Saint-Gaudens Cypher

Church.

PROLOGUE

North Dakota—December 1901

Early Morning

Clad in long, black woolen coats and cowboy hats, twelve men on horseback followed their leader in the snow and ice-cold temperatures. Running his horse along the snow-covered path atop the plateau, the leader saw the familiar log cabin in the distance. The expansive land of endless buttes and cliffs were a breathtaking change from the fast-paced city the man came from. He raised his hand high, signaling to the men behind him to stop as he kicked his horse to a full gallop off the path, running him through the fresh powder. Soon, knowing what lay ahead, he pulled the reigns back, halting his horse. Only a few yards in front of him a butte coddling the river ran between the rugged rocks below.

This was his inspiration. The thought-provoking endless horizon, where he extended his gaze far beyond, as far as he could see across the expansive land. In the distance, cattle were huddled together. He loved his cattle. At one time, they were the healthiest cattle in America. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a motion at the bottom of the cliff—a pleasant distraction from his introspection.

Without flinching, the man zeroed-in on the animal below, carefully reaching to the side of his saddle and removing his rifle. The men behind him, in chorus, reached for their rifles, too. Simultaneously, their leader raised his left arm in the air signaling for the men to not intervene and stay put. Next, he expertly lined the scope of his weapon on the animal, carefully aiming before he pulled the trigger. Almost as quickly as he pulled it, the bison fell to the ground. It was a perfect shot, killing the two-thousand-pound creature instantly.

He proudly looked at his game, inhaling the cold air, visible as he exhaled. Taking a long, hard look over the expansive land before him, he rested his elbow on the saddle's horn. Satisfied, he turned his horse back with a light slap on the butt with the reigns and a kick before running him to a full gallop toward his companions, and then, on toward the ranch.

As the group approached a shed, two of the men guided their horses toward it and dismounted. The rest of the men continued following their leader.

As they reached the stables, they were greeted by ranch hands. The men grabbed their rifles, and the ranch hands took their horses. The leader walked into the cabin while the others scattered around the property.

***

She heard quick steps in the hallway approaching the well-appointed living room, where the blazing fire's warmth comforted her as she waited for him. Looking into the amber flames, she knew this was where he needed to be, if only for a day.

Waiting for him on the petrified wooden coffee table was a freshly poured Canadian whiskey, his favorite. The footsteps stopped, and she looked at the –doorway; it had only been a few days since she'd seen him, but being at the cabin was different. It was many years ago that they were here. And many memories were made here. This was his place of resolve.

He approached her, giving her a gentle kiss beneath the rugged antler chandelier—all prized kills of his. Then he turned toward the fire and rubbed his hands together for warmth. She handed him his whiskey. After taking a few sips, he looked up at the enormous bison head hanging over the massive flagstone fireplace. He killed that one, too.

The snow came down hard last night. Thank goodness we arrived a day earlier, she said.

Thank you for being here, he said while taking her hand, then kissing her cheek. The ride up alone was what my soul begged for. You were right.

She acknowledged him with a tender look in her eyes then quietly sat on the sofa.

Looking at her, he continued. You know that I believe labor and courage are required to move on to better things. To not try to succeed is worse than doing nothing.

Quietly, she looked at him as he continued.

There are so many needs, my love. There are tens of millions of immigrants on the eastern seaboard alone. It's overwhelming. Men are willing to work, but disease is expanding in our cities, posing a threat to this entire nation. Typhoid fever, tuberculosis, polio, and other illnesses. Proper sanitation must be addressed. Decent living quarters must be addressed. There is absolutely nothing in our financial system arranged for this. He paused, taking a sip of his warm whiskey. The orphans are nearing one hundred thousand. My God, what can I do? He looked at her for comfort.

Compassionately, she told him, You have always been a very caring man, with a gift of wisdom. I know you are struggling with this deep in your heart, but know that whatever you do with your power, your past speaks for itself. You have lived your entire life with honesty and integrity helping others. And you have always surrounded yourself with people who live by your mantra that one must do what he can with what he has, while he can, with resolute courage. You were given this task, not only because you are brilliant and wise, but because you have courage and clarity, my love.

He walked toward the window and put his hands on his hips. Looking out at the rocky buttes and endless snow-covered plateaus, he watched the bison he killed being dragged by a pair of horses toward the ranch's shed—the evening's dinner. He glanced down at the desk before him at the Bible—a book he'd read from front to back not just once, but several times.

We can, and we will succeed. And above all, the right thing must always be done, he firmly said.

CHAPTER 1

Sotheby's Auction House, New York City

Present

Late August, Early Evening

The first signs of an early fall were apparent as the two men exited their taxi. An icy breeze clutched at their overcoats as they stood outside Sotheby's, the legendary auction house known for selling rare art, jewelry, and even pieces of history, such as the Magna Carta and the Emancipation Proclamation. They glanced briefly at the many international flags waving in the cool night wind—United States, Britain, France, Italy, and Switzerland—before entering the enormous glass foyer.

Once through security, they were met by an employee who was assigned to accompany them to the fifteenth floor for their appointed meeting. After a brief elevator ride, their escort delivered the two men to a corner office with a brass plaque on the door that read, Director and Head of Numismatics.

Upon entering the sleek corner office, with the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the nearby East River and the city's early evening lights, the breathtaking views was certainly an inviting sight. Moments later, they turned their attention to the backside of the oversized leather chair.

From behind the oversized mahogany desk, the sixty-year-old director with blond hair and blue eyes framed with rectangular glasses, stood, walked toward the men, and offered a firm handshake. Paxton Winfield. Thank you for coming to my office.

Arthur Welsh. We appreciate your time this evening, Mr. Winfield, the seventy-five-year-old man said, who rarely ventured out late in the day, as he tired more easily than usual in the last several months. A slim build and handsome face belied his age, however. With his wavy, gray hair falling just below his ears, and his white oxford shirt, sweater vest, khaki pants, and brown-tasseled loafers, it was unmistakable to guess he was an educator of sorts. The New York University Art History Professor then said, This is my friend and former assistant at NYU, Lei Kato.

As Lei offered his hand, with the engrained head of a serpent tattoo peeking through his sleeve, he murmured, It's a pleasure. Paxton detected a strong scent of musk and spice. Lei was impeccably dressed in a navy Zegna cashmere and dark gray slacks, with his shoulder-length ebony hair covering the top of his gray silk scarf. A professional manicure completed the director's assumption that the twenty-year-old Lei came from money.

Arthur explained that Lei's passion for art was of valuable assistance to him as an aide, and that he was currently working at a boutique auction house in lower Manhattan, with an eye on owning his own gallery one day.

As Arthur and Lei settled in the plush leather wingback chairs, Paxton folded his hands, eyeing the two men. What is it I can do for you, Mr. Welsh?

Arthur removed a worn velvet pouch from his coat. It's a family heirloom. I was hoping you could assist me in determining the provenance of this piece, and also, who—or what—the initials stand for. Arthur handed Paxton the object—a shiny gold medallion, no more than the size of a quarter.

Paxton pulled out his loupe for a closer examination. You mentioned that this is a family heirloom. May I ask specifically where you got this?

Of course. It belonged to my late wife and her uncle before that. She was terribly fond of it, Arthur replied.

I see, Paxton said, continuing to examine the medallion. And you have no record of what these initials, S.C, M.K. and T.R. may refer to?

I have absolutely no –idea. They don't correlate with any of the family names from my wife's side. Arthur sighed.

Intriguing. May I scan this?

Please do, Arthur said and nodded.

Paxton placed the medallion on a desktop scanner to capture images of both sides of the object.

The goddess on the front is exquisite. She resembles that of many statues and bronze reliefs, so many in fact, that it would be difficult to narrow it down this evening. As well, a few coins come to mind. One in particular was cast from a mold in 1933 here in America; however, this medallion is dated 1901.

Who cast the mold? Arthur asked.

Augustus Saint-Gaudens. He was a famous sculptor, originally from Europe in the late nineteenth century, Paxton replied.

Yes, I am very familiar with him and his work. The connection to Saint-Gaudens never occurred to me, Arthur said.

If I may, Lei interjected. To locate sketches or notes Saint-Gaudens may have kept would assist us in making that determination, would they not?

Well, of course they would – if we knew he was the one who designed this and such sketches existed. There are hundreds, if not thousands of artists that could have designed this. Needless to say, in all honesty, I'm inclined to associate this image to that of Augustin Dupre. Early nineteenth century—French, of course. The Paris Mint revived Dupre's angelic design throughout the mid-nineteenth century. Someone could have easily copied the mold, adding the engraved initials here, and passing it on as a gift, perhaps. It's quite a lovely piece. Unfortunately, none of this can be properly appraised without additional information. The initials do add to the complexity of the mystery of its origin. If you'd like to leave it with me, I'll set aside some time to research it further.

How much time would you say? Arthur asked.

Maybe three or so … Paxton trailed off as he intently examined the initials through his loupe.

Weeks? Arthur asked.

Months. Maybe less, maybe more. There are far too many sculptors and artists who could have designed this. I will be glad to reach out to my contacts here and abroad. With a bit of luck, we will find something remarkable of this little treasure you possess.

Paxton handed the medallion to Arthur. I'll have to think about this, Arthur said. Will photographs aid you in the meantime if we can come to some accommodation?

I can work with them now, but I'll need the medallion at some point.

I understand. I'll consider this and be in touch soon. We sincerely appreciate your time this evening, Mr. Winfield, Arthur said, shaking the director's hand. Lei followed suit, and moments later, the escort accompanied the men to the elevator for their descent to the glass atrium.

As they stood in the chilly evening's air waiting for a taxi, Arthur turned to Lei. That wasn't quite as productive as I had hoped. Thank you for coming along with me, Lei. I cannot tell you enough how your assistance and support have meant to me these past months.

Not a problem, Professor. I am devoted to you and your efforts to unravel this mystery. I will continue to help in any way I can. As a matter of fact, I think you should show the medallion to Hector. I'm sure he'd have some additional thoughts and ideas you can toss around.

Yes, of course. I've been meaning to call him for lunch. I'll do that, Lei, thank you. Arthur looked at the approaching cab and asked Lei, West Village?

Uptown today, Lei answered.

All right then, I'll be in touch with you soon. Climbing slowly into the cab, Arthur instructed the driver to take him to Chase Bank on Fourteenth Street in the West Village.

As Lei watched Arthur's taxi merge into traffic ahead, he pulled out his cell and punched in a number. While patiently listening, Lei quickened his pace while maneuvering his way down the crowded sidewalk.

Answering on the other end, Chung said, Hello Lei. Was your meeting as productive as I had hoped? Chung was Lei's fifty-two year old uncle who lived in New York City and had an interest in antiquities. Looking passed the glass case in front of him, which displayed a variety of shimmering gold and silver objects, Chung's cold dark brown eyes narrowed while he waited for a response.

Yes, Chung, the thought was entertained by the expert. He was a former cataloguer from Glendenning's in London and is the Director of Numismatists at Sotheby's. It wasn't clear who the artist could have been. He had several ideas, and yes, Saint-Gaudens's name was mentioned, but it wasn't a slam dunk.

Very good, Chung said. Call Hector and make sure he meets with Arthur. Do not tell him we have spoken and under no condition is he to know you are my nephew, Chung warned.

I understand, Uncle. However, there may be a problem. The director asked if Arthur would be willing to leave the medallion with him to advance his research, for what could amount to a timeframe of at least three months, Lei said.

That cannot happen, period. They will surely discover the origin of the medallion, if it is what we believe it to be, Chung snapped.

I understand. Arthur said he needed to think about it. I think he felt that it was too long a period of time to give up the object.

We must not take any chances whatsoever. The medallion must be acquired soon. Tell me more about the individual you just met with.

Moments later, Chung said simply, Lei, you know what to do, and ended their conversation.

Lei quickly called his associate, Hector. Good evening, Hector. It appears our suspicions are probable but cannot yet be confirmed. Arthur's considering whether he'll give it to Sotheby's for further research. If that happens, it'll be out of our control, and others will discover what the medallion represents. We need to find an opportunity quickly. I suggested to Arthur that he contact you, which he was agreeable to.

"I will encourage him to allow me to use my influence and connections to help him find out more. I would like to entertain the possibility of having it auctioned. As you know, I have a buyer if it can be authenticated," Hector said.

I understand. Be patient with him. He doesn't like to be hurried, Lei warned. The two men agreed to remain in contact after Hector's meeting with Arthur.

***

Paxton was sorting through another stack of old notebooks he'd pulled out of his library after the two men had departed earlier. With a magnifying glass, he compared photos and renderings with the scanned photos he had just taken of Arthur's medallion. It was getting late. He'd been looking at the dusty volumes for nearly two hours and was getting tired, but his curiosity kept him digging for something to connect to this mysterious object.

He was so mesmerized by the scanned photographs, he barely noticed a movement behind him, a breath of air, then a silky vice slipping around his neck, pulling, choking the very life out of him. Clawing at his desk and his neck, trying to gain control, his eyes bulging, he never saw his attacker. His last thought before slipping into darkness was of the musky scent he'd noticed earlier. It wouldn't be until after midnight that the cleaning crew would find the director's lifeless body slumped over his desk.

CHAPTER 2

Paris, France

Same Day, Midnight

As they ran through the darkness in silence, with the mere illumination of a cell phone guiding them, the young man and woman swerved through the myriad of tunnels as if it were a game. In a drunken state, they suddenly stopped, as the man took his female companion into his arms for a passionate kiss.

A breathless giggle escaped her, and they began their journey once again.

Their footsteps were ever so quiet, as if they were running on air, until they heard the voices behind them getting louder and the sound of running footsteps neared them.

He turned his phone off as to not allude to where they were, opting to use his senses to move quickly through the blackness, and trusting his instincts to guide them. He'd been here many, many times before, but this was her first time in the tunnels. He couldn't let anything happen to her.

"Localiser!" the voice yelled from behind. Locate them!

They continued through a vast array of passageways with multiple turns. Still, the voices and footsteps could be heard. The men who were chasing them, the police, knew of every tunnel and cavity carved beneath Paris. They seldom patrolled this area, he thought to himself. Knowing they must not get caught—that the underground was a forbidden area—he counted his steps. Silent, he and his companion moved quickly in the shadows. Then the young man suddenly stopped and struck a match.

Several skulls were stacked one on top of the other before them. As he moved the match in all directions, hundreds of skulls could be seen which apparently formed a wall – and ceiling. He knew he was precisely where he wanted to be.

Terrified, his companion cried out, but not loud enough to be heard as he quickly covered her mouth. Lighting another match, he shone it above the shallow ceiling, until he saw what he was looking for. Reaching upward into the blackness, he placed his hand into the teeth lined mouth of a skull, and pulled it down. It was a secret door. Dropping from above them was a ladder made of twine. Quickly, the woman climbed the ladder into the darkened cavern, trusting her companions every instruction. He climbed immediately after her, into the secret spot where they were silent. As the footsteps loomed closer, he pulled the ladder up, and hurriedly closed the secret door with a barely audible click.

The footsteps, almost simultaneously, ran past them as they quietly waited.

Shh, he whispered, knowing they were safe. A mutual look of relief crossed both of their faces, with hints of smiles that creased their mouths from the spirited chase they endured, ending with a passionate kiss.

He crawled into another space and illuminated the light on his cell phone. Proudly, he showed the woman his find—an arcane chamber, its walls and the ceiling covered with various forms of Renaissance carvings.

Their viewing was brief, as they heard the voices again. The young man turned his phone off, knowing that its reflection could bounce from wall to wall in the Paris catacombs.

"Nous allons vous trouver! Vous etes dans une zone ou la loi interdit!" We will find you! You are in an area where the law prohibits, the voice from below yelled, sending echoes throughout the tunnels.

Minutes passed until he was certain he could take her back into the darkened tunnel without getting caught. Silently, they ran through the countless number of passages that eventually led them to their point of entry—a sewer drain—where they quickly climbed into the early morning darkness, followed by intoxicated laughter and a passionate embrace.

***

Inside the gothic cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris, the young man entered the confessional, guilt-ridden from his midnight escapade. Kneeling, he clasped his hands together and began to pray, In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. My last confession was one month ago.

Welcome, my child, the priest compassionately said.

Father, please forgive me for I have sinned. I explored the underground in the Left Bank, a short distance from our very own Notre Dame. I was in an area that was forbidden. My girlfriend was with me. We were chased by the police and escaped them. I feel so terrible, Father, but I've found a secret place within the tunnels that brings me peace.

Certainly not a peace that is greater than that of our church?

No, Father. Certainly not.

What is it that draws you to the darkness of the underground, to this place you say gives you peace?

It's a small chamber with the most beautiful carvings on the walls. The walls are carved with an angelic figure, a cross that looks to be a sword, and a beautiful crest, he said, exhilarated.

Tell me more, young man, the priest asked with great interest.

The young man continued to describe his observations from the catacombs. The intricate carvings of the crest have fierce lions guarding a noble castle and a jeweled crown. Art seldom seen from our century, Father. The young man paused for a moment, and then continued enthusiastically, And there were vines forming a wreath around the cross. It's elaborate artistry.

Stunned, the priest said, Can you document on a map the approximate area of where the chamber is located?

I can, Father.

The young man followed the priest to his office, where a simple desk and metal chair filled the diminutive space.

Father Peri placed a map on his desk and handed the young man a pencil. He eagerly watched as the young man methodically drew a line from the sewage entrance through a host of tunnels, which ultimately led to the area where the secret chamber was located.

Thank you, my son. Go forth in peace, now.

After the young man left, Father Peri sat down at his desk and could not believe what had just transpired. In all of his years, he had witnessed what some called coincidence, and others, divinity. With the one hundred twenty plus churches in Paris – and several times over for priests - he was the one who was the vessel of information. He knew that the sequence of artistic renditions had to be relevant to the medallion Arthur Walsh had shown him. He wasn't sure how, but there was a connection. The priest knew Arthur from several years ago, when the church needed expertise in identifying a painting that was being auctioned in New York. Professor Walsh was one of the foremost in his field, and the church requested his help. Since then, they have consulted frequently with him. As of late, Arthur had consulted with Father Peri regarding a medallion that his late wife, who recently passed, had left him. Father Peri immediately made a phone call to his friend in the United States.

Arthur, it's Father Peri, he eagerly said.

I'm glad you called, Father. I was about to call you, Arthur said. He had just finished teaching Renaissance and Baroque Art and Architecture at NYU, and was sitting at his desk tinkering with his watch.

After you're visit in June with regard to your medallion, I promised I would call if I had any information. But you, first – why did you want to call me? the priest patiently asked the Professor.

With his curiosity sparked, he maintained calmness in his voice and continued as asked, I visited Sotheby's yesterday, as I mentioned I planned to do when we last spoke. Unfortunately, the director couldn't help me. He requested that I leave him my medallion for a period of months for research. Even then, there would be no certainty of discovering whom or what the initials represent. What sort of information did you have?

Anxiously, Father Peri said, You must come back to Paris. There's something that was brought to my attention only moments ago. I think you must see it.

A clue? Arthur asked, as his heart began to race and a smile crossed his face.

Yes, and I believe it will help you find what you're searching for, the priest said with a sense of calm in his voice, while his blue eyes sparkled as he looked out his office window at the River Seine.

"Say no more. I will make arrangements in the coming weeks, my good friend. En vitesse Dieux." In God's speed.

CHAPTER 3

New York City

Two Weeks Later, Monday Morning

Avant-garde would be the perfect way to describe Greenwich Village. It was a neighborhood filled with progressive ideas, art, culture, and politics, where people could immerse themselves in a way of life of centuries long ago, or partake in the expression of ideas and artistic form to help shape the future.

Referred to as the Village, the preserved architecture from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, along with a highly creative aura, had become the sanctuary of some of the most famous writers, musicians, artists, and so on, from Edgar Allan Poe, Andy Warhol and Mark Twain to Bob Dylan, Walt Disney and Sarah Jessica Parker.

The Village had a feel comparable to that of a European village, charming and diverse, with tree-lined streets, quaint restaurants, boutiques and galleries, and theatres galore with off-Broadway productions. Its gravitas—New York University.

Completing her undergraduate studies at NYU, the twenty three year old, now-grad student Gwen Young was working toward her master of arts in art history. She couldn't stand the thought of leaving the Big Apple after growing up just outside the city in nearby Connecticut. Gwen's passion for art led her to NYU and its neighborhood.

A minute from Washington Square Park was a quiet, family oriented neighborhood, known as St. Luke's Place. Gwen chose to rent here rather than near the university. She preferred to study late at night or into the early morning hours, something she'd had difficulty changing since high school. Generally, the college kids were up late around the campus and had a tendency to be noisy. St. Luke's Place was ideal—almost—with the exception that her ex-boyfriend, David, lived down the street.

It was a typical morning before school, as Gwen was rushing around her apartment with damp hair, sipping coffee. She was a tad behind schedule, and, wanting to arrive promptly for her morning class, she picked up her pace. Her favorite class of the semester was Italian Renaissance, which began at eight. Gwen loved Renaissance art.

Her great-uncle Arthur, someone whom she adored to pieces, taught at NYU. She'd taken an art history class with him her junior year. He was passionate about many of the things he taught, so much that he would sometimes tear up during his lectures.

Somehow, Arthur was able to make his students feel the passion too. Gwen felt it to the point that she realized her future would involve art. Arthur had said that when you had a passion for something, you had to stick with it. Keep it in your life and try to make it part of your vocation. Whether you were the artist or studying the art, Hone your craft, he would say. His philosophy inspired Gwen to work toward her master's degree.

As much as she loved her studies, she lacked enthusiasm in one area of her life—waking up in the mornings. Studying late and waking up early did not go hand in hand. It was almost virtually impossible for Gwen to overcome. As she continued to run around gathering books and papers to place in her backpack, the phone rang. Ignoring it, she headed to the bathroom. Time was of the essence—she always felt good when she looked good, and because David was in her class, she wanted to make certain she felt great.

Gwen reached for her coffee. Caffeine was essential. Bring it on in the morning. No qualms, ever, regarding coffee. Her apartment was an upscale pad, decorated in all creams and beiges, with contrasting walnut throughout. It was contemporary and plush, not too large, and comfortably appointed with the help of her mother. The ceilings were wood-paneled as were the floors with simple beige shags in the living room.

The few selections of art on her walls consisted of very small contemporary originals. She'd always felt that if you were going to own art, it should be an original. She didn't see the point in a copy, when it was just that—a copy.

She had a simple view of an oak tree with leaves varying in