Jeffrey Archer - Honour Among Thieves

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.

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.