“Awe-inspiring?” Severson finished.

“Exactly. The marble floors and columns, the arches, the vaulted ceilings, the artwork.”

Severson smiled. “I think Selma once referred to this place as ‘part cathedral, part museum, part gallery, with a little bit of library thrown in for good measure.’ I suspect grandeur was foremost on the Congress’s collective mind in 1815. After the British sacked everything, I imagine there was a ‘we’ll show them’ mentality during the reconstruction.”“Bigger, better, more ostentatious. Architectural nose-thumbing, if you will,” Remi said.

Severson laughed.

“Are we going to the Main Reading Room?” Sam asked.

“No, we’re going to the second floor-Rare Book and Special Collections. The Main Room is hosting a tour for local elementary schools. It’s going to be a bit wild in there today.”

They reached a door numbered 239 and walked through. “If you want to take a seat at the worktable, I’ll man the workstation. While our catalogue has gotten more user-friendly over the years, it might be easier if I do the legwork.

“Okay, Selma e-mailed me some of the documents and gave me a little bit of background: Winston Lloyd Blaylock, wife named Ophelia, believed to be in the United States prior to March 1872. Anything else?”“We have a rough physical description,” said Remi.

“Everything helps.”

“Six feet four inches tall, around two hundred fifty pounds probably.”

“Also, he carried a .44 caliber Henry rifle,” Sam added. “As I understand it, those weren’t very common.”

“Certainly not as common as Winchesters, Remingtons, or Spring-fields. The Henry wasn’t standard-issue during the Civil War, but many Union soldiers used their own money to buy one. The government did, however, issue them to scouts, raiding parties, and Special Forces units. The Confederate soldiers hated the Henry. It could hold sixteen rounds, and a trained soldier could fire off twenty-eight in a minute. Back then, that was as close to a hand-carried machine gun as you could get. Do we know if Blaylock was adept with it?”“According to our source, he was a crack shot.”

Severson nodded. She started typing, and for the next five minutes there was silence save for the clacking of the keyboard’s keys and the murmur of “Fascinating” or “Interesting” from Severson. Finally she looked up.

“I have a service record here, a microfiche copy from the National Archives. Two sources, actually: the CMSR, or Compiled Military Service Record; and Publications M594 and M861, which are the ‘Service of Military Units in Volunteer Union Organizations’ for both the Union and the Confederacy.”“Any mention of Blaylock?”

“I’ve got fifty-nine entries, in fact. Since Blaylock carried a Henry rifle, let’s start with the Union list first.” Severson started typing again. “The problem is, many of the abstract entries list only the first name, middle initial, and last name. I’ve got several W. Blaylocks, and two W. L. Blaylocks. The first one has an attachment, a medical record. Did your Blaylock have any wounds?”“Not that we know of.”

Smiling, Severson tapped the screen, clearly excited by what she’d found. “Right leg amputated at field hospital during the battle of Antietam. Guess that rules him out, huh? Oh, sorry, that sounded morbid, didn’t it?”“It’s okay,” Sam said. “You and Selma share the same love of research. We’re used to it.”

“Okay, here’s the other entry. Well, this is interesting. This Blaylock was detached from the Union Army in September 1863, but there’s no reason listed. He wasn’t transferred or wounded. Just detached.”“What does that mean?” Remi asked.

“I’m not sure. Let me see if I can find more than an abstract on him.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER Severson again looked up from her workstation. “Got it! A full service record. This might be your man: William Lynd Blaylock.”

“That’s close,” Sam said. “Conspicuously close.”

“His physical description is close as well: six feet four inches, two hundred ten pounds.” “It wouldn’t be hard to gain thirty or forty pounds after leaving the army,” Remi observed.

Severson was frowning. “Parts of the record are missing. I’ve got early details of his training and unit assignments, promotions, campaigns he was involved in, evaluations . . . But after 1862 his assignments are all listed as ‘supplementary service.’”“That sounds very James Bond-ish,” said Remi.

“You’re not far off,” Severson replied. “When it comes to Civil War-era records, the term ‘supplementary service’ is usually associated with guerrilla units-what we’d call Special Forces today.”Sam said, “Like Loudoun Rangers, Quantrill’s Raiders, the Kansas Jayhawkers . . .”

Severson nodded. “Right. Combine that with this Blaylock’s mysterious detachment from the Union Army in 1863, and I think you’re looking at a soldier turned spy.”

THE AFTERNOON WORE ON as Severson sat at her workstation typing, jotting notes, and occasionally sharing her progress with Sam and Remi. At four P.M. Severson stopped and looked at her watch. “Oh, my, time flies. It’s almost closing time. There’s no reason you should have to sit here for this. Why don’t you go back to your hotel and have dinner? I’ll call you if I find anything. Correction: When I find something.”“Please, Julianne, you go home as well,” Remi said. “I’m sure you have other plans.”

“Nope. My roommate will feed my cat, and I’ll grab dinner here.”

Sam said, “We can’t-”

“Are you kidding? This is like going to Disney World for me.”

“That sounds familiar,” Remi said with a smile. “Are you sure you and Selma aren’t related?”

“We’re part of a secret society: Librarians-in-Arms,” Severson replied. “You two go and let me do my thing. I’ll be in touch.”

AS THEY DID EVERY TIME they stayed or passed through Washington, Sam and Remi had booked the Robert Mills Suite at the Hotel Monaco. Twenty minutes after leaving the Library of Congress their taxi slowed before the Monaco’s red-awning-covered steps. The doorman had the door open a moment after the car stopped rolling. Sam and Remi got out.

The Monaco, once the U.S. General Post Office Building and now a registered National Historic Landmark, is located in Washington’s nineteenth-century neighborhood known as Penn Quarter, within walking distance of the Mall, the Smithsonian American Art Museum, the J. Edgar Hoover Building, the U.S. Navy Memorial, and five-star restaurants enough to keep a gourmand enraptured for years.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo,” the doorman said. He walked to the rear of the cab and collected their luggage from the trunk. “I’ll have your bags brought up immediately. If you’d like to step inside, I believe you’ll find the concierge is expecting you.”

TEN MINUTES LATER they were in their suite. Still fatigued from their African odyssey, they took an hour-long nap, then showered, dressed for dinner, and walked down to the street. They found the Monaco’s restaurant, the Poste Moderne Brasserie, around the corner on Eighth Street through a carriageway portal set into the building.

After a glance at the wine list and menu, they settled on a bottle of 2007 Domaine de la Quilla Muscadet-a zesty, crisp wine from the Loire Valley-arugula salad with basil, mint, and parmesan, and steamed bouchot mussels in white wine, saffron, mustard, and garlic confit. As was visiting the Monaco itself, the choice of fare was something of a tradition for the couple.

Remi took a sip of wine. She closed her eyes and let out a sigh. “I have a confession, Sam. I love adventure as much as the next gal, but there’s something to be said for good food and a warm bed with clean sheets.”“You’ll get no argument from me.”

Remi’s iPhone chimed. She checked the screen, then set it aside. “Selma. She found another Aztec symbol in Blaylock’s journal.”