Honor Among Thieves Read online

  Lloyd Adams sipped his coffee as Marshall ignored his in favor of continuing the history lesson. “After the signing ceremony, on August 2nd, 1776, the Declaration was filed in Philadelphia, but because of the danger of the document being captured by the British, the engrossed parchment was taken to Baltimore in a covered wagon.”

  “Fascinating,” said Adams in a soft drawl. “But had it been captured by the British infantry, copies would still have been in existence, no doubt?”

  “Oh certainly, Mr. President. Indeed, we have a good example of one in this building executed by William J. Stone. However, the original remained in Baltimore until 1777, when it was returned to the relative safety of Philadelphia.”

  “In another wagon?” asked the President.

  “Indeed,” said Marshall, not realizing his guest was joking. “We even know the name of the man who drove it, a Mr. Samuel Smith. Then, in 1800, by direction of President Adams, the Declaration was moved to Washington, where it first found a home in the Treasury Department, but between 1800 and 1814 it was moved all over the city, eventually ending up in the old War Office Building on 17th Street.”

  “And, of course, we were still at war with Britain at that time,” said the actor.

  Cavalli admired the way Adams had not only learned his lines, but done his research so thoroughly.

  “That is correct, Mr. President,” said the Archivist. “And when the British fleet appeared in Chesapeake Bay, the Secretary of State, James Monroe, ordered that the document be moved once again. Because, as I am sure you know, Mr. President, it is the Secretary of State who is responsible for the safety of the parchment, not the President.”

  Lloyd Adams did know, but wasn’t sure if the President would have, so he decided to play safe. “Is that right, Mr. Marshall? Then perhaps it should be Warren Christopher who is here today to view the Declaration, and not me.”

  “The Secretary of State was kind enough to visit us soon after he took office,” Marshall replied.

  “But he didn’t want the document moved again,” said the actor. Marshall, Cavalli, the Lieutenant and the physician dutifully laughed before the Archivist continued.

  “Monroe, having spotted the British advancing on Washington, dispatched the Declaration on a journey up the Potomac to Leesburg, Virginia.”

  “August 24th,” said Adams, “when they razed the White House to the ground.”

  “Precisely,” said Marshall. “You are well informed, sir.”

  “To be fair,” said the actor, “I’ve been well briefed by my Special Assistant, Rex Butterworth.”

  Marshall showed his recognition of the name, but Cavalli wondered if the actor was being just a little too clever.

  “That night,” continued Marshall, “while the White House was ablaze, thanks to Monroe’s foresight the Declaration was stored safely in Leesburg.”

  “So when did they bring the parchment back to Washington?” asked Adams, who could have told the Archivist the exact date.

  “Not for several weeks, sir. On September 17th, 1814, to be precise. With the exception of a trip to Philadelphia for the Centennial celebrations and its time in Fort Knox during World War II, the Declaration has remained in the capital ever since.”

  “But not in this building,” said Adams.

  “No, Mr. President, you’re right again. It had several other homes before ending up here, the worst being the Patent Office, where it hung opposite a window and was for years exposed to sunlight, causing the parchment irreparable damage.”

  Bill O’Reilly stood in the corner, thinking how many hours of work he had had to do and how many copies he had had to destroy during the preparation stage because of that particular piece of stupidity. He cursed all those who had ever worked in the Patent Office.

  “How long did it hang there?” asked Adams.

  “For thirty-five years,” said Marshall, with a sigh that showed he was every bit as annoyed as Dollar Bill that his predecessors had been so irresponsible. “In 1877 the Declaration was moved to the State Department library. Not only was smoking common at the time, but there was also an open fireplace in the room. And, I might add, the building was damaged by fire only months after the parchment had been moved.”

  “That was a close one,” said Adams.

  “After World War II was over,” continued Marshall, “the Declaration was taken from Fort Knox and brought back to Washington in a Pullman carriage before it was housed in the Library of Congress.”

  “I hope it wasn’t exposed to the light once again,” said Adams as Cavalli’s phone rang.

  Cavalli slipped into the corner and listened to the director tell him, “We’re back on the starting line, ready to go whenever you are.”

  “I’ll call when I need you,” was all Cavalli said. He switched his phone off and returned to listen to the Archivist’s disquisition.

  “…in a Thermapane case equipped with a filter to screen out damaging ultraviolet light.”

  “Fascinating. But when did the document finally reach this building?” asked Adams.

  “On December 13th, 1952. It was transported from the Library of Congress to the National Archives in a tank under the armed escort of the U.S. Marine Corps.”

  “First a covered wagon, and finally a tank,” said the actor, who noticed that Cavalli kept glancing at his watch. “Perhaps the time has come for me to see the Declaration in its full glory.”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” said the Archivist.

  Marshall led the way back into the corridor, followed by the actor and his entourage.

  “The Declaration can normally be seen by the public in the rotunda on the ground floor, but we shall view it in the vault where it is stored at night.” When they reached the end of the corridor the Archivist led the President down a flight of stairs while Cavalli kept checking over the route that would allow them the swiftest exit if any trouble arose. He was delighted to find that the Archivist had followed his instructions and kept the corridors clear of any staff.

  At the bottom of the steps, they came to a halt outside a vast steel door at which an elderly man in a long white coat stood waiting. His eyes lit up when he saw the actor.

  “This is Mr. Mendelssohn,” said Marshall. “Mr. Mendelssohn is the Senior Conservator and, I confess, the real expert on anything to do with the parchment. He’ll be your guide for the next few minutes before we visit the rest of the building.”

  The actor stepped forward, and once again thrust out his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Mendelssohn.”

  The elderly man bowed, shook the actor’s hand and pushed the steel door open.

  “Please follow me, Mr. President,” he said in a mid-European accent. Once inside the tiny vault, Cavalli watched his men spread out in a small circle, their eyes checking everything except the President. Bill O’Reilly, Angelo and Debbie also took their places as they had rehearsed the previous evening.

  Cavalli quickly glanced at Dollar Bill, who looked as if it was he who might be in need of a physician.

  Mendelssohn guided the actor towards a massive block of concrete that took up a large area of the far wall.

  He patted the slab of concrete and explained that the protective shell had been built at a time when the nation’s greatest fear had been a nuclear attack.

  “The Declaration is covered in five tons of interlocking leaves of metal, embedded in the fifty-five-ton concrete steel vault you see before you. I can asssure you, Mr. President,” Mendelssohn added, “if Washington was razed to the ground, the Declaration of Independence would still be in one piece.”

  “Impressive,” said Adams, “most impressive.”

  Cavalli checked his watch, it was 10:24, and they’d already been inside the building for seventeen minutes. Although the limousines were waiting, he had no choice but to allow the Conservator to carry on at his own pace. After all, their hosts were aware of the limitations on the President’s time if they were still hoping to show him around the rest of the building.