Honour Among Thieves

of the Declaration of Independence.' 'So now all I've got to hope is that every customs agent and coastguard patrol won't be looking for it.' 'I want you to assume the whole world will be looking for it,' replied Cavalli. 'You aren't being paid this sort of money for doing a job I could handle with one call to Federal Express.' 'I thought you might say something like that,' said Nick. 'Still, I had the same problem when you wanted the Vermeer of Russborough stolen, and Irish Customs still haven't worked out how I got the painting out of the country.' Cavalli smiled. 'So now we all know what's expected of us. And I think in future we should meet at least twice a week to start with, every Sunday at three o'clock and every Thursday at six, to make sure none of us falls behind schedule. One person out of synch and nobody else will be able to move.' Tony looked up and was greeted by nods of agreement. It always fascinated Cavalli that organised crime needed to be as efficiently run as any public company if it hoped to show a dividend. 'So we'll meet again next Thursday at six?' All five men nodded and made notes in their diaries. 'Gentlemen, you may now open the second of your two envelopes.' Once again, the five men ripped open their envelopes, and each pulled out a thick wad of thousand-dollar bills. The lawyer began to count each note. 'Your down-payment,' Tony explained. 'Expenses will be met at the end of every week, receipts whenever possible. And, Johnny,' said Tony, turning to the director, 'this is not Heaven's Gate we're financing.' Scasiatore managed a smile. '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. '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 realised that, as one of forty-six Special Assistants to the President, and in his case only on temporary assignment, the switchboard might not even recognise 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 22nd 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 postbag 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 round the table at 75th Street. But after studying the parchment for over an hour and still not being