June 24, 1916
Dear ?
How strange? I cannot think of a single person to be the recipient of these, my final words. It was a mistake to have dared live as long as I have—a mistake which I will forthwith correct.
I do not know why I have persisted so long. Perhaps if I were the misanthrope so many believe me to be, I would have retired from this struggle long ago. Alas, I believe I have lingered this long, long enough to see my sons buried, and all my friendships turn to dust, in the futile hope that my admittedly pessimistic appraisements might be proven false.
Enough about that. Of all the words I have written, I care the least about these, but there are a few matters to which I must attend before I end the journey.
It has been a month since I visited the young cavalryman near Rubio. (If you are the man I think you are, then it is you who reads this now). I shall say now what I did not have the time or inclination to say then.
Three years ago, when I made known my intention to travel south and observe the war in Mexico, I was approached by none other than the president himself, and asked to conduct secret negotiations with Villa and Carranza, the generals of the Revolution. I fulfilled my duty in good faith. The generals, particularly that brute Villa, did not, which left me in a quandary. Should I complete my mission and return to Washington with the signed agreement? Would it make any difference at all? I believe it certainly would not to a man like Villa—All he knows is how to shed blood.
This is the problem that has occupied my thoughts in the months that have followed, and now, at the end of my journey, the answer yet eludes me. Perhaps you who read this will be more decisive than I.
So there. It is done. I have finished my last duty, and now I must depart for another unknown destination. Farewell.
Sincerely Yours,
Ambrose Bierce
“Ambrose Bierce,” Avery repeated the name after finishing the letter, but could tell from the blank looks she received that no one recognized it. “The writer, Ambrose Bierce. ‘Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge’?”
“That kind of rings a bell,” said Sievers, hesitantly.
“Ambrose Bierce wrote ghost stories in the late nineteenth century. Owl Creek Bridge was probably his most famous. It’s a short story about...well, I don’t want to spoil it for you, but let’s just say it’s Twilight Zone stuff. Which is sort of weird when you consider that his disappearance is one of the world’s great unsolved mysteries.”
“Until now,” Stone pointed out. “Is he our ‘Devil’?”
Avery nodded. “Bierce got his start working at a newspaper as a printer’s apprentice. The unofficial title for the job was ‘printer’s devil.’ He was also a satirist. One of his most famous works was a collection of satirical definitions that he called ‘the Devil’s Dictionary.’ He was kind of a cantankerous old guy. I think he liked that nickname.”
Another ominous groan filled the chamber, but this time even Kasey seemed to barely notice.
“Back in 1913,” Avery went on, “Bierce traveled to Mexico to observe the revolution. Or at least that’s what everyone believes. It sounds like he was actually some kind of secret peace envoy for President Wilson. He sent a few letters from Mexico, then just vanished. Everyone assumed that he was killed by Villa’s men. He was very critical of the revolution. He agreed with their cause but felt that the fighters were little more than bandits and murders.”
“But he was actually hiding out here the whole time,” Stone said.
“In 1916, Villa’s forces escalated and started carrying out attacks across the border. President Wilson retaliated by sending General Pershing’s Punitive Expedition—”
“Which Patton was part of,” Sievers put in.
“Which Patton was part of,” Avery confirmed. “It sounds like Bierce felt some kind of connection to Patton. I’ll have to do some research on that. So he comes out of hiding, travels down to meet with Patton and gives him...what exactly?”
“The Devil’s Gift,” Stone muttered. “Bierce didn’t actually give Patton anything, but he did tell him about it. The agreement he negotiated. The secret mission for President Wilson. That’s what this was all about.”
“Why would the president choose this Bierce guy?” asked Sievers. “I mean, you said he wrote ghost stories.”
“He was also a journalist, a war reporter, and a veteran of the Civil War. He had very strong political opinions and wasn’t afraid to publish them. And he had close ties to the newspaper giant William Randolph Hearst. He would have made an ideal envoy because of his celebrity status.”
“So he tells Patton about his mission and the deal he made with the revolutionaries,” Stone said. “Tells him about this place. Then he comes back here and... finishes things. Patton, for whatever reason, decides not to tell anyone about it. Thirty years later, he realizes that he can use it to become president, but before he can do that, he gets killed.”
Avery nodded again. “And now the Dominion is after it.”
“And the Russians,” Kasey added. “So what exactly is it?”
Avery laid the letter aside, delved into the valise, and took out a formal-looking presentation portfolio of black or possibly navy blue dyed leather, embossed with the seal of the United States. She opened it and scanned the document contained within. Unlike Bierce’s low profile script, the writing on the parchment in the portfolio was elegant and easy to read, the work of a professional calligrapher. “It’s a treaty,” she announced “‘A Treaty between the United States of America and the sovereign States of Northern Mexico.’”
“A treaty?” said Sievers. “We weren’t at war with Mexico in 1913.”
“It’s not a peace treaty,” Avery explained, as she began skimming the document. “It’s a...Oh!”
She lowered the portfolio slowly, as if its contents were some volatile chemical compound. In a way, that wasn’t far from the truth. “This is going to blow your mind.”
“Then speak up miss,” said a new voice from the mouth of the chamber. Avery was abruptly plunged into darkness as Sievers swung his light toward the source. Its beam illuminated the faces of three strangers.
No, not quite strangers. Avery recognized one of them from the Library of Congress, one of the men who had tried to abduct her. All three held pistols and looked ready to use them.
“Go on,” said the man in the center of the group. “We’ve come all this way. I want to know if it’s everything we’ve heard it is.”