A few minutes later, at a height of about four feet, Dix’s fingers pressed against something rough in a crevice in the west wall. He pounded his fist against it and heard the echo of wood. “There’s something here, Ruth,” he called as he felt excitement fill him.
They quickly uncovered more wood planks. Dix looked at Ruth, raised an eyebrow. Ruth nodded to him and smashed her pick through the rotted wood. It splintered inward.
Dix leaned over her shoulder, shining his Maglite into the blackness.
“Oh my.” Ruth crawled into a space too small to stand in, laid the Maglite on the floor. She knelt in front of a low pile of what looked like bricks covered in dust. She ran her sleeve roughly over it. They stared at six rows of gold bars, four deep, lined up perfectly by those soldiers long ago. Sitting next to the bars was a very old leather satchel.
Ruth touched the gold bars, but her eyes went to the satchel. Gently, she pulled it out, carefully unfastened it. Inside was a small leather-bound notebook. “It’s not a diary, there aren’t any pages. There are a dozen or so letters here.” She ran her fingertips over the folded sheets. She unfolded one near the top of the pile. “It’s a woman’s handwriting. Her name is Missy and she’s writing to her husband.” She looked up at him. “He’s got to be one of the soldiers who stole the gold.”
Soon they both sat cross-legged on the cave floor, the stacked gold bars unnoticed behind them, looking through the packet of letters. “They’re all to Lieutenant Charles Breacken. Wait a moment, not this one.” She picked up the last letter in the pile. “It’s from him. He never got to send it. I wonder why he left it here?”
She read:
It was brutally hot today and still all we have to wear is wool. There’s a battle coming, everyone knows it’s coming, but no one wants to talk about it. I don’t know when I’ll see you again, Missy, but perhaps next month. I’m glad your parents are there to help you on the farm. Is your father still drinking too much?
We are protecting something of value we managed to steal from the Confederates, who were taking it to General Lee in Richmond. They are searching for us. We are determined they shall not have it. Elias stumbled across a cave for shelter, and I am writing this letter to you by candlelight deep inside the cave. If we prevail, my darling Missy, we will have done a great service for the Union. When next we meet, I may be Captain Charles Breacken.
I’ve got to go now. Elias just came in, said the Rebels are getting closer. I’m needed. Kiss our daughter.
Your loving husband,
Charles
Ruth said in a whisper, “He was a Union soldier, an officer.”
“And he never got home to his wife and daughter,” Dix said. “He died.”
“All of them died, but they didn’t give up the gold,” Ruth said. “I wonder how the map ended up in an old book in that attic in Manassas? Why did Charles leave his satchel here? It obviously meant a lot to him.”
“Maybe,” Dix said, “he was killed right here, outside, near Lone Tree Hill.”
He pulled her against him. “Well done, Ruth. You did it. Mr. Weaver’s going to be a very happy man. You’re pretty smart, you know that?”
She kissed him in reply.
NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE BRIEFING
THE WHITE HOUSE
TUESDAY MORNING
THE DIRECTOR OF National Intelligence jiggled the ice in his glass, a sure sign he was pleased about something. “With respect to item six, Mr. President, the FBI domestic wireless telecommunications operation has been decommissioned with no disruption of emergency nine-one-one service. The single FBI agent injured by gunfire will fully recover.”
The president sat back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers. “And operational security remains intact? We can expect no blowback on any possible civil liberties questions?”
“That is correct, Mr. President. And we believe the swift conclusion has indeed given the message we discussed.”
“John, I’d like you to write a letter under your own signature commending Special Agent Dillon Savich for his briefing and the successful execution of his plan.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” the director said. “Now to item seven, the request for new countermeasures on the Afghan border.”
EPILOGUE
THAT SUMMER
RUTH WARNECKI KNOCKED on the front door of a small tract house in a subdivision of Midlothian, Virginia. Linda Massey answered the door with two boys, both under the age of four, clinging to her jeans, and a baby nestled in the crook of her arm. She gave Ruth a harried smile. “I hope you’re not selling encyclopedias,” she said. “This crew is still a little young and no one else has the time.”