Honor Among Thieves

“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.”