James Patterson: Thriller: Stories to Keep You Up All Night

"Brother James," I went on to suggest, "would be James the Greater, brother of Jesus in Holy Scripture, who founded the first Celtic Church in Spain (Santiago, as they call him there) as well as those ancient parish churches of the French Pyrenees.

"You are mostly Scotsmen here by origin, are you not?" I added. "It seems to me that the Scots, in recent memory, have been aligned with only one dynasty of great power and ancestry, and with whom the Scottish royal families have intermarried on numerous occasions-that is, with the French. There was Mary of Guise, who married the king of Scotland two hundred years ago-and then her daughter, Mary Queen of Scots, who married the French dauphin. And of course, young Mary's Scottish son, James Stuart, the successor to Queen Elizabeth who became King James I of England." I turned to Hamilton in the darkness of the carriage, and added, "Given the canon of the song, this is the true 'James' that your chantey refers to-is it not?"

"It is," Hamilton replied quietly. "It is, indeed."

It took no Doctor of Philosophy to read the meaning in that message. But it did take a bit of initiation into other hidden significance. The Tuesday Club was asking my future aid, as a brother, in the time of their need…

Franklin paused in his story to look about the room of attentive listeners, then he added with effect, "This very same chanson was delivered to me, only this morning, from Scotland. I at once recognized its import-for nearly thirty years ago, I'd been warned by a club of Scotsmen, an ocean away from here-a warning that has now come home to roost.

"As we know, my friends, for more than one hundred years, the Scots have continually struggled to expel the Hanover usurpers from the throne of England and to restore the Scottish blood. From the English Civil War right down to the battles of Bonnie Prince Charlie, the son of the last King James who tried to seize England again only nine years before my trip to Annapolis!

"This song's deeper meaning was that my fellow Masons at Annapolis were initiates into an ancient, hidden rite of masonry known only to Scotland. Some call it the Rite of Strict Obedience, others the Rite of Kilmarnock, named for an earl who founded the rite and who was executed, nearly one hundred years ago today, for supporting the Stuart return to the throne. The Tuesday Club knew the meaning of Brother Jacques, and seemed prepared to implement its logical outcome-as they might, even today.

"But how many realize," Franklin asked his fellow diners, "that that same Bonnie Prince, Charles Edward Stuart, who claims the British throne, lives only kilometers from where we sit? At St. Germain en Laye, on the road from Paris to Versailles. There the Stuarts have remained under the protection of the Bourbon kings for one hundred years, ever since their ouster from Britain's throne."

"You don't mean to suggest," interjectedJohn Adams indignantly, "that the exiled Stuarts are still a factor in European politics?"

"Europe-no," agreed Franklin. "It is America that is forefront in my mind. Our newly fledged country has, as yet, no true ruler-no chief of state. General Washington, everyone's choice, has-like Julius Caesar-thrice been proffered a kingship, and thrice declined. A great man, who is married to a long-barren wife with useless offspring of her own. Shall he produce the necessary dynasty to keep us safe?"

"Dynasty?" cried Adams, leaping to his feet. "Why have we fought a revolution? Are you gone mad, sir?"

"Look about you, my friend," said Franklin coolly. "Is there a country on any continent that exists with no line of succession? What would ours be? Kings deal with kings. Washington knows this-that is why he's sent a private delegation to ask whether the Stuarts are prepared. My message suggests that the Stuarts are prepared-their ship departs for the coast by the canonical hour of Matins-that is, by midnight, this very night! They are bound for America, and the children of the Kilmarnock Order will greet them when they arrive."

Adams was blathering, tugging at his wife's arm, as the younger folk around the table scrambled to their feet.

"This is monstrous!" Adams informed Franklin. "I shall see you tomorrow, sir, when you've had time to reflect!"

Franklin nodded gravely as the Adamses took their leave.

Taking Mme Helvetius by the arm, he retired to the salon as customary, to bid all his guests adieu before his afternoon nap. But as he passed the windows, Franklin noticed that the French contingency-his hosts, the Chaumonts, and the playwright, Beaumarchais-had stepped into the garden and were close at heads with the American mission's secretary. After a moment, Beaumarchais reentered the house as the others were still collecting their things to depart, and he took Franklin aside.

"Look here, my dear doctor," said the dashing playwright, "we're flustered at this turn of events. Though no one believes a Scottish king is in the stars for America, it will create a furor if true. You mentioned that your message suggested a spy among us. However did you deduce such a thing from a nursery song?"

"Ah, a mere ruse," Franklin assured him. "I know who the spy is, you see! Despite the revolution, I'm afraid there are those in our ranks who remain Anglomanes. I've had this particular gentleman recalled to America more than once, but our Congress keeps sending him back. I wasn't surprised that he left our company so abruptly today-off to send a message to his friends across the channel, no doubt!"

"You mean Adams?" whispered Beaumarchais in amazement.

"Please don't share it with a soul," Franklin said. Then he turned to Mme Helvetius, a short distance away. "A game of chess before my siesta, my dear?"

Midnight in the Gardens of Le Valentinois

The gardens were beautiful by night, thought Franklin. "Canonical hour!" He laughed to himself at his own cleverness. It was the best time to be abroad in the world. Beneath the star-filled August sky, a breeze ruffled the citrus trees. Moonlight drenched the pools and fountains a milky white. In the distance, the river Seine snaked across the land like a serpent of liquid silver.

At first sight, no one would imagine that this fairyland was only a short carriage ride from the steaming streets of Paris. Franklin knew he was fortunate, indeed, to have a host like Chaumont. When it came to intrigues and money, the man was a true rapscallion, but he wasn't the worst of his lot.

As he strolled along the promenade, Franklin took Mme Hel-vetius's arm.

"You did well this afternoon, my friend," Franklin told his companion. "I refer not only to your prowess at chess, but to your flair for intrigue." He paused to sniff at her clothes, and added, "I've become quite attached to that fragrance. Might we send your milkmaid by some afternoon to share tea with me in my boudoir?"

"Vieux cochon," Mme Helvetius replied with a naughty smile. But as she glanced over the railing into the lower gardens, she tensed. "I thought everyone had long gone. Who are those men down there by the pool?"

Far below, at the edge of the cliff that rose from the Seine, was the large, octagonal pool designed by Donatien le Ray de Chau-mont, with its famous, water-driven carillon of bells, which struck the hours. Close together at the pool's edge, two figures were sitting in shadow.

"It is Jefferson and John Quincy Adams," Franklin explained. "I asked them to stay on and meet me here to watch the show. They told the boy's parents he'd be staying in town at Jefferson's rooms. Come, let's descend to join them."

"But isn't it dangerous to involve others?" asked Mme Helvetius.

"Just as dangerous as a game of chess," Franklin replied. "And very like it. Young Quincy wants to learn the art of encryption and decryption. What better opportunity than tonight?"