“As long as no one realizes it’s been removed and I’m told well in advance where you want it delivered, that should be simple enough.”
“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 293/4 inches by 241/4 inches, the exact size of the Declaration of Independence.”
“So now all I’ve got to hope is that every customs agent and coast guard 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 the 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 organized 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 calendars.
“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.
Chapter Eleven
“Calder 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 realized that, as one of forty-six Special Assistants to the President, and in his case only on temporary assignment, the switchboard might not even recognize 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 22, 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 mailbag 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 around 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 skeptics, that switching the Declaration might just be possible.
Over the years, Butterworth had served the Cavalli family well. Meetings had been arranged with politicians at a moment’s notice, words were dropped in the ears of trade officials from someone thought to be well placed in Washington and the odd piece of inside information had been passed on, ensuring that Butterworth’s income was commensurate with his own high opinion of his true worth.
As he lay awake that night thinking about the proposition, he also came to the conclusion that Cavalli couldn’t take the next step without him, and more important, his role in the deception would probably be obvious within minutes of the theft being discovered, in which case he would end up spending the rest of his life in Leavenworth. Against that possibility he had to weigh the fact that he was fifty-seven years old, had only three years to go before retirement, and had a third wife who was suing him for a divorce he couldn’t afford. Butterworth no longer dreamed of promotion. He was now simply trying to come to terms with the fact that he was probably going to have to spend the rest of his life alone, eking out some sort of existence on a meager government pension.
Cavalli was also aware of these facts, and the offer of a million dollars—a hundred thousand the day he signed up, a further nine hundred thousand on the day the exchange took place—and a first-class ticket to any country on earth, almost convinced Butterworth that he should go along with Cavalli’s proposition.
But it was Maria who tilted the balance in Cavalli’s favor.
At a trade conference in Brazil the previous year, Butterworth had met a local girl who answered most of his questions during the day and the rest of them at night. He’d phoned her the morning after Cavalli’s first approach. Maria seemed pleased to hear from him, a pleasure that became more vocal when she learned that he’d be leaving government service and, having come into “a reasonable inheritance,” was thinking of settling down somewhere abroad.
The President’s Special Assistant joined the team the following day.
He had spent most of the hundred thousand dollars by the end of the week, clearing his debts and getting up-to-date with his first two wives’ alimony. With only a few thousand left, there was now nothing to
do but commit himself wholeheartedly to the plan. He didn’t give a moment’s thought to changing his mind, because he knew he could never hope to repay the money. He hadn’t forgotten that the man he had replaced on Cavalli’s payroll had once neglected to repay a far smaller sum after making certain promises. Once had been enough: Cavalli’s father had had him buried under the World Trade Center when he’d failed to secure the promised contract for the building. A similar departure did not appeal to Butterworth.
The phone rang on Butterworth’s desk, as he had predicted, in under two minutes, but he allowed it to continue ringing for some time before he picked it up. His temporary secretary announced that there was a Mr. Marshall on the line and asked if he wanted to take the call.
“Yes, thank you, Miss Daniels.”
“Mr. Butterworth?” inquired a voice.
“Speaking.”
“This is Calder Marshall over at the National Archives. I understand you phoned while I was in a meeting. Sorry I wasn’t available.”
“No problem, Mr. Marshall. It’s just that I wondered if it would be possible for you to drop by the White House. There’s a private matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Of course, Mr. Butterworth. What time would be convenient?”
“I’m up to my eyes the rest of this week,” Butterworth said, looking down at the blank pages in his calendar, “but the President’s away at the beginning of next week, so perhaps we could schedule something for then?”
There was a pause which Butterworth assumed meant Marshall was checking his calendar. “Would Tuesday, ten A.M. suit you?” the Archivist eventually asked.
“Let me check my other calendar,” said Butterworth, staring into space. “Yes, that looks fine. I have another appointment at ten-thirty, but I’m confident we’ll have covered everything I need to go over with you by then. Perhaps you would be kind enough to come to the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance of the Old Executive Office Building. There’ll be someone there to meet you and after you’ve cleared security they’ll bring you up to my office.”
“The Pennsylvania Avenue entrance,” said Marshall. “Of course.”
“Thank you, Mr. Marshall. I look forward to seeing you next Tuesday at ten o’clock,” said Butterworth before replacing the receiver.
The President’s Special Assistant smiled as he dialed Cavalli’s private number.
Scott promised Dexter Hutchins he would be around when Dexter’s son came to Yale for his admission interview.
“He’s allowing me to tag along,” said Dexter, “which will give me a chance to bring you up-to-date on our little problem with the Israelis. And I may even have found something to tempt you.”
“Dexter, if you’re hoping that I’ll get your son into Yale in exchange for a field job, I think I ought to let you know I have absolutely no influence with the Admissions Office.” Dexter’s laugh crackled down the phone. “But I’ll still be happy to show you both around the place and give the boy any help I can.”
Dexter Jr. could not have turned out to be more like his father: five foot ten, heavily built, a perpetual five o’clock shadow and the same habit of calling everything that moved “sir.” When, after an hour strolling around the grounds, he left his father for his interview with the head of the Admissions Office, the professor of constitutional law took the Deputy Director of the CIA back to his rooms.
Even before the door was closed, Dexter had lit up a cigar. After a few puffs he said, “Have you been able to make any sense of the coded message sent by our operative in Beirut?”
“Only that everyone who joins the intelligence community has some strange personal reason for wanting to do so. In my case, it’s because of my father and a Boy Scout determination to balance the books morally. In the case of Hannah Kopec, Saddam Hussein wipes out her family, so she immediately offers her talents to Mossad. With that powerful a motive, I wouldn’t want to cross her path.”
“But that’s exactly what I’m hoping you will do,” said Dexter. “You’re always saying you want to be tested in the field. Well, this could be your opportunity.”
“Am I hearing you properly?”
“Yale’s spring term is about to end, right?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a lot of work to do.”
“Oh, I see. A happy amateur twelve times a year when it suits you, but the moment you might have to get your hands dirty…”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well then, hear me out. First, we know Hannah Kopec was one of eight girls selected from a hundred to go to London for six months to study Arabic. This followed a year’s intensive physical course at Herzliyah, where they covered the usual self-defense, fieldcraft and surveillance work. The reports on her were excellent. Second, a chat with her host’s wife at Sainsbury’s in Camden Town, wherever the hell that is, and we discover that she left suddenly, despite the fact that she was almost certainly meant to return to Israel as part of the team that was working on the assassination of Saddam. That’s when we lose sight of her. Then we get one of those breaks that only come from good detective work. One of our agents who works at Heathrow spots her in duty-free, when she’s buying some cheap perfume.
“After she boards a plane for Lebanon he phones our man in Beirut, who shadows her from the moment she arrives. Not that easy, I might add. We lost her for several hours. Then, out of nowhere, up she pops again, but this time as Karima Saib, who Baghdad is under the impression is on her way to Paris as second secretary to the Ambassador. Meanwhile, the real Miss Saib is abducted at Beirut Airport and is now being held at a safe house somewhere across the border on the outskirts of Tel Aviv.”
“Where’s all this leading, Dexter?”
“Patience, Professor,” he said, relighting the stub of his cigar, which hadn’t been glowing for several minutes. “Not all of us are born with your academic acuity.”
“Get on with it,” said Scott with a smile, “because my academic acuity hasn’t been stretched yet.”
“Now I come to a bit you’re going to enjoy. Hannah Kopec has not been placed in the Iraqi Interest Section of the Jordanian Embassy in Paris to spy.”
“Then why bother to put her there in the first place? In any case, how can you be certain?” asked Scott.
“Because the Mossad agent in Paris—how shall I put it?—does a little work for us on the side, and he hasn’t even been informed of her existence.”
Scott scowled. “So why has the girl been placed in the embassy?”
“We don’t know, but we sure as hell would like to find out. We think Rabin can’t give the go-ahead to strike Saddam while Kopec is still in France, so the least we need to know is when she’s expected back in Israel. And that’s where you come in.”
“But we must have a man in Paris already.”
“Several, actually, but every one of them is known by Mossad at a hundred paces, and, I suspect, even by the Iraqis at ten. So if Hannah Kopec is in Paris without the Mossad sleeper knowing, I’d like you to be in Paris without our people knowing. That is, if you feel you can spare the time away from Susan Anderson.”
“She broke away from me the day her boyfriend returned from his conference. I don’t know what it is I do to women. She called me last week to tell me they’re getting married next month.”
“All the more reason for you to go to Paris.”
“On a wild goose chase.”
“This goose may just be about to lay us a golden egg, and in any case, I don’t want to read about another brilliant Israeli coup on the front page of the New York Times and then have to explain to the President why the CIA knew nothing about it.”
“But where would I even start?”
“In your own time, you try to make contact with her. Tell her you’re the Mossad agent in Paris.”
“But she would never believe—”
“Why not? She doesn’t know who the agent is, only that there is one. Scott, I need to know—”
The door swun
g open and Dexter Jr. came in.
“How did it go?” asked his father. The young man walked across the room and slumped into an armchair, but did not utter a word.
“That bad, eh son?”
“Mr. Marshall, how nice to meet you,” said Butterworth, thrusting out his hand to greet the Archivist of the United States.
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Butterworth,” Calder Marshall replied nervously.
“Good of you to find the time to come over,” said Butterworth. “Do have a seat.”
Butterworth had booked the Roosevelt Room in the West Wing for their meeting. It had taken a lot of persuading of a particularly officious lady secretary who knew Mr. Butterworth’s station in life only too well. She reluctantly agreed to release the room for thirty minutes, and then only because he was seeing the Archivist of the United States. She also agreed to his second request, as the President would be out of town that day. The Special Assistant had placed himself at the head of a table that usually seated twenty-four, and beckoned Mr. Marshall to be seated on his right, facing Tade Stykal’s portrait of Theodore Roosevelt on Horseback.
The Archivist must have been a shade over six feet, and as thin as most women half his age would have liked to be. He was almost bald except for a semicircle of gray tufts around the base of his skull. He wore an ill-fitting suit that looked as if it normally experienced outings only on a Sunday morning. From his file, Butterworth knew the Archivist was younger than himself, but he vainly felt that if they had been seen together, no one would have believed it.
He must have been born middle-aged, thought Butterworth, but the Special Assistant had no such disparaging thoughts about the quality of the man’s mind. After graduating magna cum laude from Duke University, Marshall had written a book on the history of the Bill of Rights that was now considered the standard text for every undergraduate studying American history. It had made him a small fortune—not that one could have guessed it by the way he dressed, thought Butterworth.
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