As usual, the beauty and elegance of the Library of Congress made an impression on Benjamin as did no other building in Washington, not even the monuments. The ornate Italian Renaissance architecture, the stained-glass dome high overhead, the quiet, majestic glow of light reflected from the polished wood reading tables… This was indeed a palace, thought Benjamin. A palace for books.
He stood amidst the murmuring crowd of a tour group, one he'd unobtrusively joined on the library's steps-even though he still had his employee badge, he hadn't wanted to use it to gain entry. He had a floppy fedora hat borrowed from Anton on his head as his meager attempt at a disguise, counting on his colleagues being too busy to really notice him among another knot of visitors gawking at the library's magnificence.
As they'd entered the library's foyer, the guide had begun her spiel-a spiel Benjamin knew by heart.
"The Library of Congress, established by an act of Congress in 1800… The original library was housed in the new Capitol until August 1814, when British troops burned and pillaged it… Retired President Thomas Jefferson donated his personal library as a replacement…" (That part wasn't true; Jefferson had sold his collection, very reluctantly, in order to pay off a fraction of his enormous debts.) "… The library possesses the most comprehensive collection in the world today, with over 130 million items, including the largest rare book collection in North America…"
And let's hope there's one among those rare books they still don't know they possess, thought Benjamin.
He walked through the Great Hall to the staircase, marveling as always at the cherub statues ascending the railing; up the staircase past the names of illustrious authors set into the vaulted coves of the ceiling-Dante, Homer, Milton-past the intricate mosaics inlaid into alcoves along the walls, each with its symbol representing the arts and sciences-Mathematics, Astronomy, Engineering. From the second floor he could survey the eight large statues representing the eight categories of knowledge. He glanced briefly at his favorite, Philosophy: The inquiry, knowledge, and belief of truth is the sovereign good of human nature-Bacon.
Today above all days, he dearly prayed Bacon was right.
Finally he came to the elaborately engraved bronze doors of the Special Collections room. Every time he passed through these doors, he felt he was entering some fortress, a bulwark against the ravages of barbarians and time. And, if he was even half right about what he expected to find here, fortress was an appropriate image-but not necessarily against the barbarians.
Once inside Special Collections, he headed to a separate, smaller room off to the right that held collections of paintings and prints from the American Colonial period, and where he'd spent many hours researching. He was looking for a particular book, an anthology of prints of American heroes of the Revolutionary War. After a few minutes of searching, he found the book he was looking for, pulled it from the shelves, and took it to a small study alcove set in a corner.
He opened the book and thumbed through to the prints of American generals. After turning a few pages, he found the "hero" he was looking for: Major General Horatio Lloyd Gates, Esq.
He'd been right: this engraving must have served as the basis for the painting over the Morris mantel. Here Gates stood, in major general's uniform, inside a tent; through the opening other tents and cannons and flags could be seen. Obviously it was meant to represent an encampment during the Revolutionary War. Here was Gates's double chin; the thick, pouty lips; the powdered wig. And, as in the painting, his left arm was extended downward, with one plump finger resting on something set on a small table.
But, whereas in the painting that something had been a military map, here it was some sort of manuscript. There was writing on the manuscript, too small to make out with the naked eye.
Benjamin went out to a desk in the reading room and opened a drawer where he knew a magnifying lens was kept. He carried it back into the alcove, trying very hard not to run.
Once he was seated, he leaned down close to the print, the magnifying lens placed over the page. The writing was still illegible-it probably wasn't meant to represent any real writing at all. But there was a symbol at the bottom of the page, and, as he moved the magnifying lens down, it grew in size, until he could make it out.
He sat back with an exhalation. And, just as he had while examining the mural at the Foundation, he reflexively looked over his shoulder, to see if anyone was watching.
It was the same symbol as in the mural.
Or one very much like it. It was so small, so indistinct, he couldn't be certain the tiny details were exactly the same.
He checked beneath the engraving for the artist's name. There was none. He turned to the index in the back, found the engraving number. Again there was no artist listed, only the information that it had been published in 1778, under the auspices of one John Morris.
John Morris? John Morris was brother to Gouverneur Morris, and famous for his collection of antique paintings and prints. And books. Books like the ones they'd seen at the Morris Estate.
He returned to the side room and placed the book back where he'd found it in the shelves. Then he crossed to another alcove on the other side. Here, the shelves contained copies of letters from various Founding Fathers and other Colonial luminaries. He searched until he found a collection titled Diplomatic Correspondence of the American Revolution.
With that book in hand, he went back to the alcove and flipped through the pages until he came across a collection of letters Franklin had written while he was serving as the minister plenipotentiary to France. He read through them quickly, until he found the one he wanted, dated 15 March 1783, to the superintendent of finance of the United States-one Robert Morris: Honor'd Sir: Friday last order was given to furnish me with 600,000 livres immediately, and I was answered by M. de Vergennes, that the rest of the 6,000,000 should be paid in quarterly in the course of 1783.
I pressed hard for the whole sum demanded, but was told it was impossible.
Our people certainly ought to do more for themselves. It is absurd the pretending to be lovers of liberty while they grudge paying for the defence of it.
But those "Triangulists" of the recent Newburgh intrigue do no good for our reputation abroad. Any knowledge of such things could hurt our credit and the loan in Holland, to say nothing of sullying our reputation as a true Democracy, and would prevent our getting any thing here but from government.
I hope your disassociation from those rogues is immediate and compleat.
I am amp; c.
(Signed) B. Franklin.
Benjamin leaned back, then read it again to make certain he'd seen what he thought he'd seen.
There it was: Franklin chastising Robert Morris for his "Triangulist" allies and suggesting that any whisper of the Newburgh conspiracy in the corridors of power in France or Holland, the two major financial supporters of the nascent United States, could irreparably harm his efforts to obtain loans.
He remembered now: he'd read through these letters when he was doing his research on Franklin's pyramid code. He'd seen that reference to the Newburgh conspiracy-but that time news of the aborted coup had reached Franklin in France-as well as the mention of "Triangulists" among the Colonial government.
But at the time he'd interpreted the word "Triangulists" as all Colonial scholars had throughout history: as a sarcastic slap at those in the Congress who'd been less than enthusiastic about formalizing true democracy-full and popular representation in the Constitution-and instead seemed to be maneuvering for a form of government somewhere between democracy and a parliamentary monarchy, as in England. Triangulists, it was thought, were those hedging their bets, people who had either begun the Revolutionary War as outright Tory sympathizers, like Gouverneur Morris's parents, or spent it agitating for appeasement with the British. The delegates so referred to, it was assumed, were the American version of aristocrats. People like Gouverneur Morris and Alexander Hamilton, for instance. And people like General Horatio Lloyd Gates.
He replaced the book where he had found it, then exited the Special Collections room and went to the elevator.
It was while he was waiting for the elevator that he noticed a man who was standing near the railing, apparently taking in the compelling architecture of the library. But something struck him as odd about this would-be tourist. Then he saw it: he was wearing an earpiece cell phone. And such equipment didn't work in the library. Or at least it wasn't supposed to.
When the elevator door opened, Benjamin stepped in and pushed the button for the basement. He saw the man start toward the elevator. Benjamin pressed his ID badge against an electronic scanner on the elevator control panel, then quickly pressed the Close Door button. The doors eased shut just as the man-someone with dark glasses and very close-cropped brown hair-reached the doors. Benjamin saw the look of frustration on his face.
Once the doors had closed, Benjamin took off the hat and leaned back against the brass railing, unsure what to do next. He really hadn't thought about being followed, assuming that, if the Foundation knew where he was, they would simply report him to the authorities. He had to think quickly.
Too soon the doors opened in the library's basement. He looked around. He thought of pressing the emergency or fire alarm button to lock out the elevator, but that would require them to clear out the whole building. And, while he knew places he could hide, they might simply close the library for the afternoon, and then he'd have a tough time explaining himself when he tried to exit and found the place crawling with D.C. police and firemen. Then he thought of another plan.
He went to his old office. He looked for an unoccupied cubicle, used the phone to dial security. He identified himself, and then said he'd seen "someone strange" lurking about on the second floor with an earpiece cell phone. Maybe he had a cell phone camera as well? Those weren't allowed in the library, were they? He didn't want to be a bother, but… He was told someone would check it out immediately.
He hung up. Even if security didn't find the guy, still he thought the appearance of several security personnel, all clearly looking for someone, would either delay his pursuer, or perhaps discourage him completely, and he'd wait outside, to pick Benjamin up when he exited the library.
But he had another plan to deal with that eventuality.
Benjamin left the office and walked down the hall to the preservation storage area. There was indeed someone on duty inside, an employee named Larry that Benjamin knew slightly.
"Benjamin!" Larry greeted him-a little too loudly for his comfort. "Back from that think tank already?"
"Sort of," Benjamin hedged. "They needed me to check on something in the storage room, see if it's still here."
"And they sent you all the way down here to do that? Why not just call?"
"Hey," Benjamin shrugged, "it's their dime, right?"
Larry laughed, patted him on the back. "Yeah, wish it was my dime, ya know?"
He unlocked the room, switched on the dull blue lights overhead.
"You know the drill," Larry said. "Knock when you're done."
Benjamin nodded, thanked him, and Larry closed and locked the door from the outside.
And it suddenly occurred to Benjamin: if they had wanted to trap him here, they'd just done it.
The room was essentially a large warren of shelves, the shelves composed of bins, and the bins labeled according to subject, date, and, in some cases, donor. Benjamin thought back: the bin he'd been working on when he'd encountered the diary had contained case history files from some of New England's more infamous asylums for the insane from the Colonial and nineteenth-century millennial period.
But first he went to a small podium set near the door, opened a cabinet, and took out a pair of latex gloves from a box that was always kept there. Many of the documents in this room-where the humidity and temperature were carefully controlled-were sensitive to even the small amounts of acid in human sweat.
Walking carefully past the bins, he tracked down the section devoted to medical records, and then worked backward to the period 1750-1820. Set very far back in the room, almost hidden in the cul-de-sac formed by three shelves, he found the original crate he'd been examining all those months before: documents donated by the American Medical Association. And then, right next to it, just as he remembered, was a smaller crate, with the name MORRIS, S.-1968 written by hand on a small index card and taped to the crate.
Benjamin pulled the crate very carefully forward on the shelf. He peered over the edge into the dim interior. He realized he'd been holding his breath for some minutes. The blue-tinted lights barely illuminated the contents. Regular lighting was too yellow for sensitive paper, and fluorescents were out of the question.
He pulled the crate a little farther forward-and suddenly its weight shifted, and the crate came tumbling toward him off of the shelf. He fell to the floor but managed to stop the crate from hitting his body. He stopped, listening, worried that the sound would bring Larry to see if everything was okay. But after a moment he realized the sound hadn't been nearly as loud as he feared.
He gently set the crate on the floor. He reached in, toward a large clear plastic container, one of the hermetically sealed bags used to contain specimens prior to restoration. There was no identifying information, which was unusual. Inside the bag was what appeared to be shapeless brown wrapping of some kind. Leather-so old it was almost as stiff as cardboard.
He lifted the bundle carefully out of the crate. Very carefully he unsealed the bag and extracted the bundle, then folded back the flaps of the leather.
Inside he could see the first page of a book, yellowed with age and discolored with mildew. In the middle of the page were perhaps a dozen handwritten lines… or once had been. Now, the lines were unreadable: faded, smeared, disintegrated. All that remained was a single line of text.