by Brad Thor
Moss gathered packets of information from the trunk of his car, slammed the lid, and walked up to the north portico where Anthony Nichols introduced himself and facilitated the rest of the introductions.
After shaking hands, Moss passed a packet of Poplar Forest information to each of his visitors. “I hope your trip doesn’t turn out to be a waste of time,” he remarked as he led the men toward the pine front doors, which had been painted to replicate the color and grain of mahogany, just as in Jefferson’s day. “As I understand was explained to you, much of the house was destroyed by fire in the 1800s. I think we’ve done an exceptional restoration job, but I don’t know how much help that is going to be to you. All of the original woodwork was burned, including the mantelpieces.”
Moss opened the doors and once everyone was inside, he had his guests follow him down the narrow entry corridor to the dining room at the center of the house.
Harvath looked up at the light slicing through the pitched glass panes of the skylight. The entablature depicted bucrania and a variety of human faces, but didn’t look like their architectural renderings.
The professor produced the documents and set them on the table for Moss to study. As he did, Nichols ran through the same questions they had addressed with Susan Ferguson back at Monticello.
“I don’t know what to tell you about the gears,” said Moss. “We have a few mechanical items here that Jefferson designed such as the polygraph for making copies of the letters he wrote, but nothing with an extensive gear system like this.”
“Any Islamic instruments like clocks or other mechanical items from the Arab world?” asked Nichols.
The director shook his head. “Nope.”
Moss continued to answer in the negative on questions about Lieutenant O’Bannon, al-Jazari, and anything having to do with the First Barbary War.
Just as Paul Gilbertson, the docent from Monticello, had done, Moss suggested that there could be some answer in Jefferson’s voluminous correspondence of more than twenty thousand letters written during his lifetime.
Nichols had already wrung Jefferson’s correspondence dry. He also had access to items Moss had never and would never see. If there was an answer to be found, it was here. It had to be. “What about the architectural sketches?”
Moss positioned the page in front of himself and after studying it a moment stated, “Susan said one of her docents believed this was a schematic for part of a fireplace mantel, correct?”
“Correct.”
“During our restoration, we restored fourteen of the fifteen brick fireplaces themselves.”
“Why not the fifteenth?”
“It was the only one that didn’t need it.”
“Where is it?” asked Harvath.
Moss held up the Jefferson architectural drawing and replied. “In the same room whose entablature depicted ox skulls and the Roman goddess of wisdom and learning, Minerva.” Pointing to the door in front of them, he said, “The parlor.”
CHAPTER 81
As Moss led them into the space that had served as Jefferson’s parlor, as well as his library and study, the first thing Harvath noticed were the ox skulls and depictions of Minerva around the edge of the ceiling.
Studying the period furnishings, Harvath asked, “What was originally beneath this room?”
“The wine cellar,” replied Moss.
Paul Gilbertson had pointed out in the drawings what appeared to be an attachment point for a rope and pulley system, similar to what was used in Jefferson’s dumbwaiter at Monticello.
Now, that same schematic had led them to Poplar Forest and a room above a wine cellar with the only fireplace in the house from Jefferson’s time that had never needed to be renovated.
Harvath wondered why. Maybe its construction was purposely different from the others; better, stronger for some reason. He also wondered if maybe the secret they were looking for wasn’t necessarily hidden within the mantelpiece, but that the mantelpiece had simply acted as a gatekeeper.
Originally, Harvath had thought the architectural schematic represented some sort of twist on a puzzle box—a diagram that indicated how to manipulate pieces in the correct order which would in turn unlock a panel and reveal whatever Thomas Jefferson was hiding.
Moss pointed to the fireplace on the east side of the room and said, “That’s it there.”
Harvath, Nichols, and Ozbek walked over and examined the mantelpiece.
The professor wasn’t very excited. “If whatever it was, was ever here, it’s gone now,” he stated.
“Maybe not,” replied Harvath as he turned to Moss and asked, “Was there a dumbwaiter in this room that would have allowed for wine to be brought up from the cellar?”
The Poplar Forest director shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
“You never saw any holes in the floor in here or anything like that which could have been part of a rope and pulley system; even if they could have been part of a system of counterweights for a clock of some sort?”
“None at all. We replaced the floors throughout the house. If there had been holes like that, we would have seen them.”
Harvath went back to examining the mantel, in particular where it butted up against the wall.
“What are you thinking?” asked Nichols.
“I’m thinking of a baptismal font in a church I know of,” said Harvath as he leaned his shoulder into the mantel and tried to give it a shove.
“What does a church have to do with what we’re looking for?” asked Ozbek.
Harvath borrowed the architectural document from the professor and set it atop the mantel. “Paul Gilbertson at Monticello said he believed this was a cutaway drawing of a mantelpiece, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, what if it was more than that? What if the movable joinery was actually a type of combination lock?”
“Like the puzzle box,” said Nichols, a note of excitement in his voice.
“What puzzle box?” asked Ozbek.
The professor pantomimed a small box with his hands. “They’re boxes Jefferson was fond of which required pieces to be manipulated in a particular order to get them to open. He kept the wheel cipher in one of them.”
“And the Don Quixote we found in Paris,” added Harvath.
“What difference does it make, though?” said Ozbek. “The original mantelpiece is gone.”
“But not the fireplace,” replied Harvath as he pointed to the drawing. “Gilbertson said he believed this was an attachment point for a rope and pulley system.”
“There was no dumbwaiter here, though.”
“No holes in the floor either,” added Nichols.
Harvath looked at them. “What if it wasn’t for a dumbwaiter system? What if it was for something else entirely?”
“Like what?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as we move this mantelpiece.”
CHAPTER 82
Moss’ eyes popped out about as far as his Adam’s apple when Harvath explained what he wanted to do.
“I’m sorry,” said the director, “but the Corporation for Poplar Forest would never allow that.”
Nichols pulled his wallet from his pocket. “What if I was willing to pay for putting everything back exactly the way it was afterwards?”
“I’m sorry, professor, but we can’t just allow one of our mantelpieces to be ripped away from the wall.”
“I’d also be willing to make a contribution,” said Nichols.
Moss pursed his lips in thought. Looking at the architectural document the professor was holding in his hand, he asked, “What about that?”
The professor held it up. “What about it?”
“Seeing as how it has such an intimate connection to Poplar Forest, what are the chances of it being donated to our collection?”
“I think I might be able to convince its owner to consider loaning it on a long-term basis.”
“And the other document?” asked the director. “With the Arabic writing?
”
“It would depend on your cooperation.”
“Very well,” replied Moss. “It’s imperative that mantelpiece come off as delicately as possible. Do we understand each other?”
“Of course.”
“We’re going to need some tools,” said Harvath.
“We have plenty of those,” replied Moss. “Follow me.”
Half an hour after Moss stopped complaining about the damage Harvath and Ozbek were doing to the mantelpiece as well as the plasterwork around it, they had it separated and leaned up against the adjacent wall.
Nichols and Harvath stood next to each other and examined the brickwork of the fireplace.
“Let me see the diagram again,” said Harvath.
The professor handed it to him as Harvath rubbed his finger over a hole in one of the bricks that had been filled with mortar.
“Why do you suppose this is here?” he asked.
Nichols shrugged. “Maybe it was an anchor point for the mantelpiece.”
“That’s what these are here,” said Harvath as he pointed to similar features on both sides of the firebox.
Walking back to the tools Moss had helped them gather, Harvath removed a cordless drill and inserted a narrow masonry bit.
“We only talked about removing the mantelpiece,” objected Moss. “We never discussed drilling into the bricks.”
Harvath looked at Ozbek, who was standing near Moss. The former Special Forces soldier put his hand on the director’s shoulder and said, “Let’s indulge him a little.”
After securing the bit, Harvath set to work drilling out the mortar.
It took over ten minutes and when the hole was finally clear, two things were readily apparent. Not only was this not an anchor point, but the hole was deep, very deep.
Harvath sent Ozbek and Moss in search of something solid that they could slide down the hole and probe with. They came back five minutes later with an oak dowel rod half an inch in diameter.
Placing the tip just inside the hole, Harvath fed it forward until it wouldn’t go any further. He gripped the thin rod with both hands and tried to force it further down, but nothing happened.
Ozbek walked over to the toolbox, retrieved a hammer, and brought it back to Harvath.
Steadying the rod, Harvath tapped it with the hammer. When nothing happened, he gave it another tap and followed it with another, harder and harder each time, but to no avail.
“What exactly are you trying to—?” began Moss, but Nichols signaled for him to be quiet.
Harvath drew back the hammer once more and swung it with considerable force.
There was a crack as the hammer splintered the rod, but there was also something else—a faint sound of brick grating against brick as the rear portion of the fireplace pivoted open on a central pin, just like the revolving serving door in the dining room at Monticello.
CHAPTER 83
“The original mantelpiece must have been attached somehow to a rope system which burned in the fire,” said Nichols.
“Leaving the hole, which not knowing what its true purpose was, someone had plugged up,” replied Harvath as he crouched down and stepped into the fireplace.
The wall was solid brick and it took some force to get it the rest of the way open. Harvath removed his Night-Ops flashlight from his pocket and cast its bright light into the alcove behind the fireplace. In the center was a weathered captain’s chest.
Grabbing it by one of its handles, Harvath slid the chest out of the alcove and into the room. Wiping the lid clean of dust and soot he noticed an engraving—Captain Isaac Hull, United States Navy. Hull had commanded the USS Argus and had helped plan the historic attack on the city of Derna in the First Barbary War.
The chest wasn’t locked and as Nichols, Ozbek, and Moss gathered behind him, Harvath carefully raised its lid. Inside was an object about the size and shape of a hat box with a peak in the middle. It was wrapped in what looked like waxed canvas or sail cloth.
Harvath reached inside and picked it up. It felt solid and very heavy. Concerned that the aged lid of the captain’s chest might not be able to support its weight, Harvath took the object over to the parlor’s desk and unwrapped it.
It was absolutely extraordinary. Sitting atop a twelve-inch-high, perfectly round metallic drum was a four-inch-tall figurine. It was crafted in the form of a bearded scribe who was sitting cross-legged, complete with turban, robes, and a quill in his outstretched right hand. The scribe had been painted with an enamel of some sort and appeared incredibly lifelike.
Engraved in a circle around him were what appeared to be the hours of the day. Everyone was speechless.
Moss was the first to say something. “Al-Jazari?”
Nichols nodded.
“Is it a clock?” asked Ozbek.
“I think so,” said Harvath as he inspected the device.
He examined it from every angle, but couldn’t find a way to access its inner workings.
He then attempted to manipulate the scribe and discovered that it was hinged and could be tilted back about forty-five degrees, but for what purpose, no one understood.
When next he tried to gently twist the figure and nothing happened, he tried pushing it down like a child safety cap on a bottle of pills. Suddenly there was a click and the top of the clock popped loose.
Harvath had Nichols hold the flashlight as he removed the top and looked inside.
The elegance of the workmanship was astounding. Harvath couldn’t believe he was looking at something that was not only designed, but fabricated and assembled over eight hundred years ago.
“How does it work?” asked Moss.
“It was probably powered by water,” replied Nichols, “at least when it came to telling time.”
“But something tells me this device does a lot more than just tell time,” said Harvath as he looked at the underside of the lid and found a small pocket.
Sliding the tips of his fingers inside, he coaxed out a delicate gear that was identical to the one in the mechanical schematic. Panning the light over it, he located the Basmala.
Without needing to be asked, Nichols retrieved the mechanical diagram and set it on the desk next to the device.
Harvath took a deep breath and reminded himself to go slowly. He needed to take great pains not to damage anything while remembering each move he made in case any of them were incorrect and he had to back up and do something over again.
He wished that Tracy could have been there. Despite what had happened to her in Iraq, as a Naval EOD tech she was exceptional at handling this exact kind of situation. Harvath’s hands were not made for this type of work.
Even so, he wouldn’t have wanted anyone else in the room doing what he was doing right now.
Nichols held the light steady as Harvath tried to reposition the gears as Jefferson had indicated in his diagram. He had no idea what kind of metal or alloy that they had been crafted from, but they were incredibly clean and free of rust even after hundreds of years.
It took him twenty minutes, but as he positioned the Basmala gear, he finally fully exhaled for what felt like the first time. His sense of relief, though, was short lived.
As he snapped the gear in place, something within the device sprung loose. The entire inner mechanism, which rested on a series of small legs inside the housing, dropped a quarter of an inch. One of the razor-sharp gears nicked the tip of Harvath’s left thumb.
Cursing, Harvath snatched his hand back. It was already starting to bleed.
“Are you okay?” asked Nichols.
“I’m fine,” said Harvath as he untucked his shirt and used the bottom of it to apply pressure to stop the bleeding.
Ozbek walked over to the toolbox and tossed Harvath a tube of Krazy Glue. “Here,” he said, “use this.”
Harvath employed his teeth to help unscrew the cap and then applied some of the compound to his wound and pinched it shut.
Turning his attention back to the device, he noticed that w
hen the mechanism had dropped, a hidden door on the side of the housing had opened. Protruding from it was a small handle. It reminded Harvath of the crank for a child’s jack-in-the-box.
“I think I know how we’re supposed to power this,” he said.
CHAPTER 84
As Harvath turned the tiny handle, they all watched the scribe circle and glide across the top of the drum. It was amazingly graceful and fluid, but no one had any idea what its purpose was.
“How many letters are there in the Arabic alphabet?” asked Nichols as he withdrew a piece of paper from his folder.
“Twenty-eight as far as basic letters are concerned,” replied Ozbek. “Why?”
“This could be some sort of code. Maybe Scot’s winding the handle too fast. Let’s slow it down and watch what the scribe does in relation to the hour markers.”
“But there are only twenty-four of those.”
“Can’t hurt to try,” replied the professor.
Harvath thought he was right and began turning the handle more slowly.
Each time Nichols thought the scribe was pointing to a specific number, he wrote it down. The more Harvath watched, though, the more he had the feeling this wasn’t about numbers.
Tucking his shirt back in, he noticed the blood on it and that gave him an idea. Turning to Nichols, he said, “Give me that piece of paper for a second.”
As he did, Harvath grabbed his Poplar Forest information packet and spread its contents on the desk.
Crouching down so that he could have the device at eye level, Harvath stacked several of the brochures until they came to just beneath the level of the scribe’s quill. He then tilted the scribe back, slid Nichols’ piece of paper atop the brochure and then put his thumb in his mouth and pulled the dried Krazy Glue off his skin with his teeth.
After wetting the scribe’s quill with his blood, Harvath tilted him back down. With the nib against the paper, he started turning the handle again. As he did, Arabic writing began to materialize on the page.