The reminder that she was a prisoner shocked her out of her trance.

She spun on her heel and strode through the door, down the corridor and into her room. What had been a prison a short while earlier now seemed a safe haven.

She shut the door and leaned against it, shutting her eyes tight, as if by doing so she could transport herself to another place.

There was no way she shared the same blood with that repellent snake of a man.

His mere presence revolted and frightened her.

But even more frightening was the possibility that his story was true.

Chapter 41

PROFESSOR MCCULLOUGH GREETED HIS VISITORS on the steps of the University of Virginia rotunda, the domed, red-brick building based on the Jefferson designs that echoed Monticello and the Pantheon in Rome. The professor suggested a stroll along the tree-bordered cloisters whose columns enclosed the great terraced lawn. “I can give you twenty minutes before I have to scoot off to my ethics class,” said the professor, a big, heavyset man whose full gray beard resembled a clump of Spanish moss. His cheeks were apple red, and he effected a rolling gait more like a retired merchant seaman than an academic. “I’ve got to tell you, I was intrigued when you called and asked about the Artichoke Society.”

“It’s apparently something of an enigma,” Gamay said as they strolled past the pavilions that framed the green space.

McCullough stopped in midstep. “It’s a mystery, all right,” he said with a shake of his head. “I stumbled on it while I was preparing a paper on the ethics of belonging to a secret society.”

“Interesting topic,” Paul said.

“I thought so. You don’t have to be part of a conspiracy to take over the world to have your ethics questioned. Even membership in the innocent organizations can present undesirable potentials. Exclusiveness. Them versus us. The strange rituals and symbols. The elitism. The quid pro quo among members. The belief that only they know the truth. Many are male-only. Some countries, like Poland, for instance, have banned secret societies. At one end of the spectrum, you’ve got frat houses; at the other, you’ve got Nazis.”

“What got you interested in secret societies?” Paul asked.

McCullough continued on his stroll. “The University of Virginia is famous for its covert ops. We’ve got nearly two dozen secret societies on the campus. And those are the ones I know about.”

“I’ve read about the Seven Society,” said Angela, who seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of arcane information at her fingertips.

“Oh, yes. The Sevens are so secret that we know someone has been a member only when he dies and his obit appears in the campus publications. His grave will be adorned with a black magnolia wreath in the shape of the numeral seven. The university chapel bell tower chimes every seven seconds for seven minutes on the seventh dissonant chord.”

“Was Jefferson a member of any of these groups?” Gamay said.

“He joined the Flat Hat Society when he attended William and Mary. It became the Flat Hat Club later on.”

“Unusual name?” Gamay said.

“In the old days, students wore mortarboard caps all the time, not just at graduation.”

“Like Harry Potter,” Angela said.

McCullough chuckled at the allusion. “No Hogwarts that I know of, but the Flat Hats had a secret handshake. They used to meet and talk on a regular basis. Jefferson admitted, in his words, that the society had ‘no useful object.’”

Gamay steered the professor back on topic.

“Could you tell us what you know about the Artichoke Society?” she said.

“Sorry for going off on a tangent. I was researching my paper in the university library and came across an old newspaper article. A reporter claimed that as he rode up to the mansion hoping for an interview with the ex-president, he had seen John Adams getting out of a carriage in front of Monticello.”

“A reunion of the Founding Fathers?” Paul said.

“The reporter couldn’t believe his eyes. He went to the door of the mansion and talked to Jefferson himself. Jefferson said the reporter was mistaken. He had seen a local plantation owner who had come by to discuss new crops. Asked what kind of crops, Jefferson smiled and said, ‘Artichokes.’ He reported the conversation, noting that Jefferson’s friend looked like Adams.”

“Who first suggested that the Artichoke Society actually existed?” Angela asked.

“I’m afraid I’m the culprit.” McCullough had a sheepish expression on his ruddy face.

“I don’t understand,” Gamay said.

“I did a ‘What if?’ Suppose there had been a meeting as described. Why would the Founding Fathers get together? Travel wasn’t easy back then. I wrote a humorous article for a university publication based on the story and the UVA penchant for secret societies. I had pretty much forgotten about it when your writer friend called last week. He had come across a Jefferson paper on artichokes at the American Philosophical Society. A Google search turned up my article.”

“Angela works for the Philosophical Society,” Gamay said. “She’s the one who discovered the paper.”

“Quite a coincidence,” McCullough said. “I told Mr. Nickerson the same thing.”

“Who is Mr. Nickerson?” Gamay said.

“He said he was with the State Department. He’s a Jefferson history buff, and he had read my article, wondered what else I knew. He was going to look into it, but he never got back to me. Stocker called last week. Then you.” He checked his watch. “Damn. This is fascinating stuff, but it’s almost class time.”

Paul handed him a business card. “Please give us a call if you think of anything else.”

“I will.”

“Thanks for your help,” Gamay said. “We won’t delay you any longer.”

McCullough shook hands all around and rolled off to his class.

PAUL WATCHED the professor make his way across the lawn.

“In the file Kurt sent us at Woods Hole, he mentioned that he had been asked to look into the Phoenician puzzle by a State Department guy named Nickerson. He met him on an old Potomac River yacht.”

“I recall the name. Think it’s the same person?”

Paul shrugged and flipped open his cell phone. He scrolled down the index until he found the number of a State Department staffer he had worked with on ocean jurisdiction issues. Moments later, he hung up.

“Nickerson is an undersecretary. My pal at Foggy Bottom doesn’t know him personally but says Nickerson is an insider and a survivor. He’s considered brilliant but eccentric, and he lives on an antique yacht on the Potomac. He gave me the name of the marina but not the yacht. How about making a quick stop along the Potomac on the way home?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if we knew the boat’s name?” Angela said.

“If we liked doing things the easy way, we wouldn’t be working for NUMA,” Paul said.

THE SEARCH FOR Nickerson’s boat was tougher than the Trouts had anticipated.

A number of boats could have qualified as old, but only one—a white-hulled motor cruiser named Lovely Lady—that fit the bill as an antique.

Paul got out of the SUV and went over to the boat. The deck was deserted, and there didn’t seem to be any signs of life on board. He walked up the boarding plank and called hello a couple of times.

No one answered from the yacht, but a man popped his head out of a cabin cruiser in the next slip.

“Nick’s not on board,” he said. “Took off awhile ago.”

Paul thanked him and headed back to the car. On the way, he glanced at the boat’s name again and noticed that the transom was whiter than the rest of the hull. He went back to Nickerson’s neighbor and asked if the yacht’s name had been changed.

“As a matter of fact, it has,” the man said.

Minutes later, Paul slid behind the steering wheel. “No Nickerson,” he said.