by Steve Berry
“You were one of our best illustrators. I loved your drawings.”
He appreciated the compliment. “I’m glad the war did not cost you.”
“Those were tough years. We had so little money. We barely kept the doors open. But we’ve rebounded and now we’re flourishing.”
That was good to hear.
“The fire turned out to be a blessing,” Henry said.
An odd statement. “What was the cause?”
“Stupidity. Workers in the picture gallery were cold, so they brought in a stove and inserted the exhaust pipe into what they thought was a flue. Instead, it was just an air space in the outer brick lining. For a week hot embers collected under the roof, until they exploded.”
“I always thought it was the Yankees’ doing. Just too damn coincidental that it happened that day.”
“Sometimes fate is on your side. It was for us. There were questions, but it all ended quickly.”
“Were many paintings lost?”
“Most of Charles King’s and John Stanley’s work was destroyed. All of their Indian portraits are gone. Cherokee statesmen. Potawatomi warriors. Osage chieftains. Probably the most valuable collection in the country. A tremendous loss.”
He remembered them all, having spent many hours in the picture gallery.
“We also lost all of Smithson’s personal effects,” Henry said. “His personal trunks, an umbrella, walking cane, sword, and a small traveling chemical laboratory. Thankfully, his library was stored elsewhere and survived.”
Which brought him to the purpose of his visit. He reached for a leather satchel that he’d brought with him on the train and removed two objects. “I thought it was time to finally redeliver this.”
He handed over the skeleton key.
The same one from the day of the fire.
Henry accepted the offer. “Good thing I did not have it after the fire. We would have never been able to go near those records back then. Do the archives still exist?”
He nodded. “They do. But they’ve been moved. And I’m afraid they must stay hidden, at least for a while longer. Know that they’re safe and, eventually, I want the Smithsonian to have them, just as Jeff Davis wanted.”
“What’s ‘a while longer’?”
“Seventy-five years.”
Henry seemed surprised. “Will they last that long?”
“I think so. I made sure.”
“Are the knights still out there?”
“They are. But things are changing.”
Henry examined the key. “So what do I do with this?”
“Hold on to it.”
He removed one other object from the satchel. A beautiful, leather-bound journal adorned with shiny gold edges, and handed it over.
Henry immediately seemed to know what it was. “Your field journal.”
He nodded. “It’s a little different from the original. I created a new copy free of the trail dust and grime. I thought I’d leave it here on loan for a little while. My observations of the first Smithsonian expedition to the Southwest, dated 1854.”
Henry thumbed through the handwritten pages. “It’s lovely. I see the artist in you has not waned.”
He smiled. “I’m just an imperfect man who was fortunate to witness some important history. That journal should make a great addition to the collections. I thought seventy-five years would be more than enough time for a loan.”
He saw Henry caught the connection to the key.
“After that, have it returned to my family in Georgia.”
“For you, old friend, anything. I’m sure our geologists, naturalists, and geographers will appreciate studying your observations. They were the first ever made of the region. Tell me, have things changed much out there?”
“Not in the least. It’s another reason I so love living there.”
“How do you know any of that?” Grant asked his father.
“Those of us in positions of leadership within the Order know exactly what Angus Adams did that day in 1877. He documented the completion of his original mission, with one change. Instead of retrieving his field journal, he returned it to the Smithsonian.”
“And the key?”
“It’s still important, which is why you have to retrieve it.”
He’d left it with Diane at Alex Sherwood’s apartment.
“You do realize, son, that we don’t need the Sherwood woman. We can find the gold without her. But we need the key.”
“I thought my usefulness was over.”
“You can redeem yourself.”
He knew what to say. “I can get the key.”
His father smiled. “I thought you might be able to. Tell us where and we’ll go there now. We have time.”
* * *
Grant climbed the stairs to the Sherwood apartment, the building quiet in the late afternoon, most of its tenants not home from work. He was trying to think of what to say to Diane in order to obtain the key. He could just take it, but he decided not to burn that bridge completely.
Not yet, anyway.
He found the apartment door and lightly knocked.
No answer.
He tried again, this time sharper.
Still no answer.
He tested the knob.
Locked.
Where the hell was she?
He could call her on the phone, but that would only raise questions. He stood frozen and listened, hearing nothing. Hopefully, none of the neighbors on this floor were home. He raised his right leg and slammed the heel of his shoe into the door.
It gave, but did not yield.
Another kick and the bolt broke free from the jamb, the door buckling inward.
He entered and saw the skeleton key lying on the desk.
The apartment was empty.
Diane must have gone out.
Perfect.
He grabbed what he’d come for and left.
* * *
Danny’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
He was still inside the gym with the vice president, discussing what to do, formulating a plan.
He checked the display.
UNKNOWN.
But he answered anyway.
“Mr. President, it’s Taisley Forsberg. That man who took the notebook, he just smashed in the door to Alex’s apartment.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
Cotton checked his watch: 7:00 P.M.
The Castle had closed ninety minutes ago, but a few employees still lingered inside. The administrative offices on the upper floors were empty. Here, on the ground floor, in the main hall, the snack bar was being cleaned and the gift shop wound down for the day. Stamm had told him that in another hour the building should be empty.
He made his way toward the north exit doors and into a vestibule that led to Smithson’s crypt. He’d read a little downstairs, from Stamm’s book on the Castle, about the tomb’s symbolism. A massive urn sat atop four carved lions’ feet, the vessel capped with a pinecone finial, which supposedly symbolized regeneration. A large central medallion, a moth inside a laurel wreath, represented new life after death. The wreath itself signified achievement, victory, and eternity. The entire sarcophagus rested atop a red marble base, inside of which at floor level lay Smithson’s remains.
He stepped closer and admired the inscription etched into the stone.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES SMITHSON ESQUIRE, FELLOW OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY, LONDON, WHO DIED AT GENOA THE 26TH JUNE 1829, AGED 75 YEARS.
“It’s wrong,” Stamm said.
He hadn’t heard the curator approach from behind.
“Smithson was sixty-four when he died. Not seventy-five.”
Now he understood Breckinridge’s message.
BENEATH ELEVEN MISTAKES.
“That error is noticed by almost no one,” Stamm said. “But Breckinridge would know about it.”
The tomb was flanked on either side by flags, one of the United States, the other Great Britain, as Smithson had been English. A display ca
se housed documents, memorabilia, and a copy of the famous will.
“Breckinridge did a good job opening this room up,” Stamm said. “Before his remodel, it was closed off and dark with an iron gate that prevented entrance. You looked in as if you were in jail, through bars. After, it became a place people could enter and explore.”
Cotton pointed at the marble base. “How do we get inside that?”
“It should be really easy.”
He was still bothered. “That was one subtle message Breckinridge sent. Eleven mistakes. Pretty damn good for a guy with his mind in another era.”
Stamm threw him a curious look. “What are you saying?”
“We have some time before this place is vacant. Nothing here is going anywhere, so let’s you and I pay that old man another visit.”
* * *
Diane returned to Alex’s apartment. She’d gone out for a bite to eat, taking a cab to one of her favorite DC restaurants. Vance had not stayed long, and she was still troubled by his visit. But he’d assured her that things would be handled tomorrow as planned. She also hadn’t heard from Grant, and wondered what he was doing that did not include her.
She climbed the stairs and turned down the hall. At the apartment she stopped. The door hung half open, the jamb splintered.
She heard movement inside.
A burglar?
Impossible.
She shoved the door all the way open.
And saw Danny Daniels.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” she asked, still standing outside. “Did you break in?”
He shook his head. “That’s the way I found it. Someone else did, though.”
Her gaze darted around the room but immediately settled on the desk. Her iPad was still there, but not the key.
“Come back to steal more from me?”
“I see you figured out who has your brother’s notebook.”
“I’m calling the police,” she said.
“That’s a good idea. I think it’s time they got involved.”
He stood across the room, dressed in a suit and tie, tall and smug, staring her down.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“The Knights of the Golden Circle.”
She stepped past the broken door into the apartment, ignoring his attempt to rattle her. “Why did you take that notebook?”
“To finish what Alex started.”
“He talked to you?”
“I know exactly what you, Vance, and your brother are planning.”
Rage rose inside her. Her husband was dead, yet here was another man, one she’d resented for a long time, trying to keep her down. “What we’re doing is perfectly legal.”
“But murder isn’t.”
Was he bluffing? Hard to tell. “What are you insinuating?”
He did not answer her.
“I asked you a question. Answer me, dammit.” Now she was yelling.
“You should be concerned,” he said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, it’s not. But whatever the person who broke in here took should concern you.”
“And how did you just happen to be around?”
“The guy who broke in here killed a man last night. He may also have shot a federal agent. I want him. He has a port wine stain on his neck and used to have brown curly hair. Now it’s cut short.”
What had Grant said?
“I need a haircut.”
“I have no idea who that is.”
“Really? Because the guy you sent in here a few days ago to take that notebook and Alex’s books, which I saw in your study, had brown curly hair and a port wine stain.”
How in the world did he know any of that?
Her rage boiled over. “Get out. Get out. Now.”
She had to be careful. Her anger and the despairing rhetoric was betraying a grinding anxiety.
One she did not want him to see.
“That necklace I returned to you is the symbol for the Knights of the Golden Circle,” he said. “You have one, by your own admission. Alex threw his away. He rejected what you, your brother, and Vance are planning. And now he’s dead. What an incredible coincidence.”
“You’re a pompous, arrogant ass. That’s what you’ve always been. Finally Pauline saw you for what you are and got out. Good for her. Too bad your daughter never got that chance.”
* * *
Danny’s eyes flashed hot. She’d crossed the line. But he’d pushed her hard, hoping for an admission. Instead she’d gone on the offensive, hitting him at the one spot where he remained vulnerable. Yet he’d be damned if he was going to allow her to use his dead daughter as a weapon.
“Mary, God rest her soul, is gone because of my carelessness. That’s a fact. And the pain will never leave me. You, on the other hand, seem to have no pain at the loss of your husband. I watched you at the funeral. Yes, you played the part of the grieving widow. But then it all seemed forgotten later, out on the deck, with Lucius Vance.”
He watched her as carefully as he had Vance, noting she was not near as good as he was at concealing surprise.
“I saw the kiss. I heard what you said to each other. You’re a cheating, lying adulteress. And I suspect a murderess, too. I can’t prove it. Not yet. But I will. You can count on it.”
He headed for the door.
“I have only two words left for you,” she muttered.
Which he could easily imagine. But she needed to understand the severity of the situation. So he turned to face her and pointed an accusing finger. “A woman I care deeply about is fighting for her life in a hospital, thanks to your partner, whoever he is. I’ll get him, along with you.”
He left.
Outside, in the hall, he caught the cracked-open door across the hall and saw Taisley’s face. Surely she’d heard everything that had been said thanks to the busted door. It had been her, on the phone, who’d told him about the killer’s changed appearance. Their eyes met, and he shook his head, motioning for her to go back inside and close the door.
As yet, she hadn’t become a part of this.
And he intended on keeping it that way.
* * *
He descended the stairs and exited the building. He should head back to the hospital and be with Stephanie. The Magellan Billet agent on guard had called earlier and said there’d been no change. She was still in a coma. The doctors were allowing her to rest, which they said was the best medicine at the moment. The surgery seemed to have been successful. No more bleeding or trauma.
All of which sounded good.
But she was still listed as critical.
He needed a cab, but realized one would not be found on this quiet side street, so he turned and walked down the sidewalk toward the far corner and a busier boulevard. He heard the thrum of an approaching vehicle from behind him and, ever alert, caught its profile out of the corner of his eye. A change in the engine’s throaty pitch signaled that the vehicle was slowing.
Then it stopped.
As did he, turning to see a black sedan, not unlike a thousand others that roamed the DC streets. The rear door opened and Congressman Paul Frizzell stepped out.
“Someone would like to talk with you,” his old friend said, the eyes holding neither welcome nor hostility.
“Do I want to talk to them?”
Paul nodded. “I think you should.”
Icy fingers of apprehension clutched his gut. “There’s more to this than you told me, isn’t there?”
“A lot more, Danny.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Cotton and Rick Stamm climbed steps to the front porch of Frank Breckinridge’s house. Evening had passed into night, the time nearly 8:00. No lights burned inside, the front door still swung open. He knocked on the jamb and stared past the screen into the foyer. Last time it had taken several tries before the old man had responded.
So he knocked again.
Still nothing.
“Mr. Breckinrid
ge,” he called out. “It’s Captain Adams. From earlier.”
Still no reply.
So he opened the door.
“Is that wise?” Stamm asked.
“In my line of work it’s vital.”
They stepped inside.
Everything was quiet, like a church on Monday.
“Let’s make a quick search to see if the old man is here,” he said.
And they did, finding nothing except a house in good order.
“Maybe he went to see a neighbor?” Stamm said.
But something wasn’t right about any of this. He still had doubts about whether he’d been played during his first visit. Now an empty house with the front and back doors wide open? Had the old man wandered away? Or did someone with dementia really live here?
He started to pay closer attention to things he’d overlooked during his first visit. The threadbare carpet, scarred wall desk, worn sofa, sagging armchairs. And the decorations. Some porcelain. Lamps. Vases. A mirror. Nothing, though, that stood out. One noteworthy point was the absence of technology, except for a flat-screen television. Framed prints adorned the faded wallpaper. Not many. All historical. Battle scenes. Yellowed and old.
He surveyed them.
One was of Fredericksburg, 1862, the South’s most lopsided win. Union losses were two-to-one versus Confederate. Another showed the Battle of Chickamauga, which stopped the 1863 Federal advance into Tennessee. A maritime print depicted nine Union ironclads being repelled during the First Battle of Charleston Harbor. One more illustrated the end of the Housatonic, when the Confederate Hunley became the first submarine to ever sink a ship in combat.
It was like the South’s greatest hits.
And where before the rooms seemed sterile, now they began to fill with the presence of Breckinridge’s passion.
“Cotton.”
Stamm stood in the dining room, pointing at another frame.
He stepped over.
“He got this the day he retired.”
The certificate, embossed and headlined with SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION, thanked Breckinridge for thirty-six years of service and awarded him the Legion of Merit, signed by Robert Adams, as secretary, and Chief Justice William Rehnquist, chancellor. Dated October 6, 1992. Two color photographs were also matted inside the frame. One showed Breckenridge shaking hands with Rehnquist, a woman standing beside him whom Cotton assumed was Mrs. Breckinridge. The other was a family picture in front of Joseph Henry’s statue that stood outside the Castle. Breckinridge, the same woman, and a young boy, maybe eleven or twelve.
