C
ONRAD LEFT HIS POLICE HORSE
at the old Peirce Mill. He then walked along the creek at the bottom of the ravine in the direction of the cave. That cave, he was now convinced, would lead him directly to the final resting place of the terrestrial globe beneath the Sarah Rittenhouse Armillary.
As he crossed the creek, exhausted but determined, he thought of Washington’s crossing at Valley Forge and the courage that saw America through the Revolution. It was that same courage and resolve which must have driven Washington on the fateful night in these woods when he stood up to the Alignment to save the republic.
George Washington galloped through the woods on his horse in the rain. It was almost three o’clock in the morning when he cleared the trees and came to an abrupt halt by the wharf in Georgetown.
Slowly Washington led Nelson to the old stone house, listening to the old war horse’s hoofs clapping lightly in the night. He tied him to a hitching post and walked to the front door, anonymous in his civilian raincoat and hat. Even so, he could not hide his regal bearing as an officer and gentleman.
He knocked on the door three times. He paused a moment and again knocked. He tried the latch and the door opened on its own. Washington stooped to enter, his towering 6-foot-3-inch frame filling the doorway, and stepped inside.
The man he was to meet, his top forger, sat limply in a chair by the flickering fireplace, blood on his face and a bullet hole in his forehead. On the rough-hewn table before him were charts, maps, and documents.
“A treacherous affair, this new republic.” A voice spoke from the shadows. “Who knows where it will end?”
Washington grew very still, then slowly turned his head.
Several feet away, beneath a doorway, stood a mountainous silhouette. He was a bull of a man, with a ruddy face and white, curly hair. His eyes were black and soulless. The man drew a pistol from his coat and aimed the barrel directly at Washington. “You should not have tried to fool the Alignment.” His voice, though familiar, was not easy to place. “Now tell me where your copy of the treaty is.”
“There on the table,” Washington said warily. “I came to pick it up.”
“Liar.” The man emerged from the shadows.
“You!” Washington said, staring at one of his most loyal officers through the years. The man was a former Son of Liberty. A Patriot. One of the original members of the Culper Spy Ring who helped Washington beat the British in New York. His top assassin.
“This is a forgery,” the assassin said as he picked up a document from the table and waved it in Washington’s face.
Washington felt a surge of dread. He knows. How does he know?
“The ranks of the Alignment are everywhere. Its destiny and America’s are one.” The assassin leveled his gun at Washington’s chest. “Now sit down next to your friend.”
Washington did as he was told. Dawn was still hours away, and the room was very dark. He removed his hat and coat and set them on the table, and sat down opposite the assassin.
“A lot of good your brotherhood of builders did you,” the assassin sneered. “What match are they against the warriors of the Alignment?”
Washington watched as the assassin unfolded the forged document on the table and examined it by the light of the fire.
“Brilliant,” said the assassin approvingly. “This looks exactly like the amended and updated treaty you are to sign and exchange with the Alignment for the original treaty. Except that you used that special ink that becomes invisible after a few days, rendering your
signature meaningless because the articles of this treaty will, in effect, disappear. By the time the Alignment would have discovered your treachery, you would have no doubt destroyed the original treaty. Was old Livingston here your man in the Alignment?”
Washington said nothing.
“You always did like to play the double spy game.” The assassin turned, holding the official treaty that Washington was supposed to sign. “And what did you intend to do with this?”
The assassin held up the amended treaty that Livingston had copied, the one that would have bound Washington and America to an unthinkable fate.
Washington stared at the fire wordlessly. That infernal treaty! he thought. I never should have signed the first one ten years ago.
“No matter,” said the assassin. “Your game is nearly up. Our friends will be here soon. They will decide if you attend your ceremony tomorrow.”
He was pointing to a flyer posted on the wall inviting all to join the president and members of Congress on a procession from Alexandria to the top of Jenkins Heights for the laying of the cornerstone of the new United States Capitol building.
Washington could feel a cold chill coming on, the life of the republic passing away.
“How about some ale?” Washington asked.
“So what drink shall it be? Fate or free will? Destiny or liberty?” He reached for some glasses on a shelf and for a moment turned his back.
“I choose freedom,” Washington said, leaning back in his chair until his feet came up toward the table. “I can’t help it.”
Washington rammed the table with his feet into the assassin’s back, driving him into the wall. Several glasses crashed to the floor. The assassin turned, his face a bloody mess as his arm swung up with his pistol. Washington rose from his chair, his left hand deflecting the pistol as his right knee came up into the assassin’s groin. The assassin’s head jerked forward, his leg hooking behind Washington’s, sending them both crashing to the ground. As Washington went down with him, he reached for the wrist of the hand that held the pistol,
smashing his fist into the side of the assassin’s neck, aware of the pistol exploding between them.
There was the distinct smell of burning flesh and the assassin lay still, dead.
Washington got to his feet, picked up the official treaty and tossed it into the fire. He signed the forgery and slipped it into his overcoat. Then he paused.
The rain had stopped outside.
“Blast it,” he cursed, realizing that he had to hurry for his rendezvous with the Alignment to exchange his forgery for their copy of the countersigned and amended treaty he first signed ten years ago. It was the only binding document left and, God willing, would shortly be in his possession.
In the center of the Federal District was a hill known as Jenkins Heights. Washington had always known it as Rome, because a century earlier a Maryland landowner named Francis Pope had a dream that a mighty empire to eclipse ancient Rome would one day rise on the banks of the Potomac, which he called the Tiber.
Washington, steeped in the history of the land he surveyed as a youth, knew the hill’s history stretched well before that, and he felt as if he were riding back in time as old Nelson climbed the hill for the exchange of treaties.
Long before Europeans colonized the New World, the Algonquin Indians held tribal grand councils at the foot of this hill. The Algonquin were linked by archaeology to the ancient Mayans and by legend to the descendents of Atlantis. The chiefs of their primary tribe, the Montauk Indians, were known as Pharaoh, like their ancient Egyptians cousins. And the word was spelled like it was in the old Arabic languages 10,000 years ago, meaning “Star Child” or “Children of the Stars.”
Which was why Washington had chosen this hill as the heart of the new federal city, and why his hand-picked surveyors Ellicott and L’Enfant had oriented the proposed Congressional House to the star Regulus in the constellation of Leo—key to both Atlantis and
Egypt—and the entire federal city to the constellation Virgo, like Rome.
Washington himself was ambivalent about astrology.
As a Mason, he felt it made sense that new cities and churches and public buildings be aligned to the stars, if only to acknowledge the necessity of heaven’s blessings on so vast and corruptible an earthly enterprise as the founding of a new republic. And it made sense to him to cast astrological charts for the laying of cornerstones at the most opportunistic, astronomically favorable moments, such as the time set for the laying of the cornerstone of the U.S. Capitol on this very hill at 1 p.m. later that day. The stars, after all, were more permanent fixtures in the heavens than the passing politics of men.
The officers of the Alignment, however, were no builders like the Masons, but rather warriors who traced their origins to Atlantis and who had infiltrated and manipulated the armies of various empires throughout the ages. They used the stars to wage war and destroy those they considered their enemies. Moreover, their astrology was not elective, like his, employed only to make the most of a favorable astrological climate. No. Their astrology was fixed, fatalistic, and filled with doom—a self-fulfilling prophecy. They never considered the irony that they were merely using the stars to justify their actions.
At strategic points in history, the Illuminati, the Masons, and even the Church had served as ignorant hosts to the infernal ranks of the Alignment, who had now set their sights on the federal government of the new United States. During the Revolution, even Washington himself had gone so far as to rely on certain officers trained in their arts to turn the tide of battle.
It was a mistake he had lived to regret.
They were waiting at the top—12 representatives of the Alignment on horseback with torches. They included officers, senators, and bankers Washington knew well, but clearly not as well as he had thought.
Washington rode up to the group, stationed around a trench dug for the laying of the cornerstone.
A few feet beyond the trench was the golden celestial globe.
The official Alignment negotiator, known by the pseudonym Osiris, ran his hands around the smooth contours and constellations of the globe until it cracked open to reveal the wooden axis that kept
the two halves together. He pulled the globe apart and removed the axis. It was hollow.
“The treaty, General,” he said.
Washington handed over the forgery he had brought with him from the old stone house, complete with his signature as president of the United States.
Osiris rolled it up into a scroll, placed it inside the axis and closed the globe. Then Osiris handed over the original treaty signed in Newburgh in 1783, back when Washington was commander-in-chief of the Continental Army and the United States of America and its Constitution did not yet exist.
Washington slipped the Newburgh Treaty into his pocket, then watched as the sealed globe with the forgery penned with dissolvable ink was lowered to the bottom of the trench into a hollow stone block. On the reverse side of the forgery was something the assassin back at the stone house missed: a star map in invisible ink that would reveal itself later should the globe ever see the light of day.
But that would be centuries from now, Washington thought.
Mortar was poured on top of the trench to seal it. Then a few spades of dirt to cover it. Come morning a silver plate marker would be placed at the bottom of the trench and on top of it the cornerstone to the U.S. Capitol.
“You have what you want,” Washington told them. “Why not be rid of me?”
“You have been indispensable, sir. And we salute you. If only you were of more sturdy character, you would have let us crown you, and then you could have led us and America into her destiny this generation instead of forcing her to wait for another.”
“America will prove you wrong,” Washington said.
Four soldiers were posted to guard the celestial globe until the cornerstone-laying ceremony, and the 13 officers dispersed in every direction. Four each to the north, south, and east, and one lonely horseman, Washington, to the west.
It took Washington a half hour to reach the wild outskirts of the Federal District and make it to Peirce Mill along Rock Creek. He followed
the winding waters through rocky ravines and dense, primeval woods. At the end of his journey was a cave, hidden among the dense ferns, shrubs, and other foliage. A shroud of gray moss and tangled vines over the entrance made it all but invisible.
Washington tied Nelson to a hickory tree, parted the curtain of tangled vines and stepped inside, where a flicker of light was visible in the distance. He followed the cave to the end, where a larger cavern or hollow appeared and a shaking Hercules, his most trusted slave, held a torch over an ancient Algonquin well surrounded by several barrels of gunpowder.
Washington gazed at Hercules and the round sackcloth by Hercules’ buckled shoes. He bent down and removed the sackcloth to reveal another copper globe.
The globe was almost identical to the one he had just seen buried atop Jenkins Heights. But this one was terrestrial, originally paired with its sister but now separated for a special purpose. He stared at the unique topography the cartographer who crafted the globe had carved so long ago, marveling at it.
Washington moved his finger along the 40th parallel on the globe, feeling for the seam. He found the spring, and the globe cracked open. He removed the signed document from his overcoat, placed it inside the globe and closed it up. Then he nodded to Hercules, who knotted some rope around it and lowered it down the well.
Washington watched as the coil of rope by Hercules’ feet unwound. Deeper and deeper the globe descended until it rested at the bottom of the well. Putting on his Masonic apron, Washington took out a trowel and threw a simple spade of dirt into the well. Then he sat down on a barrel of gunpowder and held the torch as Hercules rolled up his sleeves, picked up a shovel and began filling the bottom of the well with dirt.