Lloyd Adams sipped his coffee as Marshall ignored his in favor of continuing the history lesson. “After the signing ceremony, on August 2nd, 1776, the Declaration was filed in Philadelphia, but because of the danger of the document being captured by the British, the engrossed parchment was taken to Baltimore in a covered wagon.”
“Fascinating,” said Adams in a soft drawl. “But had it been captured by the British infantry, copies would still have been in existence, no doubt?”
“Oh certainly, Mr. President. Indeed, we have a good example of one in this building executed by William J. Stone. However, the original remained in Baltimore until 1777, when it was returned to the relative safety of Philadelphia.”
“In another wagon?” asked the President.
“Indeed,” said Marshall, not realizing his guest was joking. “We even know the name of the man who drove it, a Mr. Samuel Smith. Then, in 1800, by direction of President Adams, the Declaration was moved to Washington, where it first found a home in the Treasury Department, but between 1800 and 1814 it was moved all over the city, eventually ending up in the old War Office Building on 17th Street.”
“And, of course, we were still at war with Britain at that time,” said the actor.
Cavalli admired the way Adams had not only learned his lines, but done his research so thoroughly.
“That is correct, Mr. President,” said the Archivist. “And when the British fleet appeared in Chesapeake Bay, the Secretary of State, James Monroe, ordered that the document be moved once again. Because, as I am sure you know, Mr. President, it is the Secretary of State who is responsible for the safety of the parchment, not the President.”
Lloyd Adams did know, but wasn’t sure if the President would have, so he decided to play safe. “Is that right, Mr. Marshall? Then perhaps it should be Warren Christopher who is here today to view the Declaration, and not me.”
“The Secretary of State was kind enough to visit us soon after he took office,” Marshall replied.
“But he didn’t want the document moved again,” said the actor. Marshall, Cavalli, the Lieutenant and the physician dutifully laughed before the Archivist continued.
“Monroe, having spotted the British advancing on Washington, dispatched the Declaration on a journey up the Potomac to Leesburg, Virginia.”
“August 24th,” said Adams, “when they razed the White House to the ground.”
“Precisely,” said Marshall. “You are well informed, sir.”
“To be fair,” said the actor, “I’ve been well briefed by my Special Assistant, Rex Butterworth.”
Marshall showed his recognition of the name, but Cavalli wondered if the actor was being just a little too clever.
“That night,” continued Marshall, “while the White House was ablaze, thanks to Monroe’s foresight the Declaration was stored safely in Leesburg.”
“So when did they bring the parchment back to Washington?” asked Adams, who could have told the Archivist the exact date.
“Not for several weeks, sir. On September 17th, 1814, to be precise. With the exception of a trip to Philadelphia for the Centennial celebrations and its time in Fort Knox during World War II, the Declaration has remained in the capital ever since.”
“But not in this building,” said Adams.
“No, Mr. President, you’re right again. It had several other homes before ending up here, the worst being the Patent Office, where it hung opposite a window and was for years exposed to sunlight, causing the parchment irreparable damage.”
Bill O’Reilly stood in the corner, thinking how many hours of work he had had to do and how many copies he had had to destroy during the preparation stage because of that particular piece of stupidity. He cursed all those who had ever worked in the Patent Office.
“How long did it hang there?” asked Adams.
“For thirty-five years,” said Marshall, with a sigh that showed he was every bit as annoyed as Dollar Bill that his predecessors had been so irresponsible. “In 1877 the Declaration was moved to the State Department library. Not only was smoking common at the time, but there was also an open fireplace in the room. And, I might add, the building was damaged by fire only months after the parchment had been moved.”
“That was a close one,” said Adams.
“After World War II was over,” continued Marshall, “the Declaration was taken from Fort Knox and brought back to Washington in a Pullman carriage before it was housed in the Library of Congress.”
“I hope it wasn’t exposed to the light once again,” said Adams as Cavalli’s phone rang.
Cavalli slipped into the corner and listened to the director tell him, “We’re back on the starting line, ready to go whenever you are.”
“I’ll call when I need you,” was all Cavalli said. He switched his phone off and returned to listen to the Archivist’s disquisition.
“…in a Thermapane case equipped with a filter to screen out damaging ultraviolet light.”
“Fascinating. But when did the document finally reach this building?” asked Adams.
“On December 13th, 1952. It was transported from the Library of Congress to the National Archives in a tank under the armed escort of the U.S. Marine Corps.”
“First a covered wagon, and finally a tank,” said the actor, who noticed that Cavalli kept glancing at his watch. “Perhaps the time has come for me to see the Declaration in its full glory.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” said the Archivist.
Marshall led the way back into the corridor, followed by the actor and his entourage.
“The Declaration can normally be seen by the public in the rotunda on the ground floor, but we shall view it in the vault where it is stored at night.” When they reached the end of the corridor the Archivist led the President down a flight of stairs while Cavalli kept checking over the route that would allow them the swiftest exit if any trouble arose. He was delighted to find that the Archivist had followed his instructions and kept the corridors clear of any staff.
At the bottom of the steps, they came to a halt outside a vast steel door at which an elderly man in a long white coat stood waiting. His eyes lit up when he saw the actor.
“This is Mr. Mendelssohn,” said Marshall. “Mr. Mendelssohn is the Senior Conservator and, I confess, the real expert on anything to do with the parchment. He’ll be your guide for the next few minutes before we visit the rest of the building.”
The actor stepped forward, and once again thrust out his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Mendelssohn.”
The elderly man bowed, shook the actor’s hand and pushed the steel door open.
“Please follow me, Mr. President,” he said in a mid-European accent. Once inside the tiny vault, Cavalli watched his men spread out in a small circle, their eyes checking everything except the President. Bill O’Reilly, Angelo and Debbie also took their places as they had rehearsed the previous evening.
Cavalli quickly glanced at Dollar Bill, who looked as if it was he who might be in need of a physician.
Mendelssohn guided the actor towards a massive block of concrete that took up a large area of the far wall.
He patted the slab of concrete and explained that the protective shell had been built at a time when the nation’s greatest fear had been a nuclear attack.
“The Declaration is covered in five tons of interlocking leaves of metal, embedded in the fifty-five-ton concrete steel vault you see before you. I can asssure you, Mr. President,” Mendelssohn added, “if Washington was razed to the ground, the Declaration of Independence would still be in one piece.”
“Impressive,” said Adams, “most impressive.”
Cavalli checked his watch, it was 10:24, and they’d already been inside the building for seventeen minutes. Although the limousines were waiting, he had no choice but to allow the Conservator to carry on at his own pace. After all, their hosts were aware of the limitations on the President’s time if they were still hoping to show him around the rest of the building.
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“The entire system, Mr. President,” continued the Conservator enthusiastically, “is worked electronically. At the press of a button, the Declaration, which is always exhibited and stored in an upright position, travels up from this level through interlocking doors which open before the document finally comes to rest in a case of solid bronze, protected by ballistically tested glass and plastic laminate. Ultraviolet filters in the laminate give the inner layer a slightly greenish hue.” The actor looked lost, but Mr. Mendelssohn continued, quite unconcerned, “We are presently standing some twenty-two feet below the exhibit hall, and as the mechanics can be worked manually, I am able to stop the machinery at any time. With your permission, Mr. Marshall.”
The Archivist nodded, and the Conservator touched a button that neither the actor nor Cavalli had spotted until that moment. The five-ton leaves began to slide apart above their heads, and a sudden whirling and clanking sounded as the massive brass frame that housed the parchment began its daily journey towards the ceiling. When the frame had reached desk height, Mr. Mendelssohn pressed a second button, and the whirling sound instantly ceased. He then raised an open palm in the direction of the casing.
Lloyd Adams took a step forward and stared across at the nation’s most important historic document.
“Now, remembering your personal wish, Mr. President, we in turn have a small request of you.”
The actor seemed uncertain what his lines were meant to be, and glanced towards Cavalli in the wings.
“And what might that request be?” prompted Cavalli, apprehensive of any change of plan at this late stage.
“Simply,” said Mr. Mendelssohn, “that while the Archivist and I are removing the outer casing of the Declaration, your men will be kind enough to turn and face the wall.”
Cavalli hesitated, aware that the Secret Service would never allow a situation to arise where they could not see the President at all times.
“Let me make it easier for you, Mr. Mendelssohn,” said Adams. “I’ll be the first to comply with your request.” The actor turned away from the document, and the rest of the team followed suit.
In the brief space of time that the team was unable to see what was going on behind them, Cavalli heard twelve distinct clicks and the exaggerated sighs of two men not used to moving heavy weights.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” said Calder Marshall. “I hope that didn’t put you to too much inconvenience.”
The thirteen intruders turned around to face the massive frame. The bronze casing had been lifted over to leave the impression of an open book.
Lloyd Adams, with Cavalli and Dollar Bill a pace behind, stepped forward to admire the original while Marshall and the Conservator continued to stare at the old parchment. Suddenly, without warning, the actor reeled back, clutching his throat, and collapsed to the ground. Four of the Secret Service agents immediately surrounded Adams while the other four bundled the Archivist and the Conservator out of the vault and into the corridor before they could utter a word. Tony had to admit Johnny was right—it had been a bad case of overacting.
Once the door was closed, Cavalli turned to see Dollar Bill already staring at the parchment, his eyes alight with excitement, the Lieutenant by his side.
“Time for us to get to work, Angelo,” said the Irishman. He stretched his fingers out straight. The Lieutenant removed a pair of thin rubber gloves from the doctor’s bag and pulled them over his hands. Dollar Bill wiggled his fingers like a concert pianist about to begin a recital. Once the gloves were in place, Angelo bent down again and lifted a long, thin knife out of the bag, placing the handle firmly in Dollar Bill’s right hand.
While these preparations were being carried out, Dollar Bill’s eyes had never once left the document. Those who remained in the room were so silent that it felt like a tomb as the forger leaned over towards the parchment and placed the blade of the knife gently under the top right-hand corner. It peeled slowly back, and he transferred the knife to the left-hand corner, and that too came cleanly away. Dollar Bill passed the knife back to Angelo before he began rolling the parchment up slowly and as tightly as he could without harming it.
At the same time, Angelo flicked back the handle of his dress sword and held the long shaft out in front of him. Cavalli took a step forward and slowly pulled out Dollar Bill’s counterfeit copy from the specially constructed chamber where the sword’s blade would normally have lodged.
Cavalli and Dollar Bill exchanged their prizes and reversed the process. While Cavalli slid the original Declaration inch by inch down the scabbard of the dress sword, Dollar Bill began to unroll his fake carefully onto the backplate of the laminated glass, the moist chemical mixture helping the document to remain in place. The counterfeiter sniffed loudly. The strong smell suggested thymol to his sensitive nose. Dollar Bill gave his copy one more long look, checked the spelling correction and then took a step backwards, reluctantly leaving his masterpiece to the tender care of the National Archives and its concrete prison.
Once he had completed his task Dollar Bill walked quickly over to the side of Lloyd Adams. Debbie had already undone his collar, loosened his tie and applied a little pale foundation to his face. The forger bent down on one knee, took off the rubber gloves and dropped them into a physician’s bag full of makeup as Cavalli dialed a number on his cellular phone.
It was answered even before he heard a ring, but Cavalli could only just make out a faint voice.
“Take two,” said Cavalli firmly, and rang off before pointing at the door. One of the Secret Service agents swung the steel grid wide open and Cavalli watched carefully as Mr. Mendelssohn came charging through the gap and headed straight to the brass encasement, while Marshall, who was pale and quivering, went immediately to the side of the President.
Cavalli was relieved to see a smile come across the lips of the Conservator as he leaned over the fake Declaration. With the help of Angelo, he pulled the brass casing across and gave the manuscript a loving stare before fixing the lid back into place, then quickly tightened the twelve locks around the outside of the casing. He pressed one of the buttons and the whirling and clanking noise began again as the massive brass frame slowly disappeared back into the ground.
Cavalli turned his attention to the actor and watched as two of the Secret Service agents helped him to his feet, while Dollar Bill fastened his physician’s bag.
“What chemical is it that protects the parchment?” asked Dollar Bill.
“Thymol,” replied the Archivist.
“Of course, I should have guessed. With the President’s allergy problem, I might have expected this reaction. Don’t panic. As long as we get him out in the fresh air as quickly as possible, he’ll be back to normal in no time.”
“Thank God for that,” said Marshall, who hadn’t stopped shaking.
“Amen,” said the little Irishman as the actor was helped towards the door.
Marshall quickly rushed to the front and led them back up the stairs, with the Secret Service agents following as close behind as possible.
Cavalli left Lloyd Adams stumbling behind him while he caught up with the Archivist. “No one, I repeat, no one, must hear about this incident,” he said, running by Marshall’s side. “Nothing could be more damaging to the President when he has only been in office for such a short time, especially remembering what Mr. Bush went through after his trip to Japan.”
“After his trip to Japan. Of course, of course.”
“If any of your staff should ask why the President didn’t complete his tour of the building, stick to the line that he was called back to the White House on urgent business.”
“Called back on urgent business. Of course,” said Marshall, who was now whiter than the actor.
Cavalli was relieved to find his earlier orders about no staff being allowed in the lower corridor while the President was in the building still remained in force.
Once they had reached the freight elevator, and all the group was inside, they descende
d to the level of the loading dock. Once the doors opened, Cavalli sprinted ahead of them up the ramp and onto 7th Street.
He was annoyed to find that there was still a small crowd on the far sidewalk, and no sign of the motorcade. He looked anxiously to his right, where Andy was now standing on the bench, pointing towards Pennsylvania Avenue. Cavalli turned to look in the same direction and saw the first motorcycle escort turning right into 7th Street.
He ran back down the ramp to find Lloyd Adams next to a Federal Express pickup box, being propped up by two Secret Service agents.
“Let’s make it snappy,” said Cavalli. “There’s a small crowd out there and they’re beginning to wonder what’s going on.” He turned to face the Archivist, who was standing next to the Conservator on the loading dock.
“Please remember, the President was called back to the White House on urgent business.” They both nodded vigorously as four of the Secret Service agents rushed forward just as the third car, engine running, pulled up to the loading dock at the bottom of the ramp.
Cavalli opened the door of the third limousine and frantically waved the actor in. The lead riders on the motorcycles held up the traffic as the final car came to a halt at the mouth of the delivery entrance. As Lloyd Adams was assisted into the limousine, the small crowd on the other side of the road began pointing and clapping.
One of the Secret Service agents nodded back in the direction of the building. Angelo ran forward and jumped into the second car, still clinging to the sword, while Dollar Bill and the secretary piled into the fourth. By the time Cavalli had joined Angelo in the back of the second car and given the signal to move, the motorcycle escort was already in the middle of 7th Street holding up the traffic to allow the motorcade to proceed towards Constitution Avenue.
As the sirens blared and the limousines began their journey down 7th Street, Cavalli looked back and was relieved to see there was no longer any sign of Marshall or Mendelssohn.