Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

M ILES WAS OBLIVIOUS TO WHAT was taking place in two kingdoms on the other side of the world as his car pulled up outside Christie's on Rockefeller Plaza. When he entered the front door, he found a secretary was waiting for him. He was ushered straight up to the managing director's office.

Miles didn't waste any time on small talk. Once he'd shook hands and sat down he said, ‘Bring me up to date.'

‘I don't think it's an exaggeration, Mr Faulkner,' said Chris Davidge, the managing director of Christie's, ‘to say that when Jefferson's Fair Copy of the Declaration of Independence comes under the hammer, it will be one of the most sought-after items in the auction house's long history.'

Miles allowed himself a smile.

‘I will be chairing a press conference later today in a room that would normally hold around two hundred,' continued Davidge, ‘but we've already received over three hundred requests from the world's media to attend.'

‘The Fair Copy,' chipped in the public relations director, ‘will go on display at midday today, and I can report that a queue began forming on the street outside in the early hours of the morning, which hasn't happened since Vincent van Gogh's Irises came under the hammer in 1987.'

‘Have you been able to put an estimate on how much the Declaration might fetch?' said Miles, moving on to his only real interest in the unique item.

‘That's anyone's guess,' said Davidge. ‘However, we do know that a printed copy of the Declaration, published in Philadelphia by Benjamin Franklin, which was owned by John Adams, the second President, and left to his son John Quincy Adams, the sixth President, fetched $4.3 million dollars when it came up for auction last year. All I can tell you is our principal auctioneer plans to open the bidding at five million.'

‘Have you had any interest from what one might describe as serious bidders?' asked Miles.

‘A not unknown commodities trader called Bunker Hunt,' said Davidge.

‘And only this morning,' added the PR director, ‘Donald Trump phoned to let me know he's already selected the place where it will hang in Trump Tower. I can also tell you, in confidence, I had a call from the chairman of the Smithsonian, to advise me that he will be bidding on behalf of the government. So if you were to press me on an estimate, I would have to say fifty million wouldn't surprise me, and it's certainly the figure I've been hinting at whenever a journalist enquires.'

Miles didn't need to make a note.

‘Have you come up against any problems?' asked Miles, fairly sure he knew what the answer would be.

‘One or two journalists have been sniffing around asking about a letter Jefferson might have written at the time, which would show that the Fair Copy legally belonged to its author and, following Jefferson's death, the American people.'

‘Pigs would have a better chance of sniffing around for truffles in Central Park than journalists finding a letter that doesn't exist,' said Miles, ‘so you can stop worrying about that.'

‘Let's hope that's the case,' replied Davidge, ‘because if such a letter were to surface, and Professor Rosenberg verified it as having been written by the former President, we would be left with no choice but to withdraw the Fair Copy from the sale and hand it over to the government.'

‘Even Saul Rosenberg can't verify something that doesn't exist,' said Miles, leaving no further room for discussion. ‘So, what other items will be coming up in the sale?' he said, wanting to change the subject.

‘Several pieces of historic memorabilia from around the period of American Independence, as well as the Jefferson letters you were able to supply from your own remarkable collection.'

‘It will allow me to give even more money to charity,' said Miles, with an ingratiating smile that didn't fool either of them.

‘How many reserved seats will you require on the day of the auction?' asked Davidge. ‘I only ask because it's already oversubscribed.'

‘Just a couple for my lawyer, Mr Booth Watson, and myself,' said Miles. ‘In the front row.'

‘Of course,' said Davidge. ‘Would you also like to join me at the press conference later today?'

‘No,' said Miles firmly, well aware that if he did attend, the jackals would only have one question on their lips, one that he wouldn't want to answer. ‘No, I have a meeting with my lawyer, who has just flown in from London.'

···

Miles wasn't surprised to find Booth Watson waiting for him in the bar of the Park Plaza like a dutiful lapdog. If he'd had a tail, it would have started wagging the moment he entered the room.

‘Any news from London?' Miles asked, after ordering a whisky mac.

‘Scott has been charged,' replied Booth Watson, ‘but you can be assured, they'll not find anything that links him to you. And I know you'll want to know that the Fitzmolean board will be meeting to elect their new chairman tomorrow evening.'

Miles nodded. ‘And Ms Bates is well prepared to play her role?'

‘She's word perfect,' Booth Watson assured him.

‘If Ms Bates is elected as chair,' said Miles, ‘I might even get my Rubens back, once you've explained to her, BW, what "on permanent loan" actually means. But on to more important news. Davidge is predicting that when the Declaration comes under the hammer, it could fetch as much as fifty million.'

‘Not a bad return remembering you only paid half a million for it in the first place,' said Booth Watson.

‘As well as a Constable that wasn't a Constable,' Miles reminded him.

‘Did anyone raise the subject of the missing letter?' asked Booth Watson, moving on.

‘In passing,' said Miles, ‘but more important, Rosenberg has confirmed the Fair Copy is unquestionably authentic, and when they asked him about the letter, all he said was he hasn't come across anything to show such a letter ever existed.'

‘So you've crossed that hurdle,' said Booth Watson.

‘That man's honesty will surely get the better of him one day,' replied Miles.

‘Which I can safely predict, Miles, will never be a problem for you.'

‘Try not to forget which side you're on, BW,' said Miles.

···

Miles checked his new watch. ‘I have to make a call,' he said, ‘but I'll be back in a few minutes.' Once he was safely back in his room, Miles sat down and dialled the number slowly. He had to wait for some time before the call was answered.

‘Who is this?' asked a suspicious-sounding voice.

‘Miles Faulkner. As I'm sure you know, we've kept our side of the bargain. But I can't see any sign that you've kept yours.'

‘That hasn't proved quite as easy as I'd originally thought,' said Khalil.

‘Then you'd better listen carefully to my next question Mr Khalil,' said Miles. He paused for a moment before he asked, ‘When is your next birthday?'

‘In a couple of months' time,' said Khalil. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Because if Simon Hartley makes it back to England, you won't be opening any presents this year.' Miles hung up and went back down to join Booth Watson at the bar.

···

William dialled his number just after lunch, assuming Special Agent Buchanan would be at his desk by then.

‘I know exactly why you're calling,' said an unmistakable transatlantic voice, when he picked up the phone. ‘And the answer is yes.'

‘Yes?' repeated William.

‘Yes, Miles Faulkner is still in the States, and yes, we have been keeping a close eye on him.'

‘And?' asked William.

‘I'm sure you know that a rare copy of the Declaration of Independence, handwritten by Thomas Jefferson in 1776 and known as the Fair Copy, is coming up for auction at Christie's next week.'

‘Yes, I did know, and I am well aware that Faulkner is the seller. Any more clues?' asked William, pen poised.

‘The Declaration is going on sale along with five letters written by the former President,' said James as he flicked through the catalogue, ‘all sent to a Member of Parliament called David Hartley.'

‘I will be seeing Lady Hartley tomorrow,' said William.

‘Who's she?' asked James.

‘The titled lady mentioned in the catalogue.'

‘So where does she fit in?'

‘It's a long story, James, but what I can tell you is you've supplied several missing pieces of the jigsaw.'

‘I'm lost,' said James.

‘So were we until I called you,' admitted William, who spent the next twenty minutes filling in the gaps of the jigsaw, telling his old FBI friend the connection between Miles Faulkner, Lady Hartley and her son, now locked up in a Saudi jail.

‘But how did Faulkner ever get his hands on the Fair Copy of the Declaration in the first place?' asked James.

‘I don't know the answer to that question,' admitted William, ‘but I expect I will by this time tomorrow.'

···

Hani Khalil arrived outside the front gate of ‘Ulaysha Prison lugging a heavy suitcase. One tap on the door and it was immediately unlocked by the officer of the watch. Khalil followed him into the reception area as if he were a guest at an hotel and wanted to book a room. He placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.

Without a word passing between them, the officer of the watch pocketed the money before leading the visitor out of reception and across a yard, where the searchlights had been switched off.

Once they reached the other side with the help of a pen torch, the officer unlocked a door that led into the administrative block. Once inside, the officer accompanied his after-hours guest along a dimly lit corridor, only stopping when he reached the door at the far end. He knocked once, opened it, and stood aside to allow Mr Khalil to enter the Governor's office.

‘Good morning,' said the Governor, which was only just accurate as it was three minutes past midnight, an hour chosen by the Governor to ensure that no one other than the three of them was aware the meeting had ever taken place.

Once the door had been closed, Khalil heaved his heavy suitcase up onto the Governor's desk, unzipped it and lifted the lid to reveal row upon row of freshly minted hundred-dollar bills in neat cellophane packets, that filled every inch of space available.

The Governor continued to stare at the bribe, like a parched man in a desert who had finally come across an oasis. He was in the desert, but happily staring at his pension plan.

The Governor rose from his place, lowered the lid and zipped the case back up. He shook hands with his visitor to seal a deal that wouldn't require any paperwork.

Khalil left the office to find the only other person involved in the subterfuge waiting for him in the corridor. He followed him back to reception, where, having not checked in, he didn't check out. The officer of the watch unlocked the front gate and Khalil slipped him another hundred-dollar bill, as if he were tipping a doorman. The officer returned to his post and switched the searchlights back on.

Khalil stepped out of the prison into the cold night air to find his chauffeur waiting for him.

As he was driven home, Khalil thought about what had taken place during the past sixteen minutes. A decision that had caused him to empty his bank account, in preference to digging his own grave.

The empty bank account would be temporary once the French had been awarded the arms contract. But death is permanent.

He would call Mr Faulkner in the morning.