Jeffrey Archer - Honour Among Thieves

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.

“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.