Honor Among Thieves

by Jeffrey Archer

  “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.”

  Dexter continued drumming his fingers on the armrest, while Scott couldn’t take his eyes off the bag. Mendelssohn turned another page of his USA Today.

  The plane swung around onto the take-off runway at 7:51, its jets revving before it moved slowly forward, then gathered speed. The wheels left the ground at 7:53.

  Within moments the flight attendant returned, offering them all breakfast. She didn’t get a positive response until she reached row seven. When later she gave the three crew members on the flight deck their usual morning coffee, she asked the Captain why rows three to six were unoccupied, especially as it was Independence Day.

  The Captain couldn’t think of a reason, and simply said, “Better keep your eye on the passengers in rows one and two.” He became even more curious about the nine men at the front of the aircraft when he was cleared for landing as soon as he announced to air traffic control that he was seventy miles away from Washington.

  He began his descent at 8:33, and was at the gate on schedule for the first time in months. When he had turned the engine off, three men immediately blocked the gangway and remained there until the Deputy Director and his party were well inside the terminal. When Dexter Hutchins emerged into the Delta gate area, one agent played John the Baptist, while three others fell in behind, acting as disciples. The Director had obviously taken seriously that fine line between protection and drawing attention. Dexter spotted four more agents as he passed through the terminal, and suspected there were at least another twenty hidden at strategic points on his route to the car.

  As Dexter passed under the digital clock, its red numbers clicked to 9:01. The doors slid open and he marched out onto the sidewalk. Three black limousines were waiting in line with drivers by their doors.

  As soon as they saw the Deputy Director, the drivers of the first and third cars jumped behind their wheels and turned on their engines, while the driver of the second car held open the back door to allow Scott and Mendelssohn to climb in. The Deputy Director joined the agent in the front.

  The lead car headed out in the direction of the George Washington Parkway, and within minutes the convoy was crossing the 14th Street Bridge. As the Jefferson Memorial came into sight Dexter checked his watch yet again. It was 9:12. “Easily enough time,” he remarked. Less than a minute later, they were caught in a traffic jam.

  “Damn!” said Dexter. “I forgot the streets would be cordoned off for the Independence Day parade.”

  When they had moved only another half a mile in the next three minutes, Dexter told his driver they were left with no choice. “Hit the sirens,” he said.

  The driver flashed his lights, turned on his siren at full blast and watched as the lead car veered into the inside lane and managed a steady forty miles per hour until they came off the highway.

  Dexter was now checking his watch every thirty seconds as the three cars tried to maneuver themselves from lane to lane, but some of Washington’s citizens, unmoved by sirens and flashing lights, weren’t willing to let them through.

  The lead car swerved between two police barriers and turned into Constitution Avenue at 9:37. When Dexter saw the floats lining up for the parade, he gave the order to turn the sirens off. The last thing he needed was inquisitive eyes when they finally came to a halt outside the National Archives.

  It was Scott who saw them first. He tapped Dexter on the shoulder and pointed ahead of him. A television crew was standing in the front of a long line outside the main door of the National Archives.

  “We’ll never get past them,” said Dexter. Turning to Mendelssohn, he asked, “Are there any alternative routes into the building?”

  “There’s a delivery entrance on 7th Street,” replied Mendelssohn.

  “How appropriate,” said Dexter Hutchins.

  “Drive past the front door and then drop me off on the corner,” said the Conservator. “I’ll cross Constitution and go in by the side door.”

  “Drop you off on the corner?” said Dexter in disbelief.

  “If I’m surrounded by agents, everyone will…” began Mendelssohn.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” said the Deputy Director, trying to think. He picked up the phone and instructed the two other cars to peel off.

  “We’re going to have
to risk it,” said Scott.

  “I know,” said Dexter. “But at least you can go with him. After all, you’ve never looked like an agent.” Scott wasn’t sure whether he should take the remark as a compliment or not.

  As they drove slowly past the National Archives, Dexter looked away from the impatient camera crew.

  “How many of them?” he asked.

  “About six,” said Scott. “And I think that must be Shaw with his back to us.”

  “Show me exactly where you want the car to stop,” said the Deputy Director, turning to face Mendelssohn.

  “Another fifty yards,” came back the reply.

  “You take the bag, Scott.”

  “But…” began Mendelssohn. When he saw the expression on Dexter Hutchins’s face, he didn’t bother with a second word.

  The car drew into the curb and stopped. Scott grabbed the bag, jumped out and held the door open for Mendelssohn. Eight agents were walking up and down the sidewalk trying to appear innocent. None of them was looking towards the steps of the National Archives. The two unlikely looking companions quickly crossed Constitution Avenue and began running up 7th Street.

  When they reached the delivery entrance, Scott came face to face with an anxious Calder Marshall, who had been pacing back and forth at the bottom of the ramp.

  “Thank God,” was all the Archivist said when he saw Scott and the Conservator running down the ramp. He led them silently into the open freight elevator. They traveled up two floors and then ran along the corridor until they reached the staircase that led down to the vault. Marshall turned to check that the two men were still with him before he began running down the steps, something no member of staff had ever seen him do before. Scott chased after the Archivist, followed by Mendelssohn. None of them stopped until they reached a set of massive steel doors.

  Marshall nodded, and a slightly breathless Conservator leaned forward and pressed a code into a little box beside the door. The steel grid opened slowly to allow the three of them to enter the vault. Once they were inside, the Conservator pressed another button, and the door slid back into place.

  They paused in front of the great concrete blocks that had been built to house the Declaration of Independence, just as a priest might in front of an altar. Scott checked his watch. It was 9:51.

  Mendelssohn pressed the red button and the familiar clanking and whirling sound began as the concrete blocks parted and the massive empty glass casing came slowly into sight. He touched the button again when the frame had reached chest height.

  The Archivist and the Conservator walked forward while Scott unzipped the bag. The Archivist took two keys from his jacket pocket and passed one over to his colleague. They immediately set about unlocking the twelve bolts that were evenly spaced around the thick brass rim. Once they had completed the task they leaned over and heaved across the heavy frame until it came to rest like an open book.

  Scott removed the container and passed it over to the Archivist. Marshall eased the cap off the top of the cylinder, allowing Mendelssohn to carefully extract the parchment.

  Scott watched as the Archivist and the Conservator slowly unpeeled the Declaration of Independence, inch by inch, onto the waiting glass, until the original parchment was finally restored to its rightful place. Scott leaned over and took one last look at the misspelled word before the two men heaved the brass cover back into place.

  “My God, the British still have a lot to answer for,” was all the Archivist said.

  Calder Marshall and the Conservator quickly tightened up the twelve bolts surrounding the frame and took a step back from the Declaration.

  They paused for only a second while Scott checked his watch again. 9:57. He looked up to find Marshall and Mendelssohn hugging each other and jumping up and down like children who had been given an unexpected gift.

  Scott coughed. “It’s nine fifty-eight, gentlemen.” The two men immediately reverted to character.

  The Archivist walked back over to the concrete blocks. He paused for a moment and then pressed the red button. The massive frame rose, continuing its slow journey upward to the gallery on the ground floor to be viewed by the waiting public.

  Calder Marshall turned to face Scott. A flicker of a smile showed his relief. He bowed like a Japanese warrior to indicate that he felt honor had been satisfied. The Conservator shook hands with Scott and then walked over to the door, punched a code into the little box and watched the grid slide open.

  Marshall accompanied Scott out into the corridor, up the staircase and back down in the freight elevator to the delivery entrance.

  “Thank you, Professor,” he said as they shook hands on the loading dock. Scott loped up the ramp and turned to look back once he had reached the sidewalk. There was no sign of the Archivist.

  He jogged across 7th Street and joined Dexter in the waiting car.

  “Any problems, Professor?” asked the Deputy Director.

  “No. Not unless you count two decent men who look as if they’ve aged ten years in the past two months.”

  The tenth chime struck on the Old Post Office Tower clock. The doors of the National Archives swung open and a television crew charged in.

  The Deputy Director’s car moved out into the center of Constitution Avenue, where it got caught up between the floats for Tennessee and Texas. A police officer ran across and ordered the driver to pull over into 7th Street.

  When the car came to a halt, Dexter wound down his window, smiled at the officer and said, “I’m the Deputy Director of the CIA.”

  “And I’m Uncle Sam,” the officer replied as he began writing out a ticket.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The Deputy Director of the CIA phoned the Director at home to tell him that it was business as usual at the National Archives. He didn’t mention the traffic ticket.

  The Conservator phoned his wife and tried to explain why he hadn’t come home the previous night.

  A woman holding a carrier bag with a rope handle contacted the Iraqi Ambassador to the UN on her mobile phone and let him know that she had killed two birds with one stone. She gave the Ambassador an account number for a bank in the Bahamas.

  The Director of the CIA rang the Secretary of State and assured him that the document was in place. He avoided saying “back in place.”

  Susan Anderson rang Scott to congratulate him on the part he had played in restoring the document to its rightful home. She also mentioned in passing the sad news that she had decided to break off her engagement.

  The Iraqi Ambassador to the UN instructed Monsieur Dummond to transfer the sum of nine hundred thousand dollars to the Royal Bank of Canada in the Bahamas and at the same time to close the Al Obaydi account.

  The Secretary of State rang the President at the White House to inform him that the press conference scheduled for eleven o’clock that morning had been canceled.

  A reporter on the New York Daily News crime beat filed his first-edition copy from a phone booth in an underground garage on 75th Street. The headline read “Mafia Slaying in Manhattan.”

  Lloyd Adams’s phone never stopped ringing, as he was continually being offered parts in everything from endorsements to a feature film.

  The Archivist did not return a call from one of the President’s Special Assistants at the White House, inviting him to lunch.

  A CNN producer called in to the news desk to let them know that it must have been a hoax. Yes, he had verified the spelling of “Brittish,” and only Dan Quayle could have thought it had two t’s.

  Scott phoned Hannah and told her how he wanted to spend Independence Day.

  By Jeffrey Archer

  Novels

  Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

  Shall We Tell the President?

  Kane & Abel

  The Prodigal Daughter

  First Among Equals

  A Matter of Honor

  As the Crow Flies

  Honor Among Thieves

  The Fourth Estate

&n
bsp; The Eleventh Commandment

  Sons of Fortune

  False Impressions

  Short Stories

  Cat O’Nine Tales

  A Quiver Full of Arrows

  A Twist in the Tale

  Twelve Red Herrings

  To Cut a Long Story Short

  The Collected Short Stories

  Plays

  Beyond Reasonable Doubt

  Exclusive

  The Accused

  Prison Diaries

  Volume One: Hell

  Volume Two: Purgatory

  Volume Three: Heaven

  Screenplays

  Mallory: Walking Off the Map

  False Impression

  Honor Among Thieves is a work of fiction and entirely the product of the author’s imagination. The incidents and dialogues, including those involving living individuals, are not to be construed as real.

  HONOR AMONG THIEVES

  Copyright © 1993 by Jeffrey Archer.

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  ISBN: 978-0-312-93353-1

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.