When the Conservator lifted the top piece of the laminated glass and rested it on the boardroom table, Scott could tell from the smile on his face that he believed he was staring down at the original.
“Come on,” said Dexter, “or they’ll start getting suspicious.”
Mendelssohn didn’t seem to hear the Deputy Director’s urgings. He once again checked the spelling of “Brittish” and, satisfied, turned his attention to the five “Geo’s” and one “George” before glancing, first quickly and then slowly, over the rest of the parchment. The smile never left his face.
Without a word, the Conservator slowly rolled up the original, and Scott replaced it with the copy from the National Archives. Once Scott had the sheets of glass back in position he screwed the two steel clamps firmly in place.
Mendelssohn deposited the cylinder in the tool bag while Scott hung the copy on the wall.
They both heard Dexter Hutchins’s deep sigh of relief.
“Now for Christ’s sake let’s get out of here,” said the Deputy Director as six cops, guns drawn, burst into the room and surrounded them.
“Freeze!” said one of them. Mendelssohn fainted.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
All four were arrested, handcuffed and had their rights read to them. They were then driven in separate police cars to the Nineteenth Precinct.
When they were questioned, three refused to speak without an attorney present. The fourth pointed out to the Desk Sergeant that if the bag which had been taken from him was opened at any time other than in the presence of his attorney, a writ would be issued and a separate action taken out against the NYPD.
The Desk Sergeant looked at the smartly dressed, distinguished-looking man and decided not to take any risks. He labeled the bag with a red tag and threw it in the night safe.
The same man insisted on his legal right to make one phone call. The request was granted, but not until another form had been completed and signed. Dexter Hutchins put a collect call through to the Director of the CIA at 2:27 that morning.
The Director confessed to his subordinate that he hadn’t been able to sleep. He listened intently to Hutchins’s report and praised him for not revealing his name or giving the police any details of the covert assignment. “We don’t need anyone to know who you are,” he added. “We must be sure at all times not to embarrass the President.” H
e paused for a moment. “Or, more important, the CIA.”
When the Deputy Director put the phone down, he and his three colleagues were hustled away to separate cells.
The Director of the CIA put on his bathrobe and went down to his study. After he had written up a short summary of the conversation he had had with his Deputy, he checked a number on his desk computer. He slowly dialed the 212 area code.
The Commissioner of the New York City Police Department uttered some choice words when he answered the phone, until he was sufficiently alert to take in who it was sounding so wide awake on the other end of the line. He then switched on the bedside light and began to make some notes on a pad. His wife turned over, but not before she had added a few choice words of her own.
The Director of the CIA ended his part of the conversation with the comment, “I owe you one.”
“Two,” said the Commissioner. “One for trying to sort out your problem.”
“And the second?” asked the Director.
“For waking up my wife at three o’clock in the morning.”
The Commissioner remained seated on the edge of the bed while he looked up the home number of the Captain in charge of that particular precinct.
The Captain recognized his chief’s voice immediately when he picked up the phone, and simply said, “Good morning, Commissioner,” as if it were a routine mid-morning call.
The chief briefed the Captain without making any mention of a call from the Director of the CIA or giving any clues about who the four men languishing in his night cells were—not that he was absolutely certain himself. The Captain scribbled down the salient facts on the back of his wife’s copy of Good Housekeeping. He didn’t bother to shower or shave, and dressed quickly in the clothes he had worn the previous day. He left his apartment in Queens at 3:21 and drove himself into Manhattan, leaving his car outside the front of the precinct a few minutes before four.
Those officers, who were fully awake at that time in the morning, were surprised to see their boss running up the steps and into the front hall, especially since he looked disheveled, unshaven and was carrying a copy of Good Housekeeping under his arm.
He strode into the office of the Duty Lieutenant, who quickly removed his feet from the desk.
The Lieutenant looked mystified when asked about the four men who’d been arrested earlier, since he’d only just finished interrogating a drug pusher.
The Desk Sergeant was called for and joined the Captain in the Duty Lieutenant’s office. The veteran policeman, who thought he had seen most things during a long career in the force, admitted to booking the four men, but remained puzzled by the whole incident, because he couldn’t think of anything to charge them with—despite the fact that one of the homeowners, a Mr. Antonio Cavalli, had called within the last few minutes to ask if the four men were still being held in custody, as a complication had arisen. None of the residents had reported anything stolen, so theft did not apply. There could be no charge of breaking and entering, as on each occasion they had been invited into the buildings. There was certainly no assault involved, and trespass couldn’t be considered, as they had left the premises the moment they were asked to do so. The only charge the Sergeant could come up with was impersonating gas company officials.
The Captain didn’t show any interest in whether or not the Desk Sergeant could find something to charge them with. All he wanted to know was: “Has the bag been opened?”