Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

T HE AUCTION HOUSE WAS PACKED, with almost every seat taken, by the time Miles Faulkner walked onto the stage, like a Shakespearean actor on the opening night.

He made his way slowly down the centre aisle, enjoying the whispered conversations when heads turned to look in his direction as he and Booth Watson took the two remaining seats in the front row.

Miles opened his catalogue to check the next lot: Number 88 – perfect timing. Three more lots to come under the hammer before Lot 91 would be offered to the public, although only a handful of people in the room could afford to join in the bidding. He looked around the packed auditorium, his eyes settling on Michael Bloomberg, who'd just announced he was running for mayor, seated four rows back on the centre aisle, studying the catalogue.

‘Lot Eighty-Nine, a walking stick owned by Alexander Hamilton. I have an opening bid of ten thousand dollars.'

Miles's eyes continued to scan the room, stopping only when he spotted two empty seats six rows back, on the other side of the aisle. He could only wonder who would make such a late appearance for the sold out show. Moments later, his unasked question was answered when the late arrival made an entrance worthy of Augustus Caesar, lacking only a drum roll and a trumpet fanfare.

‘Sold! For twenty thousand dollars,' said the auctioneer, but the audience were no longer interested in Hamilton's walking stick now that Donald Trump had entered the room and was walking slowly down the aisle to a buzz of heightened conversation. He stopped several times to shake outstretched hands, and didn't sit down until he was confident everyone was looking at him.

‘Lot Ninety,' said the auctioneer, trying to recapture the audience's attention as Trump and Melania took the only two unoccupied seats in the room. ‘A quill pen owned by John Adams, the second president, with which it is thought he signed the Declaration of Independence.'

The crowd went on talking as the quill pen held little interest for most of them, and there was almost a sigh of relief when the hammer finally came down at $25,000 and the auctioneer announced Lot 91. Suddenly, for a surreal moment, the room fell silent, and the ringmaster was finally back in charge.

‘A unique copy of the Declaration of Independence,' declared the auctioneer in a stage whisper, ‘penned by Thomas Jefferson, and known by scholars as the Fair Copy.' He allowed himself a dramatic pause as he looked down at the framed lot that two porters were placing on an easel in front of him.

‘Before I begin the bidding, I should point out that this item has been verified by Saul Rosenberg, the emeritus professor of American history at Princeton University, who is universally acknowledged as the leading authority in the country on the constitution, having been awarded the Medal of Honour by Congress for his service to education.' A thousand eyes looked up when the auctioneer announced, ‘I have an opening bid for the Declaration of five million dollars.'

Six, seven, eight, nine and ten followed in quick succession. But even Miles was taken by surprise when an unmistakable voice cried, ‘Twenty million,' and everyone turned to look in Trump's direction, as he raised a clenched fist in the air, accompanied by his trademark smile.

A moment later, a more refined hand was raised by one of the Christie's phone reps, who was standing behind a long table on the left side of the room, along with several of her colleagues, all with telephones pressed against ears, waiting to find out if their anonymous client wished to join the circus.

‘I have a bid of twenty-two million,' said the auctioneer, looking towards the bank of phones.

Miles wondered who it might be on the other end of the line, aware that phone bidders considered their anonymity paramount, and even the auctioneer would be unaware who the Christie's rep was representing. Miles had a feeling it might be George Soros, who had recently sold the pound short and made a killing and, when he was asked by Time magazine if he would be bidding for the Fair Copy, had been unusually reticent.

‘Twenty-five million,' said Trump, like a heavyweight boxer going for the knockout.

But the phone bidder wasn't quite so easily floored, and the rep raised her hand once again.

‘Twenty-seven million,' the auctioneer announced.

‘Thirty million,' declared Bloomberg, before Trump could land the next blow.

The bated breaths were replaced by gasps.

‘I have thirty-three million,' said the auctioneer, nodding in the direction of the telephone bidder.

‘Thirty-five,' said Trump and Bloomberg at the same time, and the auctioneer would have been left with an embarrassing choice had he not been rescued by the unannounced arrival of a team of FBI agents wearing their familiar blue jackets who swarmed uninvited into the gallery, quickly taking up positions on both sides of the room, which created a different kind of eerie silence.

The agents were followed by two men: one a well-dressed man who Miles didn't recognize, while the other he would never forget.

The tall, smartly dressed man approached the rostrum and had a quiet word with the auctioneer, before showing him his official writ. The auctioneer studied the document for some time before standing down and allowing the officer to take his place on the podium. The FBI agent didn't pick up the hammer, but he did tap the microphone a couple of times before he spoke.

‘My name is James Buchanan,' he said, ‘and I'm a special assistant to the Director of the FBI. I apologize for interrupting this auction and can only hope that when you have heard what I have to say, you will welcome the news.'

Miles, Trump and Bloomberg all sat on the edge of their seats, waiting to decide which way they would jump.

‘Many of you will have heard the rumour that Jefferson wrote a letter that accompanied the Fair Copy and was believed to have been lost in the tide of times. I know you will all be delighted to learn that the missing letter has finally come to light.'

Miles turned to Booth Watson and whispered, ‘Risen from the ashes, more like. Who's kidding who?'

Booth Watson placed a finger to his lips and murmured, ‘Let's hear what Buchanan has to say before we decide what our next move should be.'

‘With your permission,' said James, ‘I will now read that letter to you.'

If he had dropped a pin, it would have sounded like a volcano erupting.

H?tel de Langeac

Paris

August 11th, 1787

Dear Mr Hartley,

I hope you will grant me your permission to impose upon your time by allowing me to send you my Fair Copy of the Declaration of Independence, which I earlier delivered to Congress for their consideration. You will see that it includes the two clauses you and I discussed in London, namely the abolition of slavery and our future relationship with King George III once we become an independent nation. Copies were made by my friend and colleague Benjamin Franklyn and distributed among interested parties. Much to my dismay, when members of Congress divided, both clauses were rejected. However, I would not want you to think I hadn't taken to heart your wise and sound counsel and tried to convince my fellow congressmen of the merit of your judgement.

Once you have had a proper chance to peruse the Fair Copy at your leisure, perhaps you would be kind enough, in the fullness of time, to return it to me. I thought you would want to know that it is my intention to bequeath this memento to the Nation in order that future generations of Americans might fully appreciate what the founding fathers were trying to achieve, and not least the role you played. I look forward to hearing from you at some time in the future, and be assured of my sincere esteem and respect.

I remain, your most obedient and humble servant,

Thomas Jefferson

The audience rose as one, some clapping, others cheering, with only two exceptions, who remained seated in the front row, speechless.

James didn't step down from the rostrum, and it wasn't until silence had been restored that he spoke again. ‘There may be those among us,' he said, staring down at Miles and Booth Watson, ‘who for personal reasons may wish to throw doubt on the validity of this document.' He held up the letter for all to see.

‘With that in mind,' added James, ‘I have asked Professor Rosenberg to offer his considered opinion on the credibility of the letter.'

Rosenberg couldn't hide from the glare of the spotlight. The diminutive, shabbily dressed figure rose slowly from his place near the back of the room to give a lecture to the most attentive group of students he'd ever come across.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he began in a quiet but authoritative voice, ‘I have studied the letter most carefully, and have been able to compare it with several others I have seen over the years. The script leaves me in no doubt it is in keeping with that period, the text certainly resembles Jefferson's distinct style and, perhaps equally important, the paper on which the letter was written, examples of which I've seen when I was a young doctoral student, almost certainly come from a batch used by Jefferson at that time. But for those for whom "almost certainly" will never be enough, what finally convinced me,' continued Rosenberg, ‘is that the Fair Copy was previously owned by a Lady Hartley, who sold it to its present owner a few weeks ago. She has also confirmed it was the letter that had been, along with five other letters, part of her family archives for over two hundred years.'

Several people turned and stared at Miles as if he was a criminal on the run.

‘Lady Hartley,' continued Rosenberg, ‘is the wife of the late Lord Hartley, a direct descendant of the Right Honourable David Hartley MP, a distinguished member of the British Parliament and a supporter of American Independence. He was also a friend of both Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin, and there is a considerable amount of correspondence conducted between the three of them at the time that is in the public domain. This was the compelling reason why I was finally convinced the letter is authentic, and therefore can say without fear or favour that the Fair Copy belongs to the American people.'

A third cheer went up that was the loudest of all, and the acclamation continued for several minutes, even though the professor had sat down and once again disappeared from sight.

Miles leant across to Booth Watson and whispered, ‘You and I both know Rosenberg is well aware it's a copy – the question is: how can we possibly prove it?'