Honor Among Thieves

“I should have realized this had to be too good to last.”

“First, allow me to fill you in with a little background,” said Dexter Hutchins as a lightly grilled steak was placed in front of his guest. “On May 25th this year, a well-organized group of criminals descended on Washington and carried out one of the most ingenious crimes in the history of this country.”

“Excellent steak,” said Dollar Bill. “You must give my compliments to the chef.”

“I certainly will, sir,” said Charles, who was hovering behind his chair.

“This crime consisted of stealing from the National Archives, in broad daylight, the Declaration of Independence, and replacing it with a brilliant copy.”

Dollar Bill looked suitably impressed, but felt it would be unwise to comment at this stage.

“We have the names of several people involved in that crime, but we cannot make any arrests for fear of letting those who are now in possession of the Declaration become aware that we might be after them.”

“And what’s this got to do with me?” asked Dollar Bill, as he devoured another succulent piece of meat.

“We thought you might be interested to know who had financed the entire operation, and is now in possession of the Declaration of Independence.”

Until that moment, Dollar Bill had learned nothing new, but he had long wanted to know where the parchment had ended up. He had never believed Angelo’s tale of “in private hands, an eccentric collector.” He put his knife and fork down and stared across the table at the Deputy Director of the CIA, who had at last captured his attention.

“We have reason to believe that the Declaration of Independence is currently in Baghdad, in the personal possession of Saddam Hussein.”

Dollar Bill’s mouth opened wide, although he remained silent for some considerable time. “Is there no longer honor among thieves?” he finally asked.

“There still could be,” said Hutchins, “because our only hope of returning the parchment to its rightful home rests in the hands of a small group who are willing to risk their lives by switching the document, in much the same way as the criminals did originally.”

“If I had known…” Dollar Bill paused. “How can I help?” he asked quietly.

“At this moment, we are in urgent need of a perfect copy of the original. And we believe you are the only person who is capable of producing one.”

Dollar Bill knew exactly where there was a perfect copy, hanging on a wall in New York, but couldn’t admit as much without bringing on himself even greater wrath than Mr. Hutchins was capable of.

“You made mention of a prize,” said Dollar Bill.

“And a forfeit,” said Dexter Hutchins. “The prize is that you remain here at our West Coast safe house, in what I think you will agree are pleasant surroundings. While you are with us you will produce a counterfeit of the Declaration that would pass an expert’s eye. If you achieve that, you will go free, with no charges preferred against you.”

“And the forfeit?”

“After coffee has been served you will be released and allowed to leave whenever you wish.”

“Released,” repeated Dollar Bill in disbelief, “and allowed to leave whenever I wish?”

“Yes,” said the Deputy Director.

“Then why shouldn’t I just enjoy the rest of this excellent meal, return to my humble establishment in Fairmont and forget we ever met?”

The Deputy Director removed an envelope from an inside pocket. He extracted four photographs and pushed them across the table. Dollar Bill studied them. The first was of a girl aged about seventeen lying on a slab in a morgue. The second was of a middle-aged man huddled fetus-like in the trunk of a car. The third was of a heavily built man dumped by the side of a road. And the fourth was of an older, distinguished-looking man. A broken neck was all the four of them had in common. Dollar Bill pushed the photos back across the table.

“Four corpses. So what?”

“Sally McKenzie, Rex Butterworth, Bruno Morelli and Dr. T. Hamilton McKenzie. And we have every reason to believe someone out there is planning the same happy ending for you.”

Dollar Bill speared the last pea left on his plate and downed the final drop of Guinness. He paused for a moment as if searching for inspiration.

“I’ll need paper from Bremen, pens from a museum in Richmond, Virginia, and nine shades of black ink that can be made up for me by a firm in Cannon Street, London EC4.”

“Anything else?” asked Dexter Hutchins once he had finished writing down Dollar Bill’s shopping list on the back of the envelope.

“I wonder if Charles would be kind enough to bring me another large Guinness. I have a feeling it may be my last for some considerable time.”