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.
His father unlocked the front door and Tony followed him out onto the sidewalk, passing him to look up the street in search of a Yellow Cab. But none chose to turn right down 75th Street at that time in the morning.
“We’ll have to take the car,” shouted his father, who had already begun to cross the road in the direction of the all-night garage. “We can’t afford to waste another minute.” Tony dashed back into the house and removed the car keys from the drawer of the hall table. He caught up with his father long before he reached their parking space.
As Tony fastened his seatbelt, he turned and asked his father, “If we do manage to get the Declaration back, what the hell do you intend to do then?”
“To start with, I’m going to kill Dollar Bill myself, so I can be certain that he never makes another copy. And then—” Tony turned the key in the ignition.
The explosion that followed woke the entire neighborhood for the second time that morning.
The four men came running down the precinct steps. The smallest of them was clutching a bag. A car whose engine had been running for the past hour swung across the road and came to a halt by their side. One of the men walked off into the halflight of the morning, still not certain why his expertise had been required in the first place.
Dexter Hutchins joined the driver in the front, while Scott and the Conservator climbed quickly into the back.
“La Guardia,” said Dexter and then thanked the agent for sitting up half the night. Scott looked between the two front seats as the digital clock changed from 6:11 to 6:12.
The agent swung in to the outside lane.
“Don’t break the speed limit,” ordered Dexter. “We don’t need any more delays at this stage.” The agent edged back into the center lane.
“What time’s the next shuttle?” asked Scott.
“Delta, seven-thirty,” replied the driver. Dexter picked up the phone and punched in eleven numbers. When a voice at the other end said, “Yes,” the Deputy Director simply replied, “We’re on our way, sir. We should have everything back in place by ten o’clock.”
Dexter replaced the phone and turned around to assure himself that the silent Conservator was still with them. He was clutching the bag that was resting on his legs.
“Better take everything out of the bag other than the cylinder,” said Dexter. “Otherwise we’ll never get past security.”