The Last Patriot

Turning right off Bateman Bridge Road at the entrance of Poplar Forest, Harvath followed the long driveway for a mile before it ended near the front of the house. Theirs was the only vehicle there.

“Looks like we’re here first,” stated Nichols. “Should we take a look around?”

The three men climbed out of the SUV, briefly stretched, and then began walking. As they circled the main house and the newly reconstructed service wing, the professor shared the handful of additional modern details he knew about Poplar Forest. In particular, he described how it had been rapidly degrading until 1983, when a nonprofit corporation was formed to buy it and the surrounding five hundred acres. Over the next twenty-five years the corporation painstakingly researched and restored the estate to its original condition.

After fifteen minutes of sightseeing, they heard a car door slam shut. Poplar Forest’s director had arrived. With Nichols and Ozbek right behind him, Harvath turned and headed back to where they had parked.

Jonathan Moss was the ski

Moss gathered packets of information from the trunk of his car, slammed the lid, and walked up to the north portico where Anthony Nichols introduced himself and facilitated the rest of the introductions.

After shaking hands, Moss passed a packet of Poplar Forest information to each of his visitors. “I hope your trip doesn’t turn out to be a waste of time,” he remarked as he led the men toward the pine front doors, which had been painted to replicate the color and grain of mahogany, just as in Jefferson’s day. “As I understand was explained to you, much of the house was destroyed by fire in the 1800s. I think we’ve done an exceptional restoration job, but I don’t know how much help that is going to be to you. All of the original woodwork was burned, including the mantelpieces.”

Moss opened the doors and once everyone was inside, he had his guests follow him down the narrow entry corridor to the dining room at the center of the house.

Harvath looked up at the light slicing through the pitched glass panes of the skylight. The entablature depicted bucrania and a variety of human faces, but didn’t look like their architectural renderings.

The professor produced the documents and set them on the table for Moss to study. As he did, Nichols ran through the same questions they had addressed with Susan Ferguson back at Monticello.

“I don’t know what to tell you about the gears,” said Moss. “We have a few mechanical items here that Jefferson designed such as the polygraph for making copies of the letters he wrote, but nothing with an extensive gear system like this.”

“Any Islamic instruments like clocks or other mechanical items from the Arab world?” asked Nichols.

The director shook his head. “Nope.”

Moss continued to answer in the negative on questions about Lieutenant O’Ba

Just as Paul Gilbertson, the docent from Monticello had done, Moss suggested that there could be some answer in Jefferson’s voluminous correspondence of more than twenty thousand letters written during his lifetime.

Nichols had already wrung Jefferson’s correspondence dry. He also had access to items Moss had never and would never see. If there was an answer to be found, it was here. It had to be. “What about the architectural sketches?”

Moss positioned the page in front of himself and after studying it a moment stated, “Susan said one of her docents believed this was a schematic for part of a fireplace mantel, correct?”

“Correct.”

“During our restoration, we restored fourteen of the fifteen brick fireplaces themselves.”

“Why not the fifteenth?”

“It was the only one that didn’t need it.”

“Where is it?” asked Harvath.

Moss held up the Jefferson architectural drawing and replied. “In the same room whose entablature depicted ox skulls and the Roman goddess of wisdom and learning, Minerva.” Pointing to the door in front of them, he said, “The parlor.”

CHAPTER 81

As Moss led them into the space that had served as Jefferson’s parlor, as well as his library and study, the first thing Harvath noticed were the ox skulls and depictions of Minerva around the edge of the ceiling.

Studying the period furnishings, Harvath asked, “What was originally beneath this room?”

“The wine cellar,” replied Moss.

Paul Gilbertson had pointed out in the drawings what appeared to be an attachment point for a rope and pulley system, similar to what was used in Jefferson’s dumbwaiter at Monticello.

Now, that same schematic had led them to Poplar Forest and a room above a wine cellar with the only fireplace in the house from Jefferson’s time that had never needed to be renovated.

Harvath wondered why. Maybe its construction was purposely different from the others; better, stronger for some reason. He also wondered if maybe the secret they were looking for wasn’t necessarily hidden within the mantelpiece, but that the mantelpiece had simply acted as a gatekeeper.

Originally, Harvath had thought the architectural schematic represented some sort of twist on a puzzle box-a diagram that indicated how to manipulate pieces in the correct order which would in turn unlock a panel and reveal whatever Thomas Jefferson was hiding.

Moss pointed to the fireplace on the east side of the room and said, “That’s it there.”

Harvath, Nichols, and Ozbek walked over and examined the mantelpiece.

The professor wasn’t very excited. “If whatever it was, was ever here, it’s gone now,” he stated.

“Maybe not,” replied Harvath as he turned to Moss and asked, “Was there a dumbwaiter in this room that would have allowed for wine to be brought up from the cellar?”

The Poplar Forest director shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“You never saw any holes in the floor in here or anything like that which could have been part of a rope and pulley system; even if they could have been part of a system of counterweights for a clock of some sort?”

“None at all. We replaced the floors throughout the house. If there had been holes like that, we would have seen them.”

Harvath went back to examining the mantel, in particular where it butted up against the wall.

“What are you thinking?” asked Nichols.

“I’m thinking of a baptismal font in a church I know of,” said Harvath as he leaned his shoulder into the mantel and tried to give it a shove.

“What does a church have to do with what we’re looking for?” asked Ozbek.

Harvath borrowed the architectural document from the professor and set it atop the mantel. “Paul Gilbertson at Monticello said he believed this was a cutaway drawing of a mantelpiece, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, what if it was more than that? What if the moveable joinery was actually a type of combination lock?”

“Like the puzzle box,” said Nichols, a note of excitement in his voice.

“What puzzle box?” asked Ozbek.

The professor pantomimed a small box with his hands. “They’re boxes Jefferson was fond of which required pieces to be manipulated in a particular order to get them to open. He kept the wheel cipher in one of them.”

“And the Don Quixote we found in Paris,” added Harvath.

“What difference does it make, though?” said Ozbek. “The original mantelpiece is gone.”

“But not the fireplace,” replied Harvath as he pointed to the drawing. “Gilbertson said he believed this was an attachment point for a rope and pulley system.”

“There was no dumbwaiter here, though.”

“No holes in the floor either,” added Nichols.