Honour Among Thieves (14 page)

Al
Calabrese opened his file to find dozens of photographs of the President’s
motorcade leaving the White House on its way to the Hill. The photographs were
accompanied by as many pages of notes.

‘How
long will it take you to have everything in place?’ asked Cavalli.

‘Three
weeks, maybe four. I’ve got a couple of big ones in stock that would pass
muster, and a bulletproof limo that the government often hires when minor heads
of state are visiting the capital. I think the last crest we had to paint on
the door was Uruguay, and the poor guy never even got to see the President – he
ended up just getting twenty-five minutes with Warren Christopher.’

‘But
now for the hard part, Al. I need six outriders, riding police motorcycles, and
all wearing the correct uniform.’

Al
paused. ‘That could take longer.’

‘We
haven’t got any longer, Al. A month’s going to be the outside for all of us.’

‘It’s
not that easy, Tony. I can’t exactly put an ad in the Washington Post asking
for police...’

‘Yes
you can, Al. In a moment you’ll all see why. Most of you round this table must
be wondering why we’ve been honoured by the presence of Johnny Scasiatore, a
man nominated for an Oscar for his direction of The Honest Lawyer.1 What
Cavalli didn’t add was that since the police had found Johnny in bed with a
twelve-year-old girl, the studios hadn’t been in touch quite as frequently as
in the past.

‘I
was beginning to wonder myself,’ admitted Johnny.

The
chief executive smiled. ‘The truth is, you’re the reason we’ll be able to pull
this whole plan off. Because you’re going to direct the entire operation.’

‘You’re
going to steal the Declaration of Independence and make a movie of it at the
same time?’ asked Johnny in disbelief. Cavalli waited for the laughter that
broke out around the table to die down.

‘Not
exactly. But everyone in Washington on that day is going to believe that you
are making a movie, not of us stealing the Declaration of Independence, but of
the President visiting Congress. The fact that he drops into the National
Archives on the way to the Capitol is something they won’t ever need to know.’

‘I’m
lost already,’ said Frank Piemonte, the team’s lawyer. ‘Can you take it a
little slower?’

‘Sure,
Frank, because this is where you come in. I need a city permit to close down
the route between the White House and Congress for one hour on any day I choose
in the last week in May. Deal direct with the city’s motion picture and
television office.’

‘What
reason do I give?’ asked Piemonte.

‘That
Johnny Scasiatore, the distinguished director, wants to film the President of
the United States on his way to the Senate to address a joint session of
Congress.’ Piemonte looked doubtful. ‘Clint Eastwood managed it last year, so
there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.’

‘Then
you’d better put $250,000 into the Fraternal Order of Police, Lodge No. 1,’
suggested Piemonte. ‘And the Mayor will probably expect the same amount for her
re-election fund.’

‘You
can bribe any city official you know,’ continued Tony, ‘and I also want every
member of the City Police Force on our books squared for the day – all they
have to believe is that we’re making a movie about the new President.’

‘Do
you have any idea what mounting an operation like this is likely to cost?’
asked Johnny Scasiatore.

‘Looking
at the budget of your last film, and the return we made on our investment, I’d
say yes,’ replied Tony. ‘And by the way, Al,’ he added, turning his attention
back to the old Teamster Union boss, ‘sixty cops are due for retirement from
the DCPD in April. You can employ as many of them as you need. Tell them it’s a
crowd scene and pay them double.’ Al Calabrese added a note to his file.

‘Now,
the key to the operation’s success,’ continued Tony, ‘is the half-block from
the intersection of 7th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue to the delivery entrance
of the National Archives.’ He unfolded a large map of Washington and placed it
in the centre of the table, then ran his finger along Constitution Avenue.
‘Once they leave you, Johnny, it’s for real.’

‘But
how do we get in and out of the Archives?’

‘That’s
not your problem, Johnny. Your contribution ends when the six motorcycles and
the Presidential motorcade turn right onto 7th Street. From then on, it’s up to
Gino.’

Until
that moment, Gino Sartori, an ex-Marine who ran the best protection racket on
the West Side, had not spoken. His lawyer had told him many times: ‘Don’t speak
unless I tell you to.’ His lawyer wasn’t present, so he hadn’t opened his
mouth.

‘Gino,
you’re going to supply me with the heavy brigade. I need eight Secret Service
agents to act as the counter-assault team, preferably government-trained and
well-educated. I only plan to be in the building for about twenty minutes, but
we’re going to have to be thinking on our feet for every second of that time.
Debbie will continue to act as a secretary and Angelo will be dressed in naval
uniform and carrying a small black case. I’ll be there as the President’s
assistant, along with Dollar Bill as the President’s physician.’

His
father looked up, frowning. ‘You’re going to be inside the National Archives
building when the document is switched?’

‘Yes,’
replied Tony firmly. ‘I’ll be the only person who knows every part of the plan,
and I’m sure not watching this one from the sidewalk.’

‘A
question,’ said Gino. ‘If, and I only say if, I am abie to supply the twenty or
so people you need, tell me this: when we reach the National Archives, are they
just going to open the doors, invite us in, and then hand over the Declaration
of Independence?’

‘Something
like that,’ replied Cavalli. ‘My father taught me that the successful
conclusion of any enterprise is always in the preparation. I still have one
more surprise for you.’ Once again he had their undivided attention. ‘We have
our own Special Assistant to the President in the White House. His name is Rex
Butterworth, and he’s on temporary assignment from the Department of Commerce
for six months. He returns to his old job when the Clinton nominee has
completed his contract in Little Rock and joins the President’s staff. That’s
another reason why we have to go in May.’ ‘Convenient,’ said Frank.

‘Not
particularly,’ said Cavalli. ‘It turns out that the President has forty-six
Special Assistants at any one time, and when Clinton made his interest in
commerce clear, Butterworth volunteered for the job. He’s fixed a few overseas
contracts for us in the past, but this will be the biggest thing he’s done for
us yet. For obvious reasons, it will also have to be his last assignment.’ ‘Can
he be trusted?’ asked Frank. ‘He’s been on the payroll for fifteen years, and
his third wife is proving rather expensive.’ ‘Show me one who isn’t,’ said Al.
‘Butterworth’s looking for a big payday to get himself out of trouble, and this
is it. And that brings me on to you, Mr Vicente, and your particular expertise
as one of the biggest tour operators in Manhattan.’

‘That’s
the legit side of my business,’ replied the elderly man who sat on the right of
the chairman, as befitted his oldest friend.

‘Not
for what I have in mind,’ promised Tony. ‘Once we have the Declaration in our
possession, we’ll need it kept out of sight for a few days and then smuggled
abroad.’

‘As
long as no one realises it’s been removed and I’m told well in advance where
you want it delivered, that should be simple.’

‘You’ll
get a week,’ said Cavalli.

‘I’d
prefer two,’ said Vicente, raising an eyebrow.

‘No,
Nick, you get a week,’ the chief executive repeated.

‘Can
you give me a clue what distance it will have to travel?’ Vicente asked,
turning the pages of the file Tony had passed across to him.

‘Several
thousand miles. And as far as you’re concerned it’s COD, because if you fail to
deliver, none of us gets paid.’

‘That
figures. But I’ll still need to know how it has to be transported. For
starters, will I have to keep the Declaration between two sheets of glass the
whole time?’

‘I
don’t know myself yet,’ replied Cavalli, ‘but I’m hoping you’ll be able to roll
it up and deposit it in a cylindrical tube of some kind. I’m having one
specially made.’

‘Does
that explain why I’ve got several sheets of blank paper in my file?’ asked
Nick.

‘Yes,’
said Tony. ‘Except those sheets aren’t paper but parchment, each one of them 29
inches by 24 inches, the exact size of the Declaration of Independence.’

‘So
now all I’ve got to hope is that every customs agent and coastguard patrol
won’t be looking for it.’

‘I
want you to assume the whole world will be looking for it,’ replied Cavalli.
‘You aren’t being paid this sort of money for doing a job I could handle with
one call to Federal Express.’

‘I
thought you might say something like that,’ said Nick. ‘Still, I had the same
problem when you wanted the Vermeer of Russborough stolen, and Irish Customs
still haven’t worked out how I got the painting out of the country.’

Cavalli
smiled. ‘So now we all know what’s expected of us. And I think in future we
should meet at least twice a week to start with, every Sunday at three o’clock
and every Thursday at six, to make sure none of us falls behind schedule. One
person out of synch and nobody else will be able to move.’ Tony looked up and
was greeted by nods of agreement.

It
always fascinated Cavalli that organised crime needed to be as efficiently run
as any public company if it hoped to show a dividend. ‘So we’ll meet again next
Thursday at six?’

All
five men nodded and made notes in their diaries.

‘Gentlemen,
you may now open the second of your two envelopes.’ Once again, the five men
ripped open their envelopes, and each pulled out a thick wad of thousand-dollar
bills.

The
lawyer began to count each note.

‘Your
down-payment,’ Tony explained. ‘Expenses will be met at the end of every week,
receipts whenever possible. And, Johnny,’ said Tony, turning to the director,
‘this is not Heaven’s Gate we’re financing.’ Scasiatore managed a smile.

‘Thank
you, gentlemen,’ said Tony, rising. ‘I look forward to seeing you all next
Thursday at six o’clock.’

The
five men rose and made their way to the door, each stopping to shake hands with
Tony’s father before he left. Tony accompanied them to their cars. When the
last one had been driven away, he returned to find his father had moved to the
study and was toying with a whisky while staring at the perfect copy of the
Declaration that Dollar Bill had intended to destroy.

‘
C
ALDER MARSHALL, PLEASE.’

‘The
Archivist can’t be interrupted right now. He’s in a meeting. May I ask who’s
calling?’

‘It’s
Rex Butterworth, Special Assistant to the President. Perhaps the Archivist would
be kind enough to call me back when he’s free. He’ll find me at the White
House.’

Rex
Butterworth put the phone down without waiting to hear what usually happened
once it was known the call had come from the White House: ‘Oh, I feel sure I
can interrupt him, Mr Butterworth, can you hold on for a moment?’

But
that wasn’t what Butterworth wanted. No, the Special Assistant needed Calder
Marshall to phone back himself, because once he had gone through the White
House switchboard, Marshall would be hooked. Butterworth also realised that, as
one of forty-six Special Assistants to the President, and in his case only on
temporary assignment, the switchboard might not even recognise his name. A
quick visit to the little room that housed the White House telephone operators
had dealt with that problem.

He
drummed his fingers on the desk and gazed down with satisfaction at the file in
front of him. One of the President’s two schedulers had been able to supply him
with the information he needed. The file revealed that the Archivist had
invited each of the last three Presidents – Bush, Reagan and Carter – to visit
the National Archives, but due to ‘pressing commitments’ none of them had been
able to find the time.

Butterworth
was well aware that the President received, on average, 1,700 requests every
week to attend some function or other. The latest letter from Mr Marshall,
dated January 22nd 1993, had evoked the reply that although it was not possible
for the President to accept his kind invitation at the present time, Mr Clinton
hoped to have the opportunity to do so at some date in the future – the
standard reply that about 1,699 requests in the weekly postbag were likely to
receive.

But
on this occasion, Mr Marshall’s wish was about to be granted. Butterworth continued
to drum his fingers on the desk as he wondered how long it would take Marshall
to return his call. Less than two minutes would have been his guess. He allowed
his mind to wander back over the events of the past week.

When
Cavalli had first put the idea to him, he had laughed more loudly than any of
the six men who had gathered round the table at 75th Street. But after studying
the parchment for over an hour and still not being able to identify the
mistake, and then later meeting with Lloyd Adams, he began to believe, like the
other sceptics, that switching the Declaration might just be possible.