Cradle Of Solitude. Alex Archer

that some of those secrets might be exposed. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

      He hadn’t been concerned at first. They received tips like this at least a handful of times per month and the majority of them led to nothing. Normally he would have sent one of his men to check it out, but he’d been in the area when the call had come in and had decided to deal with it personally. If nothing else, it gave him a chance to stretch his legs and enjoy the change in the weather.

      But then he’d seen the crowd that had gathered and watched as the crew removed a large specimen case from the tunnels below and his disinterest changed to concern. A fateful meeting had taken place in this area more than a hundred years before and it wouldn’t bode well for certain people if the facts of that meeting came to light. It was his job to prevent that from happening.

      The presence of the American television host certainly had the potential for complicating matters.

      “Is she here representing the network?” he asked the man on the other end of the phone.

      There was a pause. “I’m not sure yet.”

      Michaels didn’t like uncertainties; they tended to create problems later on down the line. His silence must have adequately conveyed his displeasure, for the other man quickly amended his statement.

      “I’m working on it, though. I should have an answer shortly.”

      “Good. And her relationship with Reinhardt?”

      “I’ll have that for you shortly, as well.”

      “Next time, call me when you actually know something.”

      Ending the call, Michaels slipped the phone back in his pocket and continued down the street to where a black Mercedes waited for him at the curb. As the driver started to get out to open the door for him, Michaels waved him off, climbed in the backseat on his own and then instructed the other man to take him back to the office.

      Without a word the driver slid the big car into traffic smoothly and headed off. As they cruised past the van from the museum, Michaels could see the Creed woman sitting in the front seat, seemingly lost in thought while waiting for the rest of the team to finish loading the equipment in the back.

      It would be a shame to have to mess up that pretty face, he thought as they drove away.

      6

      After unloading the specimen case from the van, Dr. Reinhardt had his students carry it downstairs to one of the basement labs. There, he and Annja lost no time getting to work.

      They transferred the foam-wrapped skeleton to the top of the long examination table in the center of the lab. Because the skeleton had been in a seated position when it was encased in the foam, they placed a board behind its back for support. Next it was photographed and filmed, just as it had been down in the tunnels. The images would later be combined with the earlier ones to help establish the chain of control over the artifact throughout the examination process. For now, though, Annja took over filming with the video camera as Bernard plugged in a portable UV lamp and prepared to remove the protective foam from the skeleton.

      “Ready?” he asked, his fingers poised over the lamp’s power switch.

      Annja nodded. She knew she didn’t need to remind him how angry she’d be if the foam had damaged the bones in any way.

      She thought about the captain. That’s how she was thinking of him now. She didn’t know who he was yet, but she hoped to uncover his identity in the process of their investigation. She wanted to put a name and maybe even a face to the remains. In the meantime, the title would remind everyone that this had once been a living, breathing person and therefore deserved their respect.

      Bernard hit the switch on the lamp and it began humming slightly.

      For a few minutes the sound was the only outward evidence that the device was even working. The light it emitted was not visible to the human eye, but eventually the foam began to bubble and break down. It reminded Annja of the head atop a soft drink after being dispensed from a soda fountain.

      As the foam broke down, Bernard gently lowered the inclined backboard, inch by inch, until the skeleton rested flat on the examination table, the bones still arranged mostly in the same position in which they’d been discovered.

      That’s pretty damn slick, Annja admitted to herself.

      Bernard was obviously thinking the same thing, for he threw a huge grin in her direction. It was as if the foam had never existed.

      Very carefully, they began separating the bones from the clothing. Each one was carefully measured and then photographed from multiple angles before being placed on another lab table for Bernard to examine more carefully. While he did that, Annja turned her attention to the clothing.

      She started with the heavy jacket that had been worn over the uniform. Known as a regimental sack coat, it had a stand-up collar and six CSA buttons running down the front. It was made of wool and had held up pretty well in the cool atmosphere and low humidity of the catacombs. She had no doubt it had once been dyed gray, but the vegetable dye that was used in those days tended to break down quickly and the coat looked more brown than gray at this point.

      The blood from the chest wound that had killed their subject had stained the inside of the coat and sealed the lip of the interior pocket closed. When she carefully pried it open, she discovered an envelope inside.

      Annja felt her heart starting to beat faster.

      Picking up a pair of rubber-tipped tweezers from the selection of tools on the table beside her, she gently inched the envelope out and placed it on a nearby light box where she could examine it in more detail.

      “I’ve got something here, Bernard,” she said, and waited for her partner to join her before continuing.

      They took multiple photographs to document the specimen. Then, with Bernard’s help, Annja carefully opened the envelope and withdrew the single sheet of paper it contained.

      The paper was yellow and brittle with age. Worried that even the slightest pressure might cause an unwanted tear, Annja took her time, unfolding each section using the tweezers. When she had the page lying flat on the light board, she laid a piece of clear laminate over the top, much like the cover on a microscope slide. The laminate would allow her to view the paper clearly, without worrying about accidentally damaging the surface of the letter itself. She breathed a sigh of relief once it was in place.

      With the protective cover in place, Annja clamped it down on each corner and then flipped the switch that activated the light board.

      When illuminated from below, the ink appeared in sharp contrast to the faded surface of the paper, making it easier to see.

      It was a letter.

      Annja skimmed through the text, her eyes widening with each line. Upon reaching the signature she gasped in surprise. She heard Bernard whisper, “Mon Dieu,” mere seconds later.

      The letter identified the bearer as Captain William Parker, Confederate Navy, and assured the recipient that not only did the captain have the letter writer’s complete confidence but that he was also empowered to act on his behalf with respect to an agreement involving mutual support and satisfaction.

      The letter wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular and Annja puzzled over that for a moment until she realized that it had apparently been intended to be hand-delivered to its recipient. That was unfortunate, because knowing who the recipient was might have allowed them to trace things back in the other direction and gain some insight on what Parker, if that was indeed who it was, had been doing in the catacombs.

      There was no doubt about where the letter had originated, however, for it had been signed in a thin, spidery script.

      Jefferson Davis

      President

      Confederate States of America

      Bernard broke the stunned silence first.

      “What