Johnny.
“I’m going across to the Willard. I don’t expect to be too long, so just keep things rolling. By the way, I see you got all your equipment on the sidewalk.”
“Sure thing,” said Johnny. “Once Newbolt
talked to that cop, he even helped us carry the damn stuff.”
Cavalli smiled and began walking towards the National Theater on the way to the Willard Hotel. Gino Sartori was coming in the opposite direction.
“Gino,” Cavalli said, stopping to face the ex-Marine. “Are all your men ready?”
“Every one of the bastards.”
“And can you guarantee their silence?”
“Like the grave. That is, if they don’t want to end up digging their own.”
“So where are they now?”
“Coming from eight different directions. All of them are due to report to me by nine-thirty. Smart dark suits, sober ties and holsters that aren’t too obvious.”
“Let me know the moment they’re all signed in.”
“Will do,” said Gino.
Cavalli continued on his journey to the Willard Hotel, and after checking his watch again began to lengthen his stride.
He strolled into the lobby, and found Rex Butterworth marching nervously up and down the center of the hall as if his sole aim in life was to wear out the blue-and-gold carpet. He looked relieved when he saw Cavalli, and joined him as he strode towards the elevator.
“I told you to sit in the corner and wait, not parade up and down in front of every freelance journalist looking for a story.”
Butterworth mumbled an apology as they stepped into the elevator and Cavalli pressed button eleven. Neither of them spoke again until they were safely inside 1137, the room in which Cavalli had spent the previous night.
Cavalli looked more carefully at Rex Butterworth now that they were alone. He was sweating as if he had just finished a five-mile jog, not traveled up eleven floors in an elevator.
“Calm down,” said Cavalli. “You’ve played your part well so far. Only one more phone call and you’re through. You’ll be on the flight to Rio before the first outrider even reaches the National Archives. Now, are you clear about what you have to say to Marshall?”
Butterworth took out some handwritten notes, mouthed a few words and said, “Yes, I’m clear and I’m ready.” He was shaking like jelly.
Cavalli dialed the private number of the Archivist’s office half a mile away, and when he heard the first ring, passed the receiver over to Butterworth. They both listened to the continuing ringing. Eventually Cavalli put his hand out to take back the receiver. They would have to try again in a few minutes’ time. Suddenly there was a click and a voice said, “Calder Marshall speaking.”
Cavalli went into the bathroom and picked up the extension. “Good morning, Mr. Marshall. It’s Rex Butterworth at the White House, just checking everything’s all set up and ready at your end.”
“It certainly is, Mr. Butterworth. Every member of my staff has been instructed to be at his desk by nine o’clock sharp. In fact, I’ve seen most of them already, but only my Deputy and the Senior Conservator know the real reason I’ve asked them all not to be late this morning.”
“Well done,” said Butterworth. “The President is running on time and we anticipate he will be with you around ten, but I’m afraid he still has to be back at the White House by eleven.”
“By eleven, of course,” said the Archivist. “I only hope we can get him around the whole building in fifty minutes, because I feel certain there are many of my staff who would like to meet him.”
“We’ll just have to hope that fifty minutes is enough time to fit them all in,” said Butterworth. “Can I assume that there are still no problems with the President’s personal request?”
“None that I’m aware of,” said Marshall. “The Conservator is quite happy to remove the glass so that the President can study the parchment in its original form. We’ll keep the Declaration in the vault until the President has left the building. I hope to have the document back on view to the general public a few minutes after he departs.”
“It sounds to me as if you have everything under control, Mr. Marshall,” said Butterworth, the sweat pouring off his forehead. “I’m just off to see the President, so I’m afraid I’ll be out of contact for the rest of the morning, but let’s talk again this afternoon and you can tell me how it all went.”
Cavalli placed the phone on the side of the bath and bolted back into the bedroom, coming to a halt in front of the President’s Special Assistant. Butterworth looked terrified. Cavalli shook his head frantically from side to side.
“Actually, now that I look at my schedule, Mr. Marshall, I see you won’t be able to reach me again today because I promised my wife I’d leave the office a little earlier than usual to prepare for our annual vacation which begins tomorrow.”
“Oh. Where are you going?” asked Marshall, innocently.
“Off to see my mother in Charleston. But I feel confident that the President’s visit to the Archives will be a great success. Why don’t we get together as soon as I’m back?”
“I would enjoy that,” said Marshall. “And I do hope you have a pleasant break in South Carolina; the azaleas should still be blooming.”
“Yes, I suppose they will,” said Butterworth as he watched Cavalli pulling a finger across his throat. “My other line is ringing,” he added, and without another word put the phone down.
“You said too much, you fool. We don’t ever want him trying to contact you again.”
Butterworth looked apprehensive.
“How long will it be before the White House wonders where you are?” asked Cavalli.
“At least a week,” replied Butterworth. “I really am due for my vacation, and even my boss thinks I’m going to Charleston.”
“Well, that’s something you did right,” said Cavalli, as he handed Butterworth a one-way ticket to Rio de Janeiro and a letter of confirmation that the sum of nine hundred thousand dollars had been deposited in the Banco do Brazil.
“I have to get back to the set,” said Cavalli. “You stay put for ten minutes and then take a taxi to Dulles Airport. And when you get to Brazil, don’t spend all the money on a girl. And Rex, don’t even think about coming back. If you do, it won’t just be the Feds who are waiting for you at the airport.”
Angelo had somehow managed to get Dollar Bill dressed, but he still stank of Guinness, and he certainly didn’t look like the President’s personal physician—or anybody else’s physician for that matter.
“Sorry, lad. Sorry, lad,” Dollar Bill kept repeating. “I hope this won’t get you into any trouble.”
“It will if you don’t sober up in time to play your part and see that the parchment is transferred into the special cylinder. Because if Cavalli ever finds out I wasn’t with you last night, you’re dead, and more important, so am I.”
“Settle down, lad, and just make me a Bloody Mary. Two parts tomato juice and one part vodka. I’ll be as right as rain in no time, you’ll see.” Angelo looked doubtful as the little man’s head fell back on the pillow.
* * *
As Cavalli closed the door of room 1137, a woman pushing a large laundry basket passed him in the corridor.
He took the elevator to the ground floor and walked straight out of the hotel. The first thing he saw as he left the Willard and crossed the plaza that divided the hotel from Pennsylvania Avenue was that the morning traffic was backed up for half a mile down 15th Street.
Al and Johnny came running towards him from different directions. “What’s going on?” were Cavalli’s first words.
“Normal morning traffic coming in from Virginia, the police assure us, except we’re blocking a lane and a half with our twelve vehicles and six outriders.”
“Damn, my mistake,” said Cavalli. “I should have anticipated it. So what do you suggest, Al?”
“I send my boys over to Atlantic Garage on 13th and F until the police get the traffic on the move again, and then bring them back nearer the starting time.”
“It’s a hell of a risk,” said Johnny. “That permit only allows me to film for forty-five minutes, and they aren’t going to stretch it by a second.”
“Bu
t if my cars stay put you might never get started at all,” said Al.
“OK, Al, you get moving, but make sure you’re back on the grid by nine-fifty.” Cavalli checked his watch. “That’s twenty-seven minutes.” Al began running towards the parked cars.
Cavalli turned his attention to the director. “What time are you bringing the actor out?”
“Nine-fifty-five, or the moment the last car is back in place. He’s being made up in that trailer over there,” said Johnny, pointing.
Cavalli watched as the sixth limousine pulled away, and was relieved to see the traffic start to flow again.
“And Gino’s Secret Service agents, what will happen to them now that the cars have gone?”
“Most of them are hanging around with the extras, but they aren’t looking too convincing.”
Cavalli’s cellular phone began to ring. “I have to get back or you won’t have a film, real or otherwise,” said Johnny. Cavalli nodded and said, “Yes” into the mouthpiece as the director rushed away. Something caught Cavalli’s eye as he tried to concentrate on the voice on the other end of the line.
“The helicopter is all set to take off at ten o’clock sharp, boss; but it loses its slot at seven minutes past. The traffic cops won’t let it go up after that, however much you gave to the Fraternal Order of Police.”
“We’re still running on schedule, despite some problems,” said Cavalli, “so take her up at ten and just hover over the route. Marshall and his staff must be able to see and hear you when we arrive at the Archives. That’s all I care about.”