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“I’m not sure. Let me see if I can find more than an abstract on him.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER Severson again looked up from her workstation. “Got it! A full service record. This might be your man: William Lynd Blaylock.”
“That’s close,” Sam said. “Conspicuously close.”
“His physical description is close as well: six feet four inches, two hundred ten pounds.”
“It wouldn’t be hard to gain thirty or forty pounds after leaving the army,” Remi observed.
Severson was frowning. “Parts of the record are missing. I’ve got early details of his training and unit assignments, promotions, campaigns he was involved in, evaluations . . . But after 1862 his assignments are all listed as ‘supplementary service.’”
“That sounds very James Bond-ish,” said Remi.
“You’re not far off,” Severson replied. “When it comes to Civil War-era records, the term ‘supplementary service’ is usually associated with guerrilla units—what we’d call Special Forces today.”
Sam said, “Like Loudoun Rangers, Quantrill’s Raiders, the Kansas Jayhawkers . . .”
Severson nodded. “Right. Combine that with this Blaylock’s mysterious detachment from the Union Army in 1863, and I think you’re looking at a soldier turned spy.”
THE AFTERNOON WORE ON as Severson sat at her workstation typing, jotting notes, and occasionally sharing her progress with Sam and Remi. At four P.M. Severson stopped and looked at her watch. “Oh, my, time flies. It’s almost closing time. There’s no reason you should have to sit here for this. Why don’t you go back to your hotel and have dinner? I’ll call you if I find anything. Correction: When I find something.”
“Please, Julianne, you go home as well,” Remi said. “I’m sure you have other plans.”
“Nope. My roommate will feed my cat, and I’ll grab dinner here.”
Sam said, “We can’t—”
“Are you kidding? This is like going to Disney World for me.”
“That sounds familiar,” Remi said with a smile. “Are you sure you and Selma aren’t related?”
“We’re part of a secret society: Librarians-in-Arms,” Severson replied. “You two go and let me do my thing. I’ll be in touch.”
AS THEY DID EVERY TIME they stayed or passed through Washington, Sam and Remi had booked the Robert Mills Suite at the Hotel Monaco. Twenty minutes after leaving the Library of Congress their taxi slowed before the Monaco’s red-awning-covered steps. The doorman had the door open a moment after the car stopped rolling. Sam and Remi got out.
The Monaco, once the U.S. General Post Office Building and now a registered National Historic Landmark, is located in Washington’s nineteenth-century neighborhood known as Penn Quarter, within walking distance of the Mall, the Smithsonian American Art Museum, the J. Edgar Hoover Building, the U.S. Navy Memorial, and five-star restaurants enough to keep a gourmand enraptured for years.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo,” the doorman said. He walked to the rear of the cab and collected their luggage from the trunk. “I’ll have your bags brought up immediately. If you’d like to step inside, I believe you’ll find the concierge is expecting you.”
TEN MINUTES LATER they were in their suite. Still fatigued from their African odyssey, they took an hour-long nap, then showered, dressed for dinner, and walked down to the street. They found the Monaco’s restaurant, the Poste Moderne Brasserie, around the corner on Eighth Street through a carriageway portal set into the building.
After a glance at the wine list and menu, they settled on a bottle of 2007 Domaine de la Quilla Muscadet—a zesty, crisp wine from the Loire Valley—arugula salad with basil, mint, and parmesan, and steamed bouchot mussels in white wine, saffron, mustard, and garlic confit. As was visiting the Monaco itself, the choice of fare was something of a tradition for the couple.
Remi took a sip of wine. She closed her eyes and let out a sigh. “I have a confession, Sam. I love adventure as much as the next gal, but there’s something to be said for good food and a warm bed with clean sheets.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
Remi’s iPhone chimed. She checked the screen, then set it aside. “Selma. She found another Aztec symbol in Blaylock’s journal.”
Before leaving for Washington, they’d asked her to focus her search on anything that remotely resembled the Miquiztli glyph. For Selma’s reference, Remi had downloaded from the Internet a high-resolution image of the twenty-four-ton Aztec Calendar, the Sun Stone, on display in Mexico City’s National Museum of Anthropology.
“That makes four symbols so far,” Remi said.
“Any discernible pattern? Any annotations near the symbols?”
“None. She’s says they’re isolated.”
“At some point you’re going to have to give me a primer on all things Aztec.”
