“Is all this expense really necessary?” asked Cavalli.
“If you want everyone except us to believe they’re taking part in a motion picture, you can’t afford to risk any shortcuts. I’m going to shoot a film that anybody watching us, professional or amateur, could expect to see one day in a movie theater. I’m even paying full Equity rates for all of the extras.”
“Thank God none of my people have a union,” commented Cavalli. The sun was now full on his face, twenty-one minutes after the President would have enjoyed its warmth over breakfast in the White House.
Cavalli looked down at the checklist on his clipboard. Al Calabrese already had all his twelve vehicles in place on the curbside, and the drivers were standing around in a huddle drinking coffee, sheltered from the wind by one of the walls of Freedom Plaza. The six limousines glistened in the morning sun as passersby, cleaners and janitors leaving offices and early-morning commuters coming up from the Federal Triangle Metro slowed to admire the spectacle. A painter was just touching up the Presidential Seal on the third car while a girl was unfurling a flag on the right-hand fender.
Cavalli turned to see a police truck, tailgate down, parked in front of the District Building. Barriers were being lifted off and carried onto the sidewalk to make sure innocent passersby did not stray onto the set during those crucial three minutes when the filming would be taking place.
Lloyd Adams had spent the previous day going over his lines one last time and dipping into yet another book on the history of the Declaration of Independence. That night he had sat in bed replaying again and again a video of Bill Clinton on his Georgia Avenue walk, noting the tilt of the head, the Razorback accent, the way he subconsciously bit his lower lip. The Monday before, Adams had purchased a suit that was identical to the one the President had worn to welcome the British Prime Minister in February—straight off the rack from Dillard’s Department Store. He chose a red, white and blue tie, a rip-off of the one Clinton wore on the cover of the March issue of Vanity Fair. A Timex Ironman had been the final addition to his wardrobe. During the past week a second wig had been made, this time a little grayer, which Adams felt more comfortable with. The director and Cavalli had taken him through a dress rehearsal the previous evening: word perfect—though Johnny had commented that his collapse at the end of the scene was a bad case of overacting. Cavalli felt the Archivist would be far too overwhelmed to notice.
Cavalli walked over to Al Calabrese and asked him to go over the breakdown of his staff yet again. Al tried not to sound exasperated, as he had gone over it in great detail during their last three board meetings: “Twelve drivers, six outriders,” he rattled off. “Four of them are ex-cops or military police and all of them have worked with me before. But as none of them are going into the National Archives, they’ve simply been told they’re involved in a movie. Only those working directly under Gino Sartori know what we’re really up to.”
“But are they fully briefed on what’s expected of them once they reach the Archives?”
“You’d better believe it,” replied Al. “We went over it at least half a dozen times yesterday, first on a map in my office, and then we came down here in the afternoon and walked the route. They drive down Pennsylvania Avenue at ten miles an hour while they’re being filmed and continue east until they reach 7th Street. Then they take a sharp right, when they’ll be out of sight of everyone involved in the filming, not to mention the police. Then they turn right again at the delivery entrance of the National Archives, where they’ll come to a halt in front of the loading dock. Angelo, Dollar Bill, Debbie, you and the counter-assault team leave their vehicles and accompany the actor into the building, where they’ll be met by Calder Marshall.
“Once your party has entered the building the cars will go back up the ramp and take a right on 7th Street, another right on Constitution Avenue and then right on 14th Street before returning to the location where the filming began. By then, Johnny will be ready for a second take. On the signal from you that the Declaration of Independence has been exchanged for our forgery, the second take will begin immediately, except this time we’ll be picking up the thirteen operatives we dropped outside the National Archives.”
“And, if all goes according to plan, the Declaration of Independence as well,” said Cavalli. “Then what happens?” he asked, wanting to be sure that nothing had changed since their final board meeting in New York.
“The limos leave Washington by six separate routes,” continued Al. “Three of them return to the capital during the afternoon, but not until they’ve changed their license plates; two others go on to New York, and one drives to a destination known only to you; that will be the vehicle carrying the Declaration.”
“If it all runs as smoothly as that, Al, you’ll have earned your money. But it won’t, and that’s when we’ll really find out how good you are.” He nodded as Al left to grab a mug of coffee and rejoin his men.
Cavalli checked his watch: 7:22. When he looked up he saw Johnny heading towards him, red in the face. Thank God I don’t have to work in Hollywood, thought Cavalli.
“I’m having trouble with a cop who says I can’t put my lighting equipment on the sidewalk until nine-thirty. That means I won’t be able to begin filming until well after ten, and if I’ve only got forty-five minutes to start with—”
“Calm down, Johnny,” said Cavalli, and checked his list of personnel. He looked up and began to search the crowd of workers that was flowing off Freedom Plaza onto the sidewalk. He spotted the man he needed. “You see the tall guy with gray hair practicing his charm on Debbie?” he said, pointing.
“Yeah,” said Johnny.
“That’s Tom Newbolt, ex-Deputy Chief of the DCPD, now a security consultant. We’ve hired him for the day. So go and tell him what your problem is, and then we’ll find out if he’s worth the five thousand dollars his company is charging me.”
Cavalli smiled as Johnny stormed off in Newbolt’s direction.
* * *
Angelo stood over the slumbering body. He leaned across, grabbed Dollar Bill’s shoulders and began to shake him furiously.
The little Irishman was belching out a snore that sounded more like an old tractor than a human being. Angelo leaned closer, only to find Dollar Bill smelled as if he had spent a night in the local brewery.
Angelo realized that he should never have left Bill the previous evening, even for a moment. If he didn’t get the bastard to the Archives on time, Cavalli would kill them both. He even knew who’d carry out the job, and the method she would use. He went on shaking, but Dollar Bill’s eyes remained determinedly closed.
At eight o’clock a Klaxon sounded and the film crew took a break for breakfast.
“Thirty minutes. Union regulations,” explained Johnny when Cavalli looked exasperated. The crew surrounded a parked trailer—another expensive import—on the sidewalk, where they were served eggs, ham and hash browns. Cavalli had to admit that the crowds gathered behind the police barriers and the passersby lingering on the sidewalk never seemed to doubt for a moment that this was a film crew getting ready for a shoot.
Cavalli decided to use the thirty-minute break to check for himself that, once the cars had turned right on 7th Street, they could not be seen by anyone involved in the filming back on Pennsylvania Avenue.
He strode briskly away from the commotion, and when he reached the corner of 7th Street he turned right. It was as if he’d entered a different world. He joined a group of people who were quite unaware of what was taking place less than half a mile away. It was just like Washington on a normal Tuesday morning. He was pleased to spot Andy Borzello sitting on the bench in the bus shelter near the loading dock entrance to the National Archives, reading the Washington Post.
By the time Cavalli had returned, the film crew was beginning to move back and start their final checks, no one wanted to be the person responsible for a retake.
The crowds at the barriers were growing thicker by the minute, and the police spent a considerable amount of their time explaining that a film was going to be shot, but not for at least another couple of hours. Several people looked disappointed at this information and moved on, only to allow others to take up the places they had vacated.
Cavalli’s cellular phone began ringing. He pressed the talk button and was greeted by the sound of his father’s Brooklyn vowels. The chairman was cautious over the phone, and simply asked if there were any problems.