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Belchenko followed, but not before retrieving one of the dead men’s rifles.
“You going to need that?” Malone asked.
“It’s entirely possible.”
He grabbed his coat, donning it as they climbed the risers, which led to a kitchen equipped with an iron stove and fireplace. A cupboard filled one wall, china cups hanging from hooks. The air hung fetid with the smell of unclean floors and sour dishwater. Lights illuminated the outside. Past one of the outer windows he saw three men wearing woolen balaclavas emerge from an off-road vehicle, similar to a Jeep Wrangler.
They advanced through the glow of the lights.
He heard the familiar, hurried clicks of assault weapons.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Stephanie led Luke into Anderson House. The Society of Cincinnati had been headquartered here since the 1930s, though its physical presence was anything but clear. The house itself served as a period museum for the Anderson family’s private collection of art and statuary—a remnant of the Gilded Age that could be enjoyed free of charge—and the society’s offices were confined to the basement, all of which she knew from long ago and the time of her husband. As she’d told Luke, this was the oldest private patriotic group in the country, the nation’s first hereditary organization, assuming the task of preserving the memory of the War of Independence.
And she knew its members took that task seriously.
Downstairs held one of the finest assortment of books and manuscripts from that era. Both the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812 had always fascinated her, and she’d learned years ago about the society’s extensive collection of primary and secondary sources. The cache in Virginia seemed particularly precious and she still wondered if anyone here was aware of its existence. There seemed only one way to find out, so she flashed her Magellan Billet badge to an attendant inside and was directed to the basement offices.
On the walk to the stairs leading down she noticed that not much had changed. The entrance hall flowed into a long anteroom and an elegant stairway up, the ballroom and library just ahead. The same dazzling array of art, furnishings, marble, and murals dominated. Even the same waft of a musty smell from a time long past remained.
Though the society today was simply another nonprofit entity, its beginnings were anything but benign. In the 1780s many regarded a fraternal military order as a threat. No good could come from men of war banding together. An understandable fear given the brash arrogance of the British military, which till then was all the colonists knew. Then there was the hereditary aspect of membership, which smacked of nobility. Peerage was a concept the new nation considered grossly obscene. The Constitution itself forbade the granting of nobility. Several states, and even Congress, thought of banning the society. Only the presence of George Washington himself calmed fears.
She recalled how her late husband had loved attending the annual gatherings held in the ballroom. He’d been a student of history, his own colonial library impressive. She still owned the books, displayed on shelves in her house back in Georgia. She should be there now deciding on what to do with the rest of her life. Instead, she was here, violating a direct order from her immediate superior, plunging deeper by the minute into an ever-widening hole.
“This place is friggin’ amazing,” Luke muttered. “You seem to know your way around.”
She smiled at his attempt to pry information. “Comes from being around a long time.”
“Okay, I get the message. You’ll talk when you’re ready.”
Downstairs they found the library, a more utilitarian space constructed for practicality with padded carpet, acoustical ceiling, and sturdy metal shelving that supported hundreds of books and manuscripts. Three thick wooden tables stood in its center, the air full of the sweet smell of old paper and book bindings. Shadowless fluorescent lighting emitted a faintly bluish glow. Waiting for them was a short, thin man in his late forties, the face creased with lines of good humor, who introduced himself as Fritz Strobl, the society’s curator. A set of eyeglasses hung from his neck by a chain. She explained what they’d stumbled onto in Virginia.
“The owner of that house, Brad Charon,” Strobl said, “was a member of the society all his adult life. It doesn’t surprise me that he amassed such a collection.”
“And hid it away,” Luke noted.
Strobl smiled. “Mr. Charon was a tad eccentric. But he loved America and this society.”
“He died suddenly?” she asked, already knowing the answer, but probing a bit.
“A plane crash. I attended his funeral. It was such a sad time. I read afterward about a probate fight between his heirs, but that was quite some time ago.”
Twenty-plus years in the intelligence business had taught her many things. Among them were hardball politics, covert diplomacy, complicity, and, when necessary, duplicity. She’d dealt with an endless variety of people across the globe, good and bad, and had made too many life-and-death decisions to count. Along the way she’d developed skills, one of which was to pay attention. It amazed her how little people noticed other people. Generally, it wasn’t ego or narcissism that explained the inability. Indifference seemed the most common explanation, but she’d trained herself to notice everything.
Like the slight tremble in Strobl’s hands. Not just the left or the right, which might signal a physical problem. Both of his shook. And there was the tiny line of sweat at the top of his brow that gleamed in the overhead lights. The room temperature was quite comfortable, cool enough in fact that neither she nor Luke had shed their coats. The kicker, though, was the bite of the lip—which, by her count, Strobl had done four times, perhaps to quell their noticeable quiver.
“What agency did you say you were with?” Strobl asked her.
“The Justice Department.”
“And why exactly are you here?”
She decided to dodge that one. “To report the archive we found. There’s a rare book there, displayed under glass, that details the society’s founding. It’s what led us here.”
She showed him a photo taken with her phone just before they left Virginia.
“That’s an original edition of our founding journal,” Strobl said. “Only a few members own one. I didn’t know Mr. Charon possessed this one.”
“It can be yours now,” Luke asked.
Strobl threw them both an odd look, one that said he did not agree. “I appreciate the information you’ve provided. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work that requires my attention. We’re hosting an inaugural reception Monday evening and our ballroom is being prepared.”
“Big affair?” she asked.
“It won’t include the president, but we’re told the vice president and several of the new cabinet will be attending.”
; She concealed her disgust and decided not to let this man off that easy. Luke had retreated to the far side of the room, behind Strobl, ostensibly examining the books. But he tossed her a knowing glance that confirmed her own suspicions.
Strobl was lying.
She scanned the room and noticed a small dark globe attached to the ceiling tiles in one corner. A security camera. No surprise. She assumed the entire villa was wired for pictures considering the value of the art and antiques scattered across the upper floors.
“My late husband, Lars Nelle, was a society member.”
She was hoping that tidbit might loosen Strobl some, but it seemed to have no effect.
“He was active in the Maryland branch,” she said. “He and I visited here, Anderson House, several times.”
Still, nothing.
But Luke caught the information.
“You may want to go and retrieve those books at Charon’s house,” she said to Strobl.
“How is that possible? As you say, it’s located inside the estate. That would be stealing.”
“Only if you get caught,” Luke said. “But I don’t think anyone is going to mind. It’s been sitting there a long time. It can be our little secret.”
“I’m afraid that’s not how we operate here. Not at all.”
The obvious strain in Strobl’s voice might be explained by the fact that someone from the Justice Department had appeared on a Friday morning unannounced, flashing a badge and asking questions.
Then again, maybe not.
“On second thought,” Strobl suddenly said. “Perhaps you have a point. That library could be important. Mr. Charon financed the acquisition of many of the books and papers you see here around you. He was himself an avid collector. He would want us to have whatever he may have amassed.”
Interesting, the change in tone.
More confident. Less anxious. Even suggestive.
Strobl reached for a pad and pen lying atop one of the tables. “Tell me the location again.”
She did and he wrote as she spoke.
