State,’ said Susan with a grin as she stepped
into the back of the taxi. The doorman closed the door behind her and Scott
waved as the car disappeared down Massachusetts Avenue.
Scott
took a deep breath of Washington air and felt that after two meals a walk round
the block wouldn’t do him any harm. His mind switched constantly between Saddam
and Susan, neither of whom he felt he had the full measure of.
He
strolled back into the Ritz Carlton about twenty minutes later, but before
going up to his room he returned to the restaurant and handed the maitre d’ a twenty-dollar bill.
‘Thank
you, sir,’ she said. ‘I hope you enjoyed both meals.’
‘If
you ever need a day job,’ Scott said, ‘I know an outfit in Virginia that could
make good use of your particular talents.’ The maitre d’ bowed. Scott left the restaurant, took the lift to the
fifth floor and strolled down the corridor to room 505.
When
he removed his key from the lock and pushed the door open he was surprised to
find he’d left a light on. He took his jacket off and walked down the short
passageway into the bedroom. He stopped and stared at the sight that met him.
Susan was sitting up in bed in a rather sheer neglige, reading his notes on the
afternoon’s meeting, her glasses propped on the end of her nose. She looked up
and gave Scott a disarming smile.
‘The
Secretary of State told me that I was to find out as much as I possibly could
about you before our next meeting.’
‘When’s
your next meeting?’
‘Tomorrow
morning, nine sharp.’
Chapter 8
B UTTON GWINNETT
WAS PROVING to be a problem. The writing was spidery and small, and the G
sloped forward. It was several hours before Dollar Bill was willing to transfer
the signature onto the two remaining parchments. In the days that followed, he
used fifty-six different shades of ink and subtle changes of pressure on the
dozen nibs he tried out before he felt happy with Lewis Morris, Abraham Clark,
Richard Stockton and Caesar Rodney. But he felt his masterpiece was undoubtedly
John Hancock, in size, accuracy, shade and pressure.
The
Irishman completed two copies of the Declaration of Independence forty-eight
days after he had accepted a drink from Angelo Santini at a downtown bar in San
Francisco.
‘One
is a perfect copy,’ he told Angelo, ‘while the other has a tiny flaw.’
Angelo
stood looking at the two documents in amazement, unable to think of the words
that would adequately express his admiration.
‘When
William J. Stone was asked to make a copy back in 1820, it took him nearly
three years,’ said Dollar Bill. ‘And, more important, he had the blessing of
Congress.’
‘Are
you going to tell me the one difference between the final copy you’ve chosen
and the original?’
‘No,
but I will tell you it was William J. Stone who pointed me in the right
direction.’
‘So
what’s next?’ asked Angelo.
‘Patience,’
said the craftsman, ‘because our little souffle needs time to rise.’
Angelo
watched as Dollar Bill transferred the two parchments carefully onto a table in
the centre of the room where he had rigged up a water-cooled Xenon lamp. ‘This
gives out a light similar to daylight, but of much greater intensity,’ he
explained. He flicked the switch on and the room lit up like a television
studio. ‘If I’ve got my calculations right,’ said Bill, ‘that should achieve in
thirty hours what nature took over two hundred years to do for the original.’
He smiled. ‘Certainly enough time to get drunk.’
‘Not
yet,’ said Angelo, hesitating. ‘Mr Cavalli has one more request.’
‘And
what might that be?’ asked Dollar Bill in his warm Irish brogue.
He
listened to Mr Cavalli’s latest whim with interest. ‘I feel I ought to be paid
double in the circumstances,’ was the forger’s only response.
‘Mr
Cavalli has agreed to pay you another ten thousand,’ said Angelo.
Dollar
Bill looked down at the two copies, shrugged his shoulders and
into the back of the taxi. The doorman closed the door behind her and Scott
waved as the car disappeared down Massachusetts Avenue.
Scott
took a deep breath of Washington air and felt that after two meals a walk round
the block wouldn’t do him any harm. His mind switched constantly between Saddam
and Susan, neither of whom he felt he had the full measure of.
He
strolled back into the Ritz Carlton about twenty minutes later, but before
going up to his room he returned to the restaurant and handed the maitre d’ a twenty-dollar bill.
‘Thank
you, sir,’ she said. ‘I hope you enjoyed both meals.’
‘If
you ever need a day job,’ Scott said, ‘I know an outfit in Virginia that could
make good use of your particular talents.’ The maitre d’ bowed. Scott left the restaurant, took the lift to the
fifth floor and strolled down the corridor to room 505.
When
he removed his key from the lock and pushed the door open he was surprised to
find he’d left a light on. He took his jacket off and walked down the short
passageway into the bedroom. He stopped and stared at the sight that met him.
Susan was sitting up in bed in a rather sheer neglige, reading his notes on the
afternoon’s meeting, her glasses propped on the end of her nose. She looked up
and gave Scott a disarming smile.
‘The
Secretary of State told me that I was to find out as much as I possibly could
about you before our next meeting.’
‘When’s
your next meeting?’
‘Tomorrow
morning, nine sharp.’
Chapter 8
B UTTON GWINNETT
WAS PROVING to be a problem. The writing was spidery and small, and the G
sloped forward. It was several hours before Dollar Bill was willing to transfer
the signature onto the two remaining parchments. In the days that followed, he
used fifty-six different shades of ink and subtle changes of pressure on the
dozen nibs he tried out before he felt happy with Lewis Morris, Abraham Clark,
Richard Stockton and Caesar Rodney. But he felt his masterpiece was undoubtedly
John Hancock, in size, accuracy, shade and pressure.
The
Irishman completed two copies of the Declaration of Independence forty-eight
days after he had accepted a drink from Angelo Santini at a downtown bar in San
Francisco.
‘One
is a perfect copy,’ he told Angelo, ‘while the other has a tiny flaw.’
Angelo
stood looking at the two documents in amazement, unable to think of the words
that would adequately express his admiration.
‘When
William J. Stone was asked to make a copy back in 1820, it took him nearly
three years,’ said Dollar Bill. ‘And, more important, he had the blessing of
Congress.’
‘Are
you going to tell me the one difference between the final copy you’ve chosen
and the original?’
‘No,
but I will tell you it was William J. Stone who pointed me in the right
direction.’
‘So
what’s next?’ asked Angelo.
‘Patience,’
said the craftsman, ‘because our little souffle needs time to rise.’
Angelo
watched as Dollar Bill transferred the two parchments carefully onto a table in
the centre of the room where he had rigged up a water-cooled Xenon lamp. ‘This
gives out a light similar to daylight, but of much greater intensity,’ he
explained. He flicked the switch on and the room lit up like a television
studio. ‘If I’ve got my calculations right,’ said Bill, ‘that should achieve in
thirty hours what nature took over two hundred years to do for the original.’
He smiled. ‘Certainly enough time to get drunk.’
‘Not
yet,’ said Angelo, hesitating. ‘Mr Cavalli has one more request.’
‘And
what might that be?’ asked Dollar Bill in his warm Irish brogue.
He
listened to Mr Cavalli’s latest whim with interest. ‘I feel I ought to be paid
double in the circumstances,’ was the forger’s only response.
‘Mr
Cavalli has agreed to pay you another ten thousand,’ said Angelo.
Dollar
Bill looked down at the two copies, shrugged his shoulders and
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