Cyrus Jamison maintained a healthy respect for the combat abilities of Edmonia Jennings Wright, despite the sheer improbability of a woman her age wielding such skill and maintaining such physical prowess. Whatever it was that kept her strong and fit, it bordered on magical. He feared no man or woman, but he practiced ruthless objectivity when it came to evaluating the skills of others. Wright’s talent for martial arts placed her in a select and lethal group populated mostly by individuals serving in Special Forces from various nations and eastern practitioners who devoted their lives to it. Nearly all such individuals were male and between the ages of twenty and fifty.
Jamison still didn’t know exactly how Wright had come by her skills. But he was quite sure that the planet contained no other woman over seventy who could best her. Hell, a lot of men many years her junior couldn’t handle her. As her sometime sparring partner, Jamison knew that his equal skills and relative youth could defeat her, but only if he maintained the proper focus.
Consequently, his respect for her was genuine, not that of a subordinate trying to remain in his employer’s good graces. Wright seemed to know this, as she didn’t speak down to him the way she did nearly every other person with whom she came into contact. She had summoned him to the office at the Baltimore house for a late night discussion about the document he had retrieved the previous day.
Seated behind a large mahogany desk which amplified awareness of how slight her figure was, she wore the same baggy black pants and shirt as always. In her own home, she rarely wore the nylon top with the back hood that added an aura of mystery to her appearances in public. Her brown eyes promised a combination of secrecy and disappointment. The ornate sconce to the left of the desk gave off a soft light and left a lot of shadows in the room.
“I understand Dane Maddock appeared on the scene shortly after your departure. Will I never be rid of that man?”
It was a rhetorical question, so Jamison chose not to reply.
“I understand he now refers to me as Grandma Ninja.”
Jamison chuckled. “It’s not what they call you. It’s what you answer to.”
“Quoting Bill Clinton is beneath you, Cyrus.” A sly grin creased her face. “I kind of like it myself. It conveys a certain respect while allowing those boys to retain some small fraction of their fragile egos. In any case, I believe you have something for me.”
Jamison handed her a yellowed page inside a protective envelope. He had liberated it from Mount Vernon during the break-in, but as previously agreed he had waited twenty-four hours before making delivery.
“And the painting?” Wright arched an eyebrow.
“Switched out for the fake.”
Wright nodded and then removed the sheet from the envelope. “This is in George Washington’s hand. I recognize it. Unfortunately, it tells us nothing we don’t already know.”
“Not entirely,” Jamison said.
Frowning, Wright cleared her throat and began to read.
“My Dear Marquis,
I regret that I must forego the warm greetings which I would normally extend to you. I have fallen gravely ill and fear these hours will be my last. You will recall I have previously made reference to a secret which I intended to share with you at the proper time. Should I expire before you again return to these shores, this letter and another item of great import I shall entrust to the most reliable man I know. I pray you may rest your head at Mount Vernon one last time. You guard the secret.
Yours affectionately,
G Washington”
Wright raised her head. “I assume the other item was the journal, but what in this letter do you consider new information?”
“The last sentence. ‘You guard the secret.’ Present tense, with emphasis on ‘guard’ for some reason.”
“So?”
“It occurred to me that the letter could be taken literally, so I went to the place where Lafayette would have rested his head.”
“The Lafayette bedroom,” Wright said.
Jamison nodded. “Facing the bed is...”
“A portrait of Lafayette,” Wright finished.
“I found these hidden inside, affixed to the back of the painting.” He reached inside his jacket and took out another envelope.
“You know how I feel about people who waste time on theatrics,” Wright said. “Give me those.”
Chastened, Jamison handed them over. “I can tell you they are pages from a personal journal, written in a cipher. I decoded them.” He handed her a folded sheet of paper.
Wright looked it over. “This can’t be all of it.”
“Not even close. The person to whom Washington entrusted the journal must have only hidden the first two pages behind the painting and kept the remainder for himself. I hope what you’re looking for hasn’t already been found.”
Wright closed her eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. “I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. Something like that would be difficult to keep hidden. I’m certain it never reached Lafayette. I’ve exhausted the possibilities on that score.” She paused. “Now we need to figure out who, exactly, Washington considered the “most reliable man” he knew.
Outside the window, Maddock and Bones exchanged glances.
Sneaking onto the grounds of Wright’s home had been child’s play. Dressed in black and following Jamison’s car through the gate had ensured they would remain undetected. Eavesdropping on Wright and Jamison in the study was no challenge, either. Bones’ legendary stealth and the fact that the desk was tucked into a bay window alcove allowed them to creep within a few feet of the woman and hear everything that was said.
They waited to hear more, but Wright dismissed Jamison. She took a long look at the translation her agent had given her, and then deposited it along with the letter in her desk. She rose to her feet and turned her gaze toward a large painting that dominated the far wall. Joan of Arc!
“My lady,” she said, “I swear I will find it.” With that, the woman sat down at the center of the floor, assumed a lotus position, and began to meditate.
“I think,” Maddock whispered to Bones, “we should get busy.”