“Don’t mock me, Lucie. Or underestimate me. It’s about the thrill of the hunt, as I’ve told you. And this has been the thrill of a lifetime.” He smiled. “Besides, I am an old man and I am wealthy. There is nothing anyone can do to intimidate me anymore. As the proverb goes, ‘Truth is the daughter of time, not of authority.’ It’s time to shine a light on what has been hidden in the darkness for so long. I intend to be the one who does it.”

“Yes, but if you’re only going to tell your Masonic brothers at this special party—where you were hoping to drink the Madeira—doesn’t that mean it’s still going to be a secret? Since the Masons are a secretive organization?”

He chuckled. “A very astute observation. My Masonic brothers deserve to be the first to know for a lot of reasons. Some will be upset. Others, I hope, will be intrigued. But eventually everything needs to come out in the open and I will see that it does, all in good time. In the meantime you must give me your word—once again—that you will keep this conversation strictly between the two of us. Do you understand? Tell no one.”

“Prescott—”

“Your word, Lucie.” His lighthearted demeanor was gone.

“All right, you have my word.”

“Good.” He sounded mollified. “Now you may go. But I’ll be calling on you because we must find that Madeira. In the meantime…” Once again he laid a finger over his lips. “Silence.”

As if by magic, the hidden door in the wall slid open.

I fled.

Three

It was cooler in the hall, as if someone had opened an outside door and let in a blast of frigid November air.

Which way had Prescott and I come? Which way back to the elevator?

I turned left. I hadn’t gone more than half a dozen steps before I realized I didn’t recognize the paintings on the walls. Especially the one in front of me, though it wasn’t a painting. It was a rectangle of fabric, displayed under a piece of glass. Old and fragile, it was an unusual shade of dull coppery red with a skull and crossbones stitched on it. If it hadn’t been so old, the fabric would have shimmered as if it were shot with gold. The edges were tattered and small holes were scattered through it. Bullet holes. The ragged edges were from windblown years atop a ship’s mast.

What was Prescott doing with a pirate’s flag? I read the small placard below it.

Rare Jolly Roger flag captured from the pirate ship Black Fortune off the coast of North Africa in 1790. A red flag meant no mercy shown to captives.