The Jefferson Allegiance

Evie Tolliver

Evie Tolliver walked into the crowded restaurant and looked neither to the left nor the right.  She stood calmly, waiting for the maitre’d to seat her, seemingly assured of her place and time.  She was a woman of average height, but uncommon carriage; the type of body that suggests dance classes or, more likely, years of stern warnings to stand up straight.  Her age would be more difficult in today’s world of dermatology and expert hair coloring, but the few spots on the hands clasping the book and battered old leather briefcase suggested mid-forties—along with the self-assurance that comes with experience.

At least it appeared that way.  It was a good show.   Her thick dark hair had just enough silver to make it fierce.  The cheekbones high and wide, were her only real genetic gift of youth, giving her skin an extra ten years of grip against everyone’s Newtonian battle.  She had the bold, blue eyes of the black Irish, bespeaking a legacy of bold adventure and high romance.  A good story; perhaps.

She was dressed simply; loose linen slacks, plain top, long black leather coat and the kind of jewelry a person who traveled accumulated over a lifetime; each piece special, with a story and worn every day, but of little interest to strangers.  Good bag, but years out of style.  Leather boots—not stylish, but well worn and comfortable.  A bland exterior, more a wall, to keep strangers at bay and outside interest to a minimum.

In reality, Evie wasn’t as calm as she appeared.  Her chest ached.  Something wasn’t right with McBride—he was not a man who was late.  Worse, giving her his briefcase earlier in the day had been completely out of character.  After being seated at a table near the wall, she glanced at her watch and then reluctantly opened the old briefcase’s clasp.  His sleek, ultra-modern personal laptop was in its usual spot—a computer he used to compile his articles and a journal no one had ever read other than its author, as McBride encrypted everything he put on the machine.  He joked it was a book he was writing, the Great American Story, but had always added that it would never be published—never could be published for some reason he never explained.

Something else metallic glinted in the depths of the bag.  She opened the briefcase wider.  In the bottom of the briefcase was an iron rod a quarter inch in diameter and eight inches long, with brass knobs on each end.  Evie was jolted when she recognized it and she could tell it was authentic, but she also knew it wasn’t one of the two known originals—one in Monticello, where she had seen it safe and sound less than three hours ago, and the other locked securely in the Turnbullsonian.

Looking further, she spotted a thick envelope.  She pulled it out.  It was addressed to her in McBride’s flowing script with a note in parentheses indicating she should open it if he were late—a strange and foretelling postscript.  As she fingered the envelope her mind was in turmoil as questions tumbled over each other:  Why did McBride have a previously unknown Jefferson Wheel Cipher rod?  Where were the disks that went with it?  And most importantly, why was he late?

She slid a finger under the flap and broke the seal.  Reaching in, she pulled out a piece of parchment folded over something round.  Unfolding the parchment revealed a single, aged wooden disk about two inches in diameter and a sixth of an inch thick.  She ran her finger around the rim of the disk, feeling the letters that had been carved into it, knowing its connection to the rod that was in the briefcase.  The number 1 was etched very lightly into the flat side of the disk.

There was writing on the parchment.  Four lines scrawled in McBride’s flowing handwriting:

FIND THE CIPHER, FIND THE ALLEGIANCE

ONE PHILOSOPHER CHAIR, THREE PHILOSOPHERS

YOU ARE NOW THE CHAIR

A PHILOSOPHER WILL MEET YOU HERE