Honour Among Thieves (21 page)

‘Fifteen
seconds,’ said the director as he swung back to face the first car in line.
‘Good luck, everybody.’

Tony
stared at Scasiatore, willing him to get on with it. They were now eight
minutes late – which with this particular President, he had to admit, added an
air of authenticity.

‘Ten
seconds. Rolling. Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one –
action!’

The
woman pushing the laundry basket down the corridor ignored the ‘Do Not Disturb’
sign on Room 1137 and walked straight in.

A
rather overweight man, sweating profusely, was seated on the edge of the bed.
He was jabbing out some numbers on the phone when he looked round and saw her.

‘Get
out, you dumb bitch,’ he said, and turned back to concentrate on redialling the
numbers.

In
three silent paces she was behind him. He turned a second time just as she
leaned over, took the phone cord in both hands and pulled it round his neck. He
raised an arm to protest as she flicked her wrists in one sharp movement. He
slumped forward and fell off the bed onto the carpet, just as the voice on the
phone said, ‘Thank you for using AT & T.’

She
realised that she shouldn’t have used the phone cord. Most unprofessional – but
nobody called her a dumb bitch.

She
replaced the phone on the hook and bent down, deftly hoisting the Special
Assistant to the President onto her shoulder. She dropped him into the laundry
basket. No one would have believed such a frail woman could have lifted such a
heavy weight. In truth the only use she had ever made of a degree in physics
was to apply the principles of fulcrums, pivots and levers to her chosen
profession.

She
opened the door and checked the passageway. At this hour it was unlikely
there’d be many people around. She wheeled the basket down the corridor until
she reached the housekeepers’ elevator, faced the wall and waited patiently.
When the lift arrived she pressed the button that would take her to the garage.

When
the lift came to a halt on the lower ground floor she wheeled the basket out
and over to the back of a Honda Accord, the second-most popular car in America.

Shielded
by a pillar, she quickly transferred the Special Assistant from the basket into
the boot of the car. She then wheeled the basket back to the lift, took off her
baggy black uniform, dropped it into the laundry basket, removed her carrier
bag with the long cord handle and despatched the laundry basket to the
twenty-fifth floor.

She
straightened up her Laura Ashley dress before climbing into the car and placing
her carrier bag under the front seat. She drove out of the car park onto F
Street, and had only travelled a short distance before she was stopped by a
traffic cop.

She
wound the window down.

‘Follow
the diversion sign,’ he said, without even looking at her.

She
glanced at the clock on her dashboard. It was 10.07.

A
S THE LEAD
POLICE CAR moved slowly away from the kerb, the director’s tracking dolly began
running backwards at the same pace along its rails. The crowds behind the
barriers started to cheer and wave. If they had been making a real film the
director would have called ‘Cut’ after twenty seconds because that fool of a
coordinating officer was still standing in the middle of the road, hands on
hips, oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t the star of the movie.

Cavalli
didn’t notice the officer as he concentrated on the road ahead of him. He
phoned through to Andy, who he knew would still be seated on the bench on 7th
Street reading the Washington Post.

‘Not
much action this end, boss. A little activity at the bottom of the ramp, but no
one on the street is showing any real interest. Is everything all right your
end? You’re running late.’

‘Yes,
I know, but we should be with you in about sixty seconds,’ said Cavalli, as the
director reached the end of his private railroad track and put one thumb in the
air to indicate that the cars could now accelerate to twenty-five miles per
hour. Johnny Scasiatore jumped off the dolly and walked slowly back down
Pennsylvania Avenue so he could prepare himself for the second take.

Cavalli
flicked the phone off and took a deep intake of breath as the motorcade passed
9th Street; he stared at the FDR Monument that was set back on a grass plot in
front of the main entrance of the Archives. The first car turned right on 7th
Street; a mere half-block remained before they would reach the driveway into
the loading dock. The lead motorcycles speeded up and when they were opposite
Andy standing on the pavement, they swung right and drove down the ramp.

The
rest of the motorcade formed a line directly opposite the delivery entrance,
while the third limousine drove down the ramp to the loading dock.

The
counter-assault team were the first onto the street, and eight of them quickly
formed a circle facing outwards around the third car.

After
the eight men had stared in every direction for a few seconds, Cavalli jumped
out of the second car, ran across to join them and opened the back door of the
third car so that Lloyd Adams could get out.

Calder
Marshall was waiting on the loading dock, and walked forward to greet the
President.

‘Nice
to meet you, Mr Marshall,’ said the actor, thrusting out his hand. ‘I’ve been
looking forward to this occasion for some time.’

‘As,
indeed, have we, Mr President. May I on behalf of my staff welcome you to the
National Archives of the United States. Will you please follow me.’

Lloyd
Adams and his entourage dutifully followed Marshall straight into the spartan
freight elevator. As one of the Secret Service agents kept his finger on the
‘open’ button, Cavalli gave the order for the motorcade to return to its
starting point. Six motorcycles and the twelve vehicles moved off and began the
journey back to rejoin the director and prepare for the second shoot.

The
whole exercise of getting the actor into the building and the motorcade started
on its return journey had taken less than two minutes, but Cavalli was dismayed
to see that a small crowd had already gathered on the far side of the road by
the Federal Trade Commission, obviously sensing something important was taking
place. He only hoped Andy could deal with the problem.

Cavalli
quickly slipped into the elevator, wedging himself behind Adams. Marshall had
begun a short history of how the Declaration of Independence had ended up in
the National Archives.

‘Most
people know that John Adams and Thomas Jefferson drafted the Declaration that
was approved by Congress on July 4th 1776. Few, however, know that the second
and third Presidents died on the same day, July 4th 1826 – fifty years to the
day after the official signing.’ The elevator doors opened on the ground floor
and Marshall stepped out into a marble corridor and led them in the direction
of his office.

‘The
Declaration had a long and turbulent journey, Mr President, before it ended up
safely in this building.’

When
they reached the fifth door on the left, Marshall guided the President and his
staff into his office, where coffee awaited them. Two of the Secret Service agents
stepped inside while the other six remained in the corridor.

Lloyd
Adams sipped his coffee as Marshall ignored his in favour of continuing the
history lesson. ‘After the signing ceremony, on August 2nd 1776, the
Declaration was filed in Philadelphia, but because of the danger of the
document being captured by the British, the engrossed parchment was taken to
Baltimore in a covered wagon.’

‘Fascinating,’
said Adams in a soft drawl. ‘But had it been captured by the British infantry,
copies would still have been in existence, no doubt?’

‘Oh
certainly, Mr President. Indeed, we have a good example of one in this building
executed by William J. Stone. However, the original remained in Baltimore until
1777, when it was returned to the relative safety of Philadelphia.’

‘In
another wagon?’ asked the President.

‘Indeed,’
said Marshall, not realising his guest was joking. ‘We even know the name of
the man who drove it, a Mr Samuel Smith. Then, in 1800, by direction of
President Adams, the Declaration was moved to Washington, where it first found
a home in the Treasury Department, but between 1800 and 1814 it was moved all
over the city, eventually ending up in the old War Office building on 17th
Street.’

‘And,
of course, we were still at war with Britain at that time,’ said the actor.

Cavalli
admired the way Adams had not only learned his lines, but done his research so
thoroughly.

‘That
is correct, Mr President,’ said the Archivist. ‘And when the British fleet appeared
in Chesapeake Bay, the Secretary of State, James Monroe, ordered that the
document be moved once again. Because, as I am sure you know, Mr President, it
is the Secretary of State who is responsible for the safety of the parchment,
not the President.’

Lloyd
Adams did know, but wasn’t sure if the President would have, so he decided to
play safe. ‘Is that right, Mr Marshall? Then perhaps it should be Warren
Christopher who is here today to view the Declaration, and not me.’

‘The
Secretary of State was kind enough to visit us soon after he took office,’
Marshall replied.

‘But
he didn’t want the document moved again,’ said the actor. Marshall, Cavalli,
the Lieutenant and the physician dutifully laughed before the Archivist
continued.

‘Monroe,
having spotted the British advancing on Washington, despatched the Declaration
on a journey up the Potomac to Leesburg, Virginia.’

‘August
24th,’ said Adams, ‘when they razed the White House to the ground.’

‘Precisely,’
said Marshall. ‘You are well informed, sir.’

‘To
be fair,’ said the actor, ‘I’ve been well briefed by my Special Assistant, Rex
Butterworth.’

Marshall
showed his recognition of the name, but Cavalli wondered if the actor was being
just a little too clever.

‘That
night,’ continued Marshall, ‘while the White House was ablaze, thanks to
Monroe’s foresight the. Declaration was stored safely in Leesburg.’

‘So
when did they bring the parchment back to Washington?’ asked Adams, who could
have told the Archivist the exact date.

‘Not
for several weeks, sir. On September 17th 1814, to be precise. With the
exception of a trip to Philadelphia for the centennial celebrations and its
time in Fort Knox during World War II, the Declaration has remained in the
capital ever since.’

‘But
not in this building,’ said Adams.

‘No,
Mr President, you are right again. It has had several other homes before ending
up here, the worst being the Patent Office, where it hung opposite a window and
was for years exposed to sunlight, causing the parchment irreparable damage.’

Bill
O’Reilly stood in the corner, thinking how many hours of work he had had to do
and how many copies he had had to destroy during the preparation stage because
of that particular piece of stupidity. He cursed all those who had ever worked
in the Patent Office.

‘How
long did it hang there?’ asked Adams.

‘For
thirty-five years,’ said Marshall, with a sigh that showed he was every bit as
annoyed as Dollar Bill that his predecessors had been so irresponsible. ‘In
1877 the Declaration was moved to the State Department library. Not only was
smoking common at the time, but there was also an open fireplace in the room.
And, I might add, the building was damaged by fire only months after the
parchment had been moved.’

‘That
was a close one,’ said Adams.

‘After
the war was over,’ continued Marshall, ‘the Declaration was taken from Fort
Knox and brought back to Washington in a Pullman carriage before it was housed
in the Library of Congress.’

‘I
hope it wasn’t exposed to the light once again,’ said Adams as Cavalli’s phone
rang.

Cavalli
slipped into the corner and listened to the director tell him, ‘We’re back on
the starting line, ready to go whenever you are.’

‘I’ll
call when I need you,’ was all Cavalli said. He switched his phone off and
returned to listen to the Archivist’s disquisition.

‘...
in a Thermapane case equipped with a filter to screen out damaging ultra-violet
light.’

‘Fascinating.
But when did the document finally reach this building?’ asked Adams.

‘On
December 13 th 1952. It was transported from the Library of Congress to the
National Archives in a tank under the armed escort of the US Marine Corps.’

‘First
a covered wagon, and finally a tank,’ said the actor, who noticed that Cavalli
kept glancing at his watch. ‘Perhaps the time has come for me to see the
Declaration in its full glory.’

‘Of
course, Mr President,’ said the Archivist.

Marshall
led the way back into the corridor, followed by the actor and his entourage.

‘The
Declaration can normally be seen by the public in the rotunda on the ground floor,
but we shall view it in the vault where it is stored at night.’ When they
reached the end of the corridor the Archivist led the President down a flight
of stairs while Cavalli kept checking over the route that would allow them the
swiftest exit if any trouble arose. He was delighted to find that the Archivist
had followed his instructions and kept the corridors clear of any staff.