Jeffrey Archer - Honour Among Thieves

“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.”

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.