Headquarters September 18 1793
To Robert Yates and his chosen descendent in the Year of Our Lord 2008:
My sincerest apologies for any pain I have caused you and your family. If we do not deceive our own men we will never deceive the enemy. Failure might prove the ruin of our cause. There can be scarcely any need of recommending the greatest caution and secrecy in a business so critical and dangerous as the establishment of our republic.
The fate of the world is in your hands, and your reward is in Heaven. The savage will show you the way.
General Washington
Conrad was so excited he accidentally knocked his coffee mug off the table and it shattered on the floor. He didn’t bother to pick up the pieces. He was too busy staring at the translation, pondering its implications.
He quickly got back to work. The word Headquarters appeared to be the Tallmadge translation for the mysterious number 763 engraved on his father’s tombstone. That solved that mystery, only to raise another: What did Headquarters actually mean?
Then there was the date: September 18, 1793. That was a good six years before December 14, 1799, the night Washington died. Had Washington written the letter years earlier and only released it on his deathbed? Or had he written the letter the night he died and the date carried some significance for Robert Yates?
The phrase “the fate of the world,” meanwhile, looked like a double entendre to Conrad. He didn’t know what “the world” meant but sensed it was important, and that the key to unlocking both it and the “reward in Heaven” was the “savage” Washington mentioned.
Sun sets over savage land.
He remembered the message his father left him from the tombstone along with the number 763 and the astrological symbols. It was almost as if his father wanted to draw special attention to the word “savage” in case Conrad never found the L’Enfant map.
So who is the savage? he was wondering when McConnell breathlessly walked up to him with a document.
“We pulled this from the archives,” he said. “It’s dated the night of Washington’s death on December 14, 1799.”
Conrad took the letter and looked at it closely. It was a letter addressed to Bishop John Carroll and purported to be an eyewitness account of George Washington’s last hours at Mount Vernon as seen by Father Leonard Neale, a Jesuit from St. Mary’s Mission across the Piscatawney River.
From what Conrad could tell from the report, Father Neale was distraught that he wasn’t allowed to perform last rites or baptize Washington before he died. Neither were the Episcopalians, Presbyterians, or Baptists. Only the Masons would be allowed to bury the body, Neale noted, even though Washington hadn’t set foot in a Masonic Lodge more than a couple of times in the last thirty years of his life, nor practiced Masonry outside of a few public cornerstone-laying ceremonies.
The reason, according to Tobias Lear, Washington’s chief of staff, was that while Washington believed the republic owed its freedom to men and women of faith, he had seen the sectarian strife in Europe and wanted no part of it for America. As a result, he would not allow himself to be allied to any particular sect or denomination.
But it was what followed in Neale’s account that riveted Conrad:
Lear told me that it was Washington’s duty to the unity of the republic that he be complimentary to all groups and to favor none, in death as in life. When I protested and asked if such duty meant a death of civility without Christian hope, he said, “Aye, even so.” As I took my leave and wept, I saw Lear escort to Washington’s bed chamber a runaway slave, Hercules, whose food I had occasion to taste. I had little chance to ponder this strange sight as the cries of the servants rang out in the courtyard, “Massa Washington is dead!” I was nearly run over by three horsemen—the slave Hercules with two military escorts.
Conrad reread the text to be sure he got everything right. Then he looked at McConnell. “So you believe that Hercules delivered the Stargazer text with the L’Enfant map on the back to my ancestor Robert Yates. You think Hercules is the savage?”
“Maybe.” McConnell called up a portrait of Hercules.
Conrad looked at the picture of the slave with a proud look and fine clothing. There probably weren’t too many slaves in those days who merited a portrait.
“Hercules may have delivered the Stargazer letter to my ancestor Robert Yates,” Conrad said, excitedly. “But he’s not the savage we’re looking for.”
Conrad called up another portrait, and McConnell did a double take.
The Washington Family was a gigantic life-size portrait of President Washington and his wife seated around a table at Mount Vernon with Mrs. Washington’s adopted grandchildren. Spread across the table was a map of the proposed federal city. To the left of the family stood a celestial globe and to the right a black servant. In the background, open drapes between two columns framed a magnificent view of the mighty Potomac flowing to a distant, fiery sunset.
“This is hanging in the National Gallery of Art?” McConnell asked.
Conrad nodded. The map on the table was practically a live-scale model of the L’Enfant map to Stargazer. And the celestial globe and servant completed the picture.
“That slave isn’t Hercules,” McConnell said. “That’s Washington’s valet, William Lee. He’s not the savage.”
“No, he’s not,” Conrad said. “The painting is the savage.”
McConnell looked confused. “Say what?”
Conrad clicked on the link with information about the painting and up popped the window:
Edward Savage
American, 1761–1817
The Washington Family, 1789–1796
oil on canvas, 213.6 x 284.2 cm (84 3/4 x 111 7/8 in.)
Andrew W. Mellon Collection
1940.1.2
“The savage is the artist Edward Savage,” Conrad said triumphantly. “And this painting is Washington’s way of pointing us to whatever it is he wants us to find.”
11
THE WASHINGTON FAMILY.
As the Gulfstream 550 began its descent over the Atlantic toward the northeastern tip of Long Island, Serena rubbed her tired eyes, opened her window shade, and took another look at the high-resolution printout of the Edward Savage portrait from the image that McConnell had e-mailed her. The original oil, which she had seen herself in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., was larger than life, like America itself. Seven feet tall and nine feet wide, the picture was the only group portrait of the Washington family developed from live sittings.
“The savage will show you the way,” she muttered to herself. “How could I have missed it?”
There was the celestial globe, plain as day, along with a map and clues to its final resting place. The answer was right in front of her, if she could just crack the portrait’s secret. If the L’Enfant confession was to be believed, she and Conrad had four days to unravel this prophecy before America would go the way of Atlantis.
She looked closely at the Washington family sitting around a map of the federal city. According to Savage’s catalogue, Washington’s uniform and the papers beneath his hand were allusions to his “Military Character” and “Presidentship.” With the L’Enfant map in front of her, Martha was “pointing with her fan to the grand avenue”—Pennsylvania Avenue. Their two adopted grandchildren, George Washington Parke Custis and Eleanor Parke Custis, along with a black servant, filled out the scene.
Well, it’s no Mona Lisa.
However iconic today, The Washington Family was hardly accurate in its details, let alone any sort of masterpiece. In the seven long years it took to complete the portrait, Savage had never even seen Mount Vernon. That explained the two columns in the background. They didn’t exist. As for members of the Washington family, Savage apparently took individual portraits of each family member in his studios in New York City in late 1789 and early 1790 after Washington’s first inaugural. He then threw them all together in his imagined scene at Mount Vernon.
That wou
ld explain the awkward grouping of the family and their stiff poses. Each one stared off into every direction but the map on the table.
Conrad, however, had another explanation.
According to the report McConnell had e-mailed her, Conrad insisted that this bland portrait contained a great secret, one that Washington needed to get just right to preserve for centuries. And Conrad had demonstrated a simple test at the abbey to prove to the monks that the firm hand of George Washington was behind Savage’s seemingly slapdash composition.
Repeating Conrad’s experiment, she laid the picture flat on her tray table and with a marker drew two diagonal lines across opposite corners—one giant “X.” Smack-dab in the center of the portrait where the lines intersected was Washington’s left hand resting on the L’Enfant map.
The controlling hand of George Washington.
This “secret geometry,” Conrad argued, was a sure sign that Washington wanted to show that nothing about this portrait was left to chance. Rather, he was communicating an important message.
And she had to agree.
Conrad Yeats, you clever wanker.
The question, of course, was what that message could be. And clever as Conrad was, she knew he would never guess that “the fate of the world” Washington referred to in his letter to Stargazer was the location of the mysterious globe that America’s first president had buried somewhere under his eponymous capital city.
Or would he? She had underestimated Conrad before, only to regret it later.
Impossible, she concluded. Not without knowledge of the L’Enfant confession. Which she possessed and Conrad did not.
Using Conrad’s experiment with Washington’s left hand as a clue, she decided to take a fresh look at the portrait and what he was doing with his right hand. It was resting on the shoulder of his adopted grandson, a symbol of the next generation, who in turn rested his hand on the globe.
Just as interesting was what the boy was holding in his hand: a pair of compasses, Masonic symbols of the sacred triangle. It was as if he was about to measure something on the L’Enfant map.
An unbroken chain from the globe to the map, she marveled, with nobody to witness it save for the black servant.
Truly, Washington intended this portrait to work with the original L’Enfant map to lead Stargazer to the final resting place of the celestial globe.
All of which made Serena wonder about the more important question that Cardinal Tucci had warned her neither she nor Conrad should ever try to answer:
What was inside the globe?
Serena stepped off the plane at the Montauk airstrip to find a sober McConnell waiting for her with a black Mercedes. Dressed in a dark business suit, he stood coolly in the late June heat and opened a door for her.
Serena rode in the back of the town car with McConnell while Benito drove them through the pristine woods and moorlands. The land had once belonged to the Montauk Indians until the federal government of the United States took it a century ago and built a now-abandoned military installation. All that was left of the base now were the ruins of an old, enormous SAGE radar dish and the airstrip. Private jets owned by wealthy men like McConnell could land without much attention.
“So how is our friend Dr. Yeats?” she asked.
“Popular.”
He handed her a printout of an FBI alert to various law enforcement agencies about Conrad’s exploits last week. “They’re not accusing him of anything. He’s only ‘a person of interest’ at this point. Meaning they don’t want any cop shooting him, or even letting his name leak to the press. They just want their eyeballs peeled in case he pops back up on the grid.”
She looked at the picture of Conrad the FBI used. Somehow his face always came out looking far more menacing in photos than in person.
“Well, I can’t wait to see him as a monk.”
“I’m afraid he won’t give you that satisfaction. In the process of deciphering the letter to Stargazer, Dr. Yeats cracked the meaning of 763.”
Serena felt a pit in her stomach. “Please tell me he’s still at the abbey, Father.”
“I’m sorry.” McConnell shook his head.
Serena stared at him. “You let him disappear on us?”
It was bad enough that Conrad probably suspected she had known about the Savage painting all along, which wasn’t true, and that he couldn’t trust her, which unfortunately, thanks to Cardinal Tucci, was true: her counter-mission was to let Conrad figure out the location of Washington’s globe but take it herself back to Rome. It was the only way to protect him from the Alignment, she rationalized, even at the risk of him hating her forever.
“You know our mission statement requires that we can’t keep anyone against his will, Sister Serghetti. But Dr. Yeats has little incentive to flee far from the only sanctuary he has right now. And a plainclothes security detail is following him.”
She held up the FBI alert. “Others might be, too.”
“Don’t worry. Dr. Yeats is in disguise.”
“Disguise?”
“You’ll need one, too,” he said. “It’s in the bag on the floor.”
Serena looked down at the black bag and pulled out a white bonnet, blue blouse, and white puffy skirt. She couldn’t hide her reaction at this reversal and knew she would have to confess it later.
“And just where in bloody hell did Conrad go?”
12
HEADQUARTERS
NEWBURGH
DRESSED IN BOOTS, BRITCHES, and a blue Continental Army coat, Yeats circled the large 25-foot-tall obelisk. It was made of fieldstone, like the Washington Monument, and built more than a hundred years ago by the Masons of Newburgh, New York, to commemorate Washington’s greatest yet least-known military victory.
For it was here at Newburgh and not at Yorktown that the last battle of the American Revolution took place. On this very spot Washington was offered the chance to be America’s first king by his officers. But Washington refused the crown, which he considered anathema to the cause of liberty to which he and his soldiers had dedicated themselves. His officers then attempted America’s first and only military coup.
Washington quelled the coup at the eleventh hour by appealing to their better instincts with a speech that came to be known as the Newburgh Address. Moved to tears, his officers reaffirmed their support for their commander-in-chief.
It was the Revolution’s darkest hour and Washington’s greatest victory.
At least that’s what the history books say.
Today, this last encampment of the Continental Army is known as the New Windsor Cantonment State Historic Site, a state park just off the New York Thruway. Here interpreters in period dress reenact military exercises and show what everyday life was like for the camp’s 7,000 troops and 500 women and children. Nobody on the staff at the visitors center gave much thought to the lone “cast member” wandering about the 1,600-acre enclave and winding up in front of the obelisk memorial.
Except maybe one. A ruddy, middle-aged man dressed as a Redcoat had given Conrad a funny look inside the gracious Edmonston House when he asked for records of names of those who may have visited Washington at the encampment. There were none officially, but Conrad was allowed to peruse a few journals of the day kept by members of the military. It took hours, but he finally found an entry dated March 15, 1783, which mentioned Washington had a visitor, Robert Yates, in his base home shortly before addressing his mutinous troops.
But there was nothing about the nature of the visit that Conrad could find.
Now he stood outside, bending over to examine the inscription on the obelisk monument, trying to discern what business his nominal ancestor and George Washington had conducted under these extraordinary circumstances.
He found what he was looking for in an inscription on the granite tablet on the south face of the obelisk:
On this ground was erected the “Temple” or new public building by the army of the Revolution 1782-83. The birthplace of the Republic.
&
nbsp; The birthplace of the republic, he thought when a voice from behind said, “My, don’t you look fetching in breeches.”
He turned to see Serena dressed in a white bonnet, puffy white skirt, and busty blue blouse that simply could not safely contain her natural endowments.
“Don’t you dare say a word,” she warned him. “Or I’ll introduce you to the pleasures of spending the rest of your life as a eunuch. Now, why are we here?”
Conrad walked her over to a long, rectangular log cabin with a line of small square windows, like a church without a steeple. Serena recognized it from her visitor’s guide as a full-scale replica of the camp’s original “Temple of Virtue,” erected at Washington’s command to serve as a chapel for the army and a lodge-room for the fraternity of Freemasons which existed among the officer corps. On the parade grounds beyond, a musket and artillery demonstration was under way. Every now and then she heard the boom of a canon.
“Picture the scene,” he said. “The British are defeated at Yorktown. End of war, happy ending. All the same, things aren’t looking so good in early 1783. The peace negotiations in Paris are dragging on and on. Congress is balking about the army’s back pay, pensions, and land bounties. High-ranking officers led by Major General Horatio Gates, Washington’s second-in-command and commandant of this Cantonment, threaten to ruin the cause of independence by mutiny.”
“Right, so he confronts them in the Temple of Virtue with his famous Newburgh Address,” she said, wishing right now she had Conrad’s and Cardinal Tucci’s encyclopedic knowledge of American history.
“Except the speech doesn’t work and his words fall on deaf ears,” Conrad said. “So with a sigh he removes from his pocket a letter from a member of Congress that he wants to read to them. But he has trouble reading it and reaches into another pocket and brings out a pair of new reading glasses, which he has never worn publicly. Then he says, ‘Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country.’”
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