W A Y N E    J O S E P H S O N

Readable Classics gently edits great works of literature to provide study aids
for students and make the classics less frustrating for modern readers.

Chapter 1

Nicholas Bacon tentatively opened the front door and stepped cautiously onto the white columned portico of his historic Williamsburg brick colonial. With a great deal of effort, the elderly gentleman leaned down and scooped up The New York Times from the porch.
Under a brilliant blue Virginia sky, the early June air was fragrant with the lush blooms of dogwood trees and azaleas. But Nicholas had no time to enjoy the splendor of the morning. His eyes darted around furtively and he scurried back inside, quickly closed the door, and flipped the deadbolt lock.
Dressed in his robe, he shuffled down the hallway to his library. He sank down into the comfortable leather chair at his antique mahogany desk, where his morning cup of coffee awaited, as he prepared for his morning ritual of reading the newspaper.
Nicholas lived a quiet life, padding around the large house and spending many hours each day in his library, reading about his ancestors and reminiscing about his long life. He was eighty-two now, and Katharine, his beloved wife of many decades, had passed away just a year ago after a long illness. They had not been blessed with children, so he lived alone.
Nicholas was still reeling from that terrifying experience a week ago, when a burglar broke into his house in the middle of the night. He was sleeping fitfully in his bedroom on the second floor--he never slept soundly anymore at his age--when he was suddenly awakened by noises downstairs. Nicholas lay deathly still for two interminable hours after the sounds subsided, paralyzed with fear that the intruder would venture upstairs.
But all had remained quiet. At four o’clock in the morning, Nicholas had finally crept down to the first floor to find his beloved library in disarray. The thief had rummaged through Nicholas’ possessions looking for valuables.
Nicholas had always kept his original First Edition of the 1611 King James Bible out of sight but, regrettably, not in a secure place. After all, it wasn’t meant to languish in the family vault. It was meant for reading, which Nicholas did every evening.
Before retiring, Nicholas would always carefully place the priceless bible in his briefcase. That briefcase was the only thing missing from the library.
Imagine the thief’s surprise when he returned to his hovel, or wherever he lived, and pried open the briefcase expecting to find money or jewelry. My beautiful bible probably ended up in a dumpster somewhere.
Nicholas had filed a police report on the theft, but he did not hold out much hope that it would be recovered. Nevertheless, he still clung to the faint hope that some Good Samaritan might find the bible and return it to him.
This morning, seated at his desk, Nicholas slid the rubber band off his New York Times and unfolded it. His normal custom was to turn immediately to the obituaries. At his age, the biggest news of the day was learning which of his acquaintances had died. Today, however, for some reason, he happened to glance at the front page.
His eyes landed on the story. He stared at the headline with incredulity and dropped his coffee cup. The antique English bone china crashed into small slivers on the ancient plank floor, but Nicholas didn’t hear a thing.
The old gentleman read the first paragraph of the story without taking a single breath:
“A priceless First Edition King James Bible, published in 1611 on a Gutenberg press, the only privately-owned copy in existence, has been acquired by a New York rare documents dealer. The bible will be auctioned by Sotheby’s and is expected to command millions of dollars. The antiquities world is electrified by the news, and speculation abounds as to whether the owner of the bible will soon offer other rare documents for sale.”
The worst possible misfortune in the world had just befallen Nicholas Bacon. He quivered with fear, knowing that the bible would likely be traced back to his doorstep.
Who knows what evil, greedy forces might conspire to find the rest of my treasures? If the secret location of my family’s four-hundred-year-old vault were ever discovered...
Nicholas shuddered at the ramifications. The vault contained many priceless documents from his English ancestor, Sir Francis Bacon, and several Founding Fathers, most notably Thomas Jefferson.
Nicholas began to sweat profusely. His hands shook as he put the newspaper down. His mind raced, trying to collect his thoughts. He knew he needed to act with haste. He was not safe. And he may not have much time.
With no children or grandchildren to succeed him, and his only nephew Trevor having died years ago, his sole survivor was his grandnephew: Trevor’s son, Josiah.
Why did I not pass the secret of the family vault to Josiah when the boy visited me every summer from New Hampshire? I have made a grievous error.
Josiah had sent a letter to Nicholas several months ago to say that he was now in graduate school at the University of Virginia, two hours away in Charlottesville. Josiah had requested a visit. But Nicholas had procrastinated and had not called his grandnephew.
Nicholas was desperate to speak with Josiah now. He opened the top drawer of his desk, took the letter out, and laid it on the desk. Then he carefully placed a paperweight on top of the letter. Josiah had included his phone number. Nicholas’ hands shook as he dialed it.
Josiah’s phone rang and rang, until voicemail picked up. The old gentleman sighed heavily. There was nothing to do but leave a message.
“Josiah, this is your great-uncle Nicholas. I am so sorry that I have not called you sooner. Please forgive me. But I have disturbing news. Look at today’s New York Times. The King James Bible has been stolen. I must meet with you. Call me at once. If anything happens, remember: The A’s and B’s are in the C. I love you, Josiah. Goodbye.”
The next phone call was just as difficult. Peter Jefferson was the closest friend Nicholas had left in the world. They had been inseparable at boarding school and lifelong friends ever since.
Peter lived in Charlottesville, and they had gotten together regularly until the past few years, when Nicholas withdrew from society while caring for Katharine. Since then, their only contact was by phone, and those conversations had been infrequent at best.
How long have the Bacon and Jefferson families been connected? Why, it has been almost two hundred fifty years, ever since Thomas Jefferson came to Williamsburg in 1769 as a delegate to the Virginia House of Burgesses. Our family gave him access to the vault so he could study Sir Francis Bacon’s writings on democracy.
Mr. Jefferson then deposited his own important papers in the vault as well. Down through the generations, the descendants of our two families have become its guardians. Now, only Peter and I are privy to the secret location.
Nicholas felt a terrible sense of guilt that his King James Bible had been stolen, and he needed to inform Peter of the disturbing news. Nicholas dialed his friend’s phone number and held his breath. With great relief, Peter answered.
“Hello?”
“Peter, dear friend, it is Nicholas.”
“Why, good morning, Nicholas! It has been such a long time since we last spoke. How are you, my friend?”
“Peter, I am afraid this is not a social call. I must be brief. I must warn you of grave danger. Please read the front page of The New York Times and call me back when you have finished. I--”
At that moment, Nicholas looked up and stared in horror at the large shadow of an intruder standing in the doorway. Dressed in black, the well-built man in his early forties had close-cropped dark hair and a small scar on the left side of his square jaw. He pointed a silencer gun at Nicholas’ face.
“Hang up now,” commanded the man in a calm, deep voice. His dark, piercing eyes had the self-assurance of someone who had done this sort of thing before.
Terrified, Nicholas complied. But despite his fear, he was indignant.
“Who are you?” he shouted. “How did you get in here?”
Without emotion, the intruder replied, “I walked through the back door.”
Nicholas slumped. How careless of him. He had forgotten to lock it. But his anger superseded his fear.
“What do you want from me? Are you the same man who stole my King James? What more do you want from me?”
Silently, the intruder moved behind Nicholas and pulled out a white cloth doused with chloroform. He held it against Nicholas’ face for several seconds. The old gentleman succumbed to the vapors and became unconscious, slumping onto his desk.
The intruder moved with speed and precision. He stooped down and removed a slipper from Nicholas’ bare foot. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe, positioned the needle between the old man’s fourth and fifth toes and injected the contents. Then he withdrew the needle and inspected the injection site. There was no evidence, no trace of blood. He replaced the slipper.
The assailant reached into another pocket and retrieved a small metal disc. He peeled away the protective plastic from one side of the disc, exposing an adhesive coating. Then he placed the disc under the overhanging lip of Nicholas’ desk. It bonded at once.
The assassin left the house and got into his black surveillance van. As he sped away, Nicholas Bacon was already dead of an untraceable heart attack.


Chapter 2

Peter Jefferson was and alarmed and confused. His dear friend Nicholas Bacon had just hung up in mid-conversation. It wasn’t like him to behave that way. His voice had a note of panic. Yes, Peter would look at The New York Times as his friend had requested, but first he needed to make sure that Nicholas was all right.
Peter dialed Nicholas’ number. It rang seven times, eight, nine. No answer. Nicholas had never believed in answering machines, so there was no way to leave a message. Something was indeed wrong. Moreover, Peter thought he had heard another voice speaking to Nicholas before the line went dead.
The old gentleman rose from the tufted upholstered chair in his study. He found that moving around, even from room to room, was challenging now. At eighty-two, his arthritis bothered him more than ever, especially during the hot, humid summer days of Charlottesville.
He looked out the window at the green rolling hills of the Piedmont countryside, nestled at the foot of his beloved Blue Ridge Mountains. The view was magnificent, one that he never ceased to enjoy and revere. He had been born and raised on this five hundred acre equestrian estate. He lived alone in the large manor house, having been a widower for many years. But he would never leave, no matter what. They’d have to carry him away in a box.
Peter shuffled down the hall to the large kitchen, where he had left The New York Times on the breakfast table. He sat down, opened the paper to the front page, and gasped when he saw the story. He knew instantly what this meant.
The old gentleman stood up with difficulty and went to the phone on the wall. He fumbled with the receiver, concentrated to remember his granddaughter’s number, and dialed it frantically. The phone rang four times until voicemail picked up. Frustrated and fearful, Peter left a message.
“Amanda dear, this is your grandfather. I must speak with you at once. It is a matter of the utmost urgency. Thank you. Goodbye.”
Peter hung up the phone, made his way back to the breakfast table, and sat down as his joints creaked. For the first time ever in his own house, Peter felt truly alone and terrified. The housekeeper and stable boy wouldn’t arrive until noon. There was nothing to do now but wait.
Peter sat down at the breakfast table and began to reminisce. His thoughts turned with fondness to Amanda. She had grown up in California because her father, who was Peter’s only child, had been rebellious and never cared about the Jefferson family traditions. Twenty years ago he had left Charlottesville and moved his wife and young daughter to the west coast.
I didn’t approve, but what could I say? The members of our family have never been conformists--my ancestor Thomas helped to start a revolution, after all.
Amanda hated California and missed her grandfather with a passion. Every summer from age nine to fourteen, she would board a plane by herself and fly out to Virginia to spend a month at Peter’s horse farm.
Amanda would sit with me for hours as I regaled her with stories about our famous ancestor. I would talk about the many important papers Mr. Jefferson had placed in the family vault.
I also mentioned to Amanda the existence of another document--a Secret Treaty from the Founding Fathers. But she was too young to learn the details of this treaty--and its ramifications.
During her visits at granddad Peter’s farm, Nicholas Bacon would drive out from Williamsburg with his grandnephew Josiah, who was visiting from New Hampshire.
The old gentlemen always made certain to arrange these visits with Amanda and Josiah, because someday the children would have to carry on the tradition of the family vault. They were only a year apart in age, so Peter and Nicholas made an effort to facilitate a friendship, hoping the youngsters would form a lifelong bond. But regrettably, as time passed, Amanda and Josiah went to different schools and drifted apart.
Now that Amanda is grown, and living and working in Charlottesville, I see her regularly. I was planning to pass along the secret of the vault. Why didn’t I? Stubbornness, of course. My great nemesis. Refusal to accept my own mortality.
Down through the generations, the Bacons and Jeffersons had always honored a pact that the vault would never be opened without the mutual consent of both families.
Nicholas and I, as current guardians, have followed the tradition of our ancestors and never opened it. After we are dead and gone, future generations can do as they wish. But now I fear that events are rushing so fast that there may not be enough time to bring Amanda and Josiah together...
Peter needed a diversion from his worries. He opened the Times and read the obituaries while sipping his coffee. After a while, still sitting in his chair, he dozed off.

* * *

The old man awoke with a start. Peter looked at the clock on the wall and realized that almost two hours had elapsed.
His thoughts returned to the troubling phone call he had received from his dear friend Nicholas. As he tried to reconcile the confusion, he was interrupted by a slight noise from behind him.
Peter turned his head around and, to his astonishment, saw a well-built man standing in the doorway of the kitchen, dressed in black with close-cropped dark hair and a small scar on his left cheek.
The intruder pointed a silencer gun at him.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Peter. “Who are you?”
“Quiet,” instructed the intruder. “Turn around.”
Terrified, Peter obeyed and sat frozen. Within seconds, Peter was unconscious from inhaling a chloroformed cloth. The intruder performed the same ritual as he had earlier on Nicholas Bacon, and soon Peter Jefferson was dead of an apparent heart attack.

The assailant walked calmly down the hallway into the study. He put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a small metal disc, and secured the listening device underneath the lip of the desktop. Afterwards, he continued down the hall, through the foyer, and out the front door.

The most hotly debated question in U.S. history has been answered: Was America founded as a Christian nation? In this fast-paced thriller, Amanda Jefferson and Josiah Bacon race to find a hidden family vault containing a secret treaty from the Founding Fathers. They are pursued by a relentless killer, a ruthless United States Senator, and a radical religious cult who will stop at nothing to locate the treaty. The breathtaking climax is a shocking revelation that will leave readers stunned.