r /> “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.”
Mendelssohn unzipped the bag and allowed Scott to remove the screwdrivers, knives, chisels and finally the drill, which he placed on the floor between them. He zipped the bag back up.
At 6:43 the driver pulled off the highway and followed the signs for La Guardia. No one spoke until the car came to a halt at the curb opposite the Marine Air terminal entrance.
As Dexter stepped out of the car, three men in tan Burberrys jumped out of a car that had parked immediately behind them, and preceded the Deputy Director into the terminal. Another man in a smart charcoal-gray suit, with a raincoat over his arm, held out an envelope as Dexter passed him. The Deputy Director took the package like a good relay runner, without breaking his stride, as he continued towards the departure lounge, where three more agents were waiting for him.
Once he had checked in, Dexter Hutchins would have liked to pace up and down as he waited to board the aircraft. Instead he stood restlessly one yard away from the Declaration of Independence, surrounded by a circle of agents.
“The shuttle to Washington is now boarding at Gate Number 4,” announced a voice over the intercom. Nine men waited until everyone else had boarded the aircraft. When the agent standing by the gate nodded, Dexter led his team past the ticket collector, down the boarding ramp and onto the aircraft. They took their seats, 1A—F and 2A—F. Seat 2E was occupied only by the bag, 2D and 2F by two men who weighed five hundred pounds between them.
The pilot welcomed them aboard and warned them there might be a slight delay. Dexter checked his watch: 7:27. He began drumming his fingers on the armrest that divided him from Scott. The flight attendant offered every one of the nine men in the first two rows a copy of USA Today. Only Mendelssohn took up her offer.
At 7:39 the aircraft taxied onto the runway to prepare for takeoff. When it stopped, Dexter asked the flight attendant what was holding them up.
“The usual early-morning traffic,” she replied. “The Captain has just told me that we’re seventh in the line, so we should be airborne in about ten to fifteen minutes.”