Honour Among Thieves (54 page)

The
Deputy Director of the CIA then retired to the far side of the road to watch
the Fire Chief go about his work. As the sirens had woken almost everyone in
the neighbourhood, 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 realised they would be told only half die 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
dressing gowns, 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 underway 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’ 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 realised 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 work bag while Scott hung the copy on the wall.

They
both heard Dexter Hutchins’ 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.

A
LL FOUR WERE
ARRESTED, handcuffed and had their rights read out 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 labelled 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 a.m.

The
Director confessed to his subordinate that he hadn’t been able to sleep. He
listened intently to Hutchins’ 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 dressing gown 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 dialled 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 recognised his chiefs voice immediately 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 as he
looked dishevelled, 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, as 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 householders, 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
glasses was clinging firmly on 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 3.47. 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 official 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 Consolidated Edison. Their switchboard informed him that they had
no engineers out on call that night on 75 th 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 checked his watch
again. His father and Martin often rose early, but rarely between the hours of
three and four.