The Devil Colony

Chapter 9

May 30, 11:48 P.M.

Washington, D.C.

Gray followed Seichan toward the massive pillared facade of the National Archives Building. It was a cold spring night, a last blast of winter's chill before D.C.'s boggy, humid summer started. Only a few cars moved along the streets at this late hour.

Following Seichan's sudden appearance at his apartment, Gray had donned black trousers, boots, and a long-sleeved Army T-shirt, along with a knee-length wool overcoat. Seichan seemed oblivious to the cold, leaving her motorcycle jacket open, exposing a thin crimson blouse, buttoned low enough to catch a glimpse of lace underneath. The leather pants hugged her curves, but there was no seduction to her manner. She moved with a hard-edged purpose to her step. Her eyes took in every stir of windblown branch. She was a piano wire stretched to the snapping point. Then again, she had to be to survive.

They headed for the Archives' research entrance along Pennsylvania Avenue. The access here was rather nondescript compared with the public entry on the far side of the building with its giant bronze doors. That massive threshold led into the main rotunda of the Archives, a hall that displayed the original copies of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights, all preserved in helium-filled glass enclosures.

But those documents were not why they'd come for this midnight visit. The building held over ten billion records covering the span of American history, cataloged and stockpiled in the nine hundred thousand square feet of storage space. If they were to find the document they sought, Gray knew he'd need help.

As they approached the entrance, the door swung open ahead of them. Gray tensed until a slim figure stepped forth and waved to them brusquely. His face was fixed in a hard scowl. Dr. Eric Heisman was one of the museum's curators, specializing in Colonial American history.

"Your colleague is already inside," the curator said as greeting.

The man's hair was snowy white, worn long to the collar, with a trimmed goatee. As he held the door open for them, he fidgeted with a pair of reading glasses hanging from a chain around his neck. He clearly was not happy to be called from his home at this late hour. Summoned at the last minute, the curator was attired in a casual pair of jeans and a sweater.

Gray noted the emblem for the Washington Redskins-a profile of a feathered Native American warrior-sewn on the sweater. At the moment he found the symbol ironic, considering the subject matter he intended to broach. Dr. Heisman's historical expertise concerned the relationship between the burgeoning American colonies and the indigenous people the colonists had found living in the New World. It was just such an expert Gray needed to further his investigation.

"If you'll follow me," Heisman said, "I've reserved a research room near the main stacks. My assistant will pull whatever records you need." He glanced back at them as they crossed the entry hall. "This is quite unorthodox. Even clerks for the Supreme Court know better than to request records outside of regular hours. It would have been easier if you'd informed me about the specific matter that you required to be researched."

The curator looked ready to chastise them some more, but his glance happened to settle on to Seichan's face. Whatever he saw there silenced any further complaints. He swung swiftly away.

Gray looked at her. She met his gaze and lifted a single brow, her countenance innocent. As she turned away, he noted a small scar under her right ear, half hidden by a fall of black hair. He was sure it was new. Wherever her investigations into the Guild had taken her, it had plainly been a hard path.

Following the curator through a maze of halls, they ended up in a small room dominated by a conference table and lined with microfiche readers along one wall. Gray found two people already waiting there. One was a young college-aged woman with flawless ebony skin. She could have stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. The black pencil dress that hugged her figure only accentuated her appearance. Her perfectly made-up face suggested she hadn't been lounging at home when she was suddenly called to work.

"My assistant, Sharyn Dupre. She's fluent in five languages, but her native tongue is French."

"Pleasure to meet you," she said, her voice silkily deep, tinged with a slight Arabic accent.

Gray shook her hand. From Algeria, he surmised from her lilting accent. Though the North African country had shaken off the yoke of the French colonists in the early sixties, the language still persisted among its people.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Gray said.

"No trouble at all," came a gruff response from the far side of the table. The other figure waiting for them was well known to Gray. Monk Kokkalis sat with his feet up on the table, dressed in sweats and a ball cap. His face shone brightly under the fluorescents. He cocked his head toward the slender assistant. "Especially considering the company at hand."

The assistant bowed her head shyly, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Monk had beaten them to the National Archives. Of course Sigma command was only a short walk across the National Mall from here. Kat had insisted that her husband join Gray this evening. Though Gray suspected the assignment had more to do with getting Monk out from under her feet than with offering backup for this investigation.

They all took seats at the table, except for Heisman, who remained standing, clasping his hands behind his back. "Perhaps now you could tell me why we've all been summoned here at such a late hour."

Gray opened the manila file in front of him, slipped out the letter, written in French, and slid it across the table toward Sharyn. Before she could touch it, Heisman swooped in and took it with one hand while securing his reading glasses in place with the other.

"What's this?" he asked, his head nodding up and down as he scanned the handful of pages. He plainly did not read French, but his eyes widened as he recognized the signature at the bottom of the letter. "Benjamin Franklin." He glanced to Gray. "This appears to be in his own handwriting."

"Yes, that's already been verified and the letter translated-"

Heisman cut him off. "But this is a photocopy. Where's the original?"

"That doesn't matter."

"It does to me!" the curator blurted out. "I've read everything ever written by Franklin. But I've never seen anything like this. These drawings alone..." He slapped a page on the table and stabbed at one of the hand-drawn sketches.

It showed a bald eagle, wings outspread, gripping an olive branch in one claw and a bundle of arrows in the other. Clearly it was still a work in progress. Hen-scratched side notes, indecipherable, pointed here and there at the figure.

"This appears to be an early rendition of the Great Seal of the United States. But this letter is dated 1778, years before this draft of the Seal appeared in the public record around 1782. Surely this is some sort of a forgery."

"It's not," Gray said.

"May I?" Sharyn gently retrieved the pages. "You said you've translated these, but I'd be happy to confirm the accuracy of that work."

"I'd appreciate that," Gray said.

Heisman paced alongside the table. "I'm assuming the content of this letter is what triggered this late-night meeting. Perhaps you could explain why something two centuries old could not wait until morning."

Seichan spoke for the first time. Her voice was quiet, but coldly threatening. "Because blood has been spilled to secure these pages."

Her words sobered Heisman enough to get him to sit down at the table. "Fine. Tell me about the letter."

Gray began, "It was a correspondence between Franklin and a French scientist. A man named Archard Fortescue. He was a member of a scientific group put together by Franklin. The American Society for the Promotion of Useful Knowledge."

"Yes, I'm familiar with the group," Heisman said. "It was an offshoot of the American Philosophical Society, but more specifically geared to the gathering of new scientific ideas. They were best known for their early archaeological investigations into Native American relics. In the end, they became almost obsessed with such things. Digging up graves and Indian mounds all across the colonies."

Sharyn spoke at the curator's elbow. "That is specifically what the letter seems to address," she said. "It is a plea to this French scientist to assist Franklin in mounting an expedition to Kentucky"-she translated the next with her brows pinched together- " 'to discover and excavate a serpent-shaped Indian barrow, to search for a threat to America buried there.' "

She glanced up. "There appears to be some urgency to this correspondence." To prove her point, she ran a finger along a passage of the letter, while translating. " 'My Dear Friend, I regret to inform you that the hopes for the Fourteenth Colony-this Devil Colony-are dash'd. The shamans from the Iroquois Confederacy were slaughtered most foully en route to the meeting with Governor Jefferson. With those deaths, all who had knowledge of the Great Elixir and the Pale Indians have pass'd into the hands of Providence. But one shaman did live long enough, buried under the bodies of the others, to gasp out one last hope. He told of a map, mounted within the skull of a horned demon and wrapped in a painted buffalo hide. It is hidden in a barrow sacred to the aboriginal tribes within the territory of Kentucky. Perhaps such talk of demons and lost maps is the phantasm of an addled, dying mind, but we dare not take the chance. It is vital we secure the map before the Enemy does. On that front, we've discovered one clue to the forces that seek to tear asunder our young union. A symbol that marks the enemy.' "

She flipped the page for them all to see. It depicted drafting compasses atop an L-square, all framing a tiny sickle-shaped moon and a five-pointed star.

She glanced up. "It looks to be a Freemason symbol, but I've never seen such a rendition like this. One with a star and moon. Have you?"

Gray remained silent as Dr. Heisman examined the symbol. The curator gave a slow shake of his head. "Franklin was a Freemason himself. He wouldn't disparage his own order. This must be something else entirely."

Monk leaned over to see the symbol. Though his partner's face remained stoic, Gray picked out the pinching of his nostrils as if he'd just smelled something foul. Like Gray, Monk recognized the mark of the Guild leadership. He met Gray's gaze, the question plain in his eyes: How could such a symbol be found in a letter from Benjamin Franklin to a French scientist?

That was the very question Gray wanted answered.

Monk voiced another mystery. "So how come ol' Ben was asking a Frenchman to help in this search? Surely there was someone closer at hand to lead such an expedition into the wilds of Kentucky."

Seichan offered one explanation. "Perhaps he didn't entirely trust those around him. This shadowy enemy he mentions... they could have infiltrated the government's inner circles."

"Maybe so," Heisman said. "But France was our ally against the British during the Revolutionary War, and Franklin spent a lot of time in Paris. More important, French colonists had developed close allegiances with Native American tribes during the French and Indian Wars, during which Canadian colonists fought alongside the region's natives against British forces. If Franklin needed someone to investigate a matter sensitive to the Indians of the time, it would not be strange to reach out to a Frenchman."

"The letter seems to confirm this," Sharyn said. She translated another few lines. " 'Archard, as confidant and bosom friend to the deceased Chief Canasatego-whose death by poison I still soundly believe was the dread work of our same Enemy-I could think of no one more fit to head such a vital exploration. This mission must not fail.' "

Despite the words in the letter, Gray suspected the true answer to Monk's question lay in a combination of both theories. From the ominous tone, Franklin was wary and reaching out to a friend he knew he could trust, someone with close ties to the region's tribes.

"So who's this Canasatego guy?" Monk asked, suppressing a yawn with a fist, but from the sharp glint in his friend's eyes, Gray could see that the yawn was clearly feigned.

Gray understood Monk's interest. The letter suggested that Franklin's shadowy enemies had murdered this Indian chief-and if the symbol on the page was more than coincidence, possibly it was the same enemy against whom Sigma had been battling for years. It seemed impossible, but why else would the Guild have secured and hidden this specific letter, one bearing their mark?

Heisman took a deep breath and some of the officious coldness fell away. "Chief Canasatego," he said with the warmth of someone remembering a close friend. "He's a historical figure few people know about, but one who played a vital role in America's formation. Some consider him a lost Founding Father."

Sharyn explained a bit proudly: "Dr. Heisman has done extensive research on the Iroquois chief. One of his dissertations was vital in getting Congress to pass a resolution concerning the role Native Americans played in the country's founding."

Heisman tried to wave away her praise, but his cheeks grew rosy and he stood a bit straighter. "He's a fascinating figure. He was the greatest and most influential Native American of his time. If he hadn't been struck down so young, there is no telling how different this nation might look, especially regarding its relationship with Native Americans."

Gray leaned back in his chair. "And he was murdered like the letter said?"

Heisman nodded and finally took a seat at the table. "He was poisoned. Historians disagree about who killed him. Some say it was spies of the British government. Others claim it was his own people."

"Seems like ol' Ben had his own theory," Monk added.

Heisman eyed the letter with a hungry look. "It is intriguing."

Gray suspected there would be no further trouble convincing the curator to assist them with their research. The irritated sleepiness in his manner had drained away, leaving behind only avid interest.

"So why was this Iroquois chief so important?" Monk asked.

Heisman reached to the photocopied letter and flipped to the crude representation of the bald eagle with outstretched wings. He tapped the claw that held the bundled arrows. "That's why." He glanced around the table. "Do any of you know why the Great Seal of the United States has the eagle gripping a sheaf of arrows?"

Gray shrugged and shifted the page closer. "The olive branch in one claw represents peace, and the arrows in the other represent war."

A wry grin-his first of the night-rose on the curator's face. "That's a common misconception. But there's a story behind that bundle of thirteen arrows, one that rises from a story of Chief Canasatego."

Gray let the curator speak, sensing he'd get more by letting the man ramble on.

"Canasatego was a leader of the Onondaga nation, one of six Indian nations that eventually joined together to form the Iroquois Confederacy. That unique union of tribes was already centuries old, formed during the 1500s-long before the founding of America. After generations of bloody warfare, peace among the tribes was finally achieved when the disparate nations agreed to band together for their common good. They formed a uniquely democratic and egalitarian government, with representatives from each tribe having a voice. It was government like no other at the time, with laws and its own constitution."

"Sounds darned familiar," Monk added.

"Indeed. Chief Canasatego met with the early colonists in 1744 and presented the Iroquois Confederacy as an example for them to follow, encouraging them to join together for the common good."

Heisman stared around the room. "Benjamin Franklin was in attendance at that meeting and spread the word among those who would eventually frame our own Constitution. In fact, one of the delegates to the Constitutional Convention-John Rutledge of South Carolina-even read sections of Iroquoian law to his fellow framers, reading directly from one of their tribal treaties, which started with the words, 'We, the people, to form a union, to establish peace, equity, and order-' "

"Wait." Monk sat straighter. "That's almost word for word like the preamble of the U.S. Constitution. Are you saying we patterned our founding documents upon some old Indian laws?"

"Not just me, but also the Congress of the United States. Resolution 331, passed in October of 1988, recognizes the influence that the Iroquois Constitution had upon our own constitution and upon our Bill of Rights. While there is some dispute as to the degree of influence, the facts can't be denied. Our Founding Fathers even immortalized that debt in our national seal."

"How so?" Gray asked.

Heisman again tapped the eagle drawing. "At that gathering in 1744, Chief Canasatego approached Benjamin Franklin and gave him a gift: a single feathered arrow. When Franklin expressed confusion, Canasatego took back the arrow and broke it across his knee and let the pieces drop to the floor. Next he presented Franklin with a sheaf of thirteen arrows tied together in leather. Canasatego attempted to break the bundle across his knee like before, but joined as one, they would not break. He presented that bundle to Franklin, the message plain to all. To survive and be strong, the thirteen colonies needed to join together; only then would the new nation be unbreakable. The eagle in the Great Seal holds that same bundle of thirteen arrows in his claw as a permanent-if somewhat secret-homage to the wise words of Chief Canasatego."

As Heisman had been relating this story, Gray kept studying the drawing on the page, nagged by something that seemed amiss. The sketch was plainly crude, with cryptic notations along the sides and bottom, but as he stared closer, he realized what had been troubling him about this early rendition of the Great Seal.

"There are fourteen arrows on this drawing," he said.

Heisman leaned over. "What?"

Gray pointed. "Count. There are fourteen arrows clutched by the eagle in this drawing. Not thirteen."

The others stood and gathered closer around.

"He's right," Sharyn said.

"Surely this drawing is just a draft," Heisman said. "An approximate representation of what was intended."

Seichan crossed her arms. "Or maybe it's not. Didn't Franklin's letter mention something about a fourteenth colony? What was he talking about?"

A thought formed as Gray stared at the eagle. "The letter also hints at some secret meeting between Thomas Jefferson and the Iroquois nation's leaders." He stared over at Heisman. "Could Jefferson and Franklin have been contemplating the formation of a new colony, a fourteenth one, one made up of Native Americans?"

"A Devil Colony," Monk said, using the other name Franklin employed in the letter. "As in red devils ."

Gray nodded. "Maybe that extra arrow in this early drawing represents the colony that never was."

Heisman's eyes glazed a bit as he pondered that possibility. "If so, this may be the single most important historical letter unearthed in decades. But why is there no corroborating evidence?"

Gray put himself in the shoes of Franklin and Jefferson. "Because their efforts failed, and something frightened them badly enough to wipe out all record of the matter, leaving behind only a few clues."

"But if you're right, what were they hiding?"

Gray shook his head. "Any answers-or at least clues to the truth-may lie in further correspondence between Franklin and Fortescue. We need to start searching-"

The jangle of Gray's cell phone cut him off. It was loud in the quiet space. He slipped the phone from his coat pocket and checked the caller ID. He sighed softly.

"I have to take this." He stood and turned away.

As he answered the call, the frantic voice of his mother trembled out, distraught and full of fear. "Gray, I... I need your help!" A loud crash sounded in the background, followed by a bullish bellow.

Then the line went dead.