Dane’s skin tingled and his heart raced, and his mind now fired on all cylinders. He’d just made a connection.
“Where’s the butter knife?”
Jillian gaped and Bones smacked himself on the forehead. She took the knife out of the satchel and passed it over with trembling hands.
Dane slid the knife into the slot until it stopped, then gave it a clockwise turn. Something clicked, and the knife slid free.
“Okay, here goes.” This time, he took a firm grip and twisted with all his might. It held for a moment, and then something broke loose and the base turned. Smiling he continued twisting and the bottom of the lamp unscrewed. He could scarcely breathe while he removed it and looked inside.
“What do you see?” Jillian’s soft voice held a note of breathy eagerness.
“Nothing.” The inside of the base was empty. “When it came loose, I was so sure.” He gazed down into it and something caught his eye. “Wait a minute! Jillian, do you have a magnifying glass?”
“Daddy had one he used to read books with fine print.” She hurried out of the room and returned with it a few moments later.
Dane peered through the glass. He saw a tiny circle of engraving, its circumference not much larger than a half-dollar.
“Anything?” Bones sounded wary. He likely didn’t want to be disappointed again.
“I see the circle-and-cross and then…” Dane turned the base in his hand. “I see the alphabet and the numbers 0–9.”
“Crap!” Bones banged his fist on the table, nearly upending their coffee cups. “Sorry. I got my hopes up.” Then he saw the expression on Dane’s face. “I must be missing something, because you look pleased with yourself.”
“What are you thinking, Maddock?” Jillian asked with a hint of trepidation.
“During the Revolution and in the pre-Revolutionary era, heck, throughout history, people have passed along secret messages using…”
“Ciphers!” Jillian exclaimed.
“And I’ll bet you a Dos Equis the other half of the key is inside the second lantern.”
“Sweet!” Bones was already working the knife into the bottom of the other lantern, which was putting up solid resistance after its long immersion in molasses and who knew what else? Finally, he succeeded in opening it, and handed the base to Dane.
“There it is. A ring of symbols. We’ve got it!”
“Could that be the connection?” Jillian rose to her feet and began pacing. “We need the cipher to decode a message in Adams’ journal?”
“Makes sense to me.” Dane sprang to his feet. “And if you’ve got a phone book, I’ve just thought of someone who might be able to help us.”
CHAPTER 12
Jimmy Letson lived in a third-story apartment on Boston’s South End in sight of the Hancock Building. He had befriended Dane early in Dane’s first year in the Navy. Shortly thereafter, Jimmy had entered, and rung out of, SEAL training. At the end of his tour of duty, he had returned to his native Boston and become a journalist, but it wasn’t his journalistic skills Dane needed right now.
Jimmy answered the door on the first knock. A tall, wiry man with unkempt curly brown hair and a wispy mustache, he gazed at them through bleary eyes.
“Seriously, Maddock? It’s the middle of the night, and you expect me to drop everything and help you with a research project?”
“It’s not a research project, it’s… I don’t know what to call it, but it’s important. Besides, I come bearing gifts.” He held out a bottle of Scotch he’d found in Andrews’ liquor cabinet.
Jimmy accepted the bottle and peered at it over his John Lennon-style glasses. He didn’t actually need them; he just liked the way they looked. “White Label. Surprisingly good taste for a beer guy. All right, come on in.” He didn’t bother holding the door for them, but turned and strode back into the apartment.
Jimmy had furnished his living room in early 1970s thrift store: lots of browns, oranges, and dark wood. A framed Star Wars movie poster, the sole concession to artwork, hung above an overstuffed bookshelf.
Jimmy motioned for them to sit down, then headed into the kitchen and returned with four glasses. While Jimmy poured them all drinks, Dane introduced his companions.
Bones accepted the glass of Scotch, frowned at it, then looked up at Jimmy. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Weird Al?”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you look like a cigar store Indian?”
“Cheers!” Bones clinked glasses with Jimmy, settled back into his chair, and took a drink. His face contorted and he shuddered. “Holy crap! How do white people drink this stuff?”
“You get used to it.” Dane turned to Jimmy. “You said you found something for us?”
“I love how you get right down to business. It’s the first time you seen your old friend in years, and you don’t even bother to ask what I’ve been up to.”
“I know what you been up to: writing for the Globe, playing Dungeons & Dragons, reading sci-fi novels, and doing your computer stuff.”
“Computer stuff, he says.” Jimmy looked at Bones and Jillian with a pained expression on his face. “I am unappreciated in my time.” He sighed and took a stack of papers from the coffee table. “I can see you’re in a hurry, so here’s what I’ve got.” He cleared his throat. “You asked me to find out anything I could about the Sons of the Republic, a journal belonging to Samuel Adams, and the phrase ‘Gates of Freedom’ as it relates to Adams or Paul Revere.”
Jimmy was dragging this out just to be annoying and Dane made a “hurry it up” gesture. Jimmy frowned at him over his glasses, cleared his throat again, louder this time, and continued.
“There’s not much on the Sons of the Republic. They advocate for a second revolution-the usual stuff. The government took a look at them and decided they weren’t a threat. I didn’t get much on Gates of Freedom, either. The phrase only appears in personal correspondence, and its meaning is never explained. It’s always as if the writer assumes the reader knows what he’s talking about. What’s interesting are the names of the letter writers and the recipients. Guys like Samuel Adams, John Hancock, William Mackay, Paul Revere, James Swann, and Joseph Warren.”
“All members of the Sons of Liberty,” Dane mused.
“And all from Boston,” Jillian added.
“It seems the Gates of Freedom is something known only to the Boston branch of the Sons of Liberty. At least, I couldn’t find the phrase among the writings of any other members, or any other patriots for that matter.”
“How did you manage to review so much data in such a short time?” Bones asked, placing his glass on the coffee table.
“I used my computer to hack into the Library of Congress and some university libraries.”
“How did you get your computer connected to theirs?”
“It’s the Internet, my friend. It’s a network of interconnected computers all around the world. One day soon, everybody will be hooked into it: businesses, institutions, even individuals. It’s going to change everything.”
“If you say so, Jimmy.” Dane had learned long ago not to get Jimmy started predicting the future. The guy had seen too many movies. “What else do you have?”
“Nothing definitive, but I think the Boston branch of the Sons of Liberty had a secret headquarters. Everybody knows they held secret meetings in various locations, but I think they might have also had a permanent meeting place for the most important stuff. I found an excerpt of a letter from Thomas Young to Paul Revere containing the phrase, “meet behind the Gates of Freedom.”
“And the journal?” Jillian asked.
“That one was tricky. If you want John Adams’ journal, that’s easy to find. Sam’s, not so much. In fact, the only reference I found was the story of something he said on his deathbed. A slave overheard it, and the tale was passed down through her family. According to her, a few days before his death, she came into his room to empty his chamber pot. They were alone, and he whispered her name. It was one of his rare moments of lucidity, so she hurried to his bedside. He grabbed hold of her with surprising strength and said, “Journal. The secret. Trumbull preserved.”