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“Enough to get the job done.”
The time was approaching 9:20 P.M. Little sound filtered up to the tower room, so it was hard to know if the downstairs had emptied. At some point he’d have to descend and check. Through a window, outside, he saw that the Mall still buzzed with people enjoying a pleasant spring night.
“You fancy yourself bold,” his father said. “All right. Listen carefully, Grant. Sometime tonight they are going to open Smithson’s tomb. When they do you’ll be there, and it’s imperative you do exactly as I say.”
* * *
Cotton reentered Smithson’s crypt.
They’d returned from Breckinridge’s house and found the tools needed in the basement workshops. The Castle was empty, the ground-floor cameras switched off for a couple of hours, per Stamm’s order, with no security guards anywhere around. Some sensitive renovations had been the excuse given, a task the curator himself would be overseeing.
He and Stamm knelt down at one side of the tomb.
“The red marble panel here at the bottom was spot-glued into place,” Stamm said. “Enough to keep it there, but not enough to make it hard to remove, if the need ever arose. I’ve read all of Breckinridge’s notes and reports on what happened.”
The red marble that measured about twenty-four inches high and a little less than a yard long. Two joints ran vertically down the side. Cotton assumed it was all façade to a plain concrete base. Stamm nestled a chisel to one of the joints, tapping the end with a rubber mallet, then repeating the process downward until the mortar cracked. He then mimicked the process along the other joint. A lip separated the lower base from another level of red marble, revealing the gray marble of the decorative upper tomb. Stamm freed a narrow strip of red marble near the lip, making it easy to work the chisel into the gap between the panel and the base. Cotton kept his hands to the outside, ready to catch the panel once all of the adhesive loosened.
And it did.
He allowed the panel to hinge downward, settling on the floor. It had come away clean, an easy matter to reattach later. Beyond was an inner niche that extended the length of the concrete base. Narrow, maybe eighteen inches wide and the same tall. He also saw the end of a small mahogany coffin adorned with silver handles.
“It’s only bones inside,” Stamm said. “So it didn’t have to be large.”
“And if you were going to hide something, you wouldn’t put it on this end,” he said.
Which meant the coffin had to be removed.
He reached in and gripped the silver handle. The heavy box slid out with some resistance. He recalled Breckinridge’s report, which noted that Smithson’s remains had first been placed inside a copper box, which had then been sealed within the wooden container. As the coffin emerged, more silver handles became exposed. Stamm positioned himself on one side. Cotton squirmed over to the other and together they freed the coffin and laid it on the floor.
“Seems Smithson can’t rest in peace,” Stamm said. “This is the fourth time his bones have been moved.”
Cotton bent down on his knees and stared into the empty niche. At the far end he saw an object. He reached in and carefully slid it toward him, revealing a heart-shaped stone, about a foot long and an inch or so thick.
He carefully brought it out.
The side facing him contained a series of squiggly lines, but the one in the center, with five evenly spaced dots, jumped out.
Like the line on the Trail Stone.
Only this time there was an end point, with an arrow and an inverted U that symbolized a mine. He carefully turned the stone over and saw that its backside showed a diagonal column of six small rectangles. He assumed that when the stone was inserted, front side on top, into the heart-shaped recess on the Trail Stone, which waited over in the American history museum, most of a coded map would be revealed.
Stamm followed the plan they’d discussed earlier and quickly snapped a series of images with a 35mm camera he’d brought up from his office, then a few with his phone.
“Let’s get this tomb sealed back—”
The lights extinguished.
And the building plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Danny rode in the rear seat of the Town Car, Frizzell sitting beside him. A driver and another man, neither of whom had said a word, sat in the front. He knew their type. Acolytes. Doing what they were told. But he wondered who they were here to watch over. He also took note that whoever had wanted to speak with him had been smart enough to send Frizzell, as he would not have climbed into the car with just anyone.
“What have you gotten yourself into?” he asked his friend in a low voice.
“It’s more what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
They sat in silence as the car found I-66, then sped west into Virginia. Traffic was done for the day, the going clear.
“Good thing I don’t have Secret Service protection,” he said, trying to loosen things up. “This little trip would have been a lot more difficult.”
“Not necessarily,” Paul said.
He saw that his old friend was serious, more so than he’d ever seen him before.
“This reaches that deep?”
No reply.
“You’re in this with Vance? You agree with what he wants to do?”
“I agree with his aims, but not with either him or his method.”
A strange reply. Then he recalled what Cotton had told him about the Knights of the Golden Circle.
He extended his hand. “Are you on it?”
Frizzell appraised him with a hard stare, then accepted the offer and said, “I am on it.”
And two of their fingers locked in an odd feeling.
Paul released his grip. “I know you’re not of the Order. But it’s good to know that you appreciate what’s involved here.”
“Maybe not. Are we talking treason?”
“Never.”
* * *
Past Fairfax, the car left the interstate at a darkened exit with no rest or gas facilities. Danny wanted to know what this was all about, but he also was concerned about Stephanie. This trip was delaying his return to the hospital. Still, he knew what she’d say.
Forget me and do your job.
They drove for a mile down a black highway before turning into an empty parking lot at a closed diner. They stopped and the two men in front quickly exited and opened the doors for both him and Paul.
“I haven’t had that courtesy in a while,” he said, stepping from the car into the warm night.
“In here,” Paul said, motioning toward the building.
They approached the front door, which was unlocked, and stepped inside. Immediately, he caught the waft of old grease and bleach. Not a light was on, everything sheathed in darkness.
“Come in, Mr. President,” a voice said from across the room.
Electronic. Modified.
His hackles rose. “Is that necessary?”
“I wish none of it were,” the disguised voice said. “And I apologize for the precautions, but it was time we spoke face-to-face.”
“Which we’re not doing.”
“Unfortunately, this is the best I can offer.”
He’d already figured some of it out. “How long have you been watching Alex Sherwood’s apartment?”
“Fo
r a time. Starting shortly before his death. When we learned of his involvement.”
He ran the possibilities through his mind and only one conclusion made sense. “Diane Sherwood is a problem for you.”
“An understatement, but accurate.”
“You always so paranoid?” he asked.
“I’m cautious, as Lucius Vance and Diane Sherwood should have been.”
Clearly, neither one of them was connected with this man, but another link made more sense. His new chief of staff had provided him with more information on Diane’s brother, Kenneth Layne. He headed the Committee to Save America, headquartered near the Capitol in an area of town not noted for cheap rent. She’d also obtained a photograph of Layne, which he’d immediately recognized as the third man at the Sherwood home gathering last night.
“So Vance or Diane told Kenneth Layne about how much I know. Layne told you. Then, when I made contact with Paul, for a cautious guy like yourself, you had lots of questions.”
“Not exactly. But reasonably close,” the voice said.
This guy was beginning to grate on his nerves, so he decided to cut to the chase. “My guess is you’re financing Kenneth Layne’s Committee to Save America. Somebody has to be. God knows Layne doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”
“Which is our right, as citizens of this nation, with freedom of speech and assembly.”
“I never said it wasn’t.” He faced Paul. “You’re involved with this nonsense?”
“Danny, we’re real close to the thirty-four states needed to force Congress to call a second constitutional convention.”
That was news to him. “Careful what you wish for.” He turned back to the voice across the room. “Layne gave Alex Sherwood a notebook to read, which detailed what he was up to with both his committee and Lucius Vance. I’m betting that was against Order policy, which is what sparked your interest. Am I getting reasonably closer?”
No reply.
“And when Alex Sherwood wanted no part of any of it, the next thing you know he falls off a cliff.” He was reaching, but why not? These guys definitely had a motive for murder.
