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.” H
e 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.
r /> “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?”