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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 case 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.
