The God Machine (24 page)

Since childhood, Franklin had loved to fly kites. Indeed, he had never considered kites playthings. Their grace and their aerodynamics amazed him, and the fact that he could control something that seemed to laugh at the confines of gravity filled him with glee. He had even used a kite once while swimming to help pull him across a small lake near Boston as a boy. Impatient to prove his theories, Franklin had recruited his reluctant son, William, and snuck out to the field where they stood.

Franklin looked at the boy. A sharp wire protruded from the top of the kite William held. “Get ready,” he told his son. “The storm's getting closer. The string.” He held out his hand.

The boy gave him the string. It was wrapped around a peg, like a bee's nest around the branch of a tree. Franklin uncoiled several yards, letting them fall to the ground, and then patted the key in his pocket. “Go ahead, then. Start running.”

With a frown, William started to walk, then to trot across the field. He was facing the wind, and as he ran his hat suddenly flew from his head. He hesitated.

“Keep running,” shouted Franklin. “Let her out.”

William allowed the kite string to slip through his fingers. The kite shuddered and wheeled. He tightened his grip. It sailed through the air. He opened his fingers again and the kite slowly slipped back behind him, climbing higher and higher. William turned and faced it.
He let go of the string and the kite shot up toward the heavens.

Franklin watched as it shivered and climbed. A moment later, he felt the sharp tug as the string tightened against the peg in his hand. It climbed and it climbed, closer and closer to the cinder black clouds.

William had recovered his hat. He stood off to the side, one hand still gripping the brim, his cloak billowing.

Franklin had come near to the end of the string. He held the peg with one hand and reached into his pocket with the other, removing the key. It was linked to a small metal pin which he hooked directly over the string until the key dangled just inches away. He held tight as the kite spiraled upward. Then, out of nowhere, a lightning bolt fell. In truth, it seemed to rise up out of the ground rather than to descend from the heavens. The string, soaked by rain, seemed to stiffen. Franklin reached out. He touched the knuckles of his free hand to the key. He felt a small shock. Another charge rose from the key. He watched as the blue spark collected. It seemed to jump in slow motion from the key through the air, across the divide to the tip of his finger. It surged through his hand, through his arm and his chest, to the heart of his being. And he laughed.

It's so simple
, he thought.

For more years than he cared to remember, he had languished at his desk late at night; he had sat there and stared at that drawing, with his pen in his hand. There was something about it, something… as if he had seen that schematic before.

But it was like trying to remember Franky's face, once so familiar that it had become practically invisible. Try as he might, he couldn't possibly render it—the fine lines of his eyes, the curve of his lips. So too the schematic. It was gone. Simply gone.

Until now. Franklin pulled his hand from the key. Now, it was glaringly obvious.
It is simple
.

When everything is a symbol, everything is equally distant… or close. It was like standing in the map of a place, a chart so acute that there was no way to distinguish it from the thing that it symbolized.

“Father. Father, are you all right?”

Franklin looked over at William but he was no longer there. He was standing beside him, and tugging his coat.

“Franky?”

William frowned. “No, it's me. William.” He released Franklin's sleeve. “Your other son.”

Franklin's eyes fell into focus. He smiled at the young man and said, “It worked.”

William took a step back. He folded his arms. “That's wonderful, Father. Another success for you.”

“I'll call it that when we save a few churches from burning.” He pointed at the Leyden jars clustered nearby. “Now, let's see if we can store some of this electrical fluid. I'll wager whatever you will that it's the same charge I create with my glass tube back home.” He started to turn away, then suddenly tarried. He looked back at his son. “Tell no one of this, William. No one. I want your most solemn oath on it.”

“I thought you were planning to patent these points—unlike your stove. How will you sell any if no one knows of them first?”

“Your oath, William.”

“But why, Father? Tell me. I don't understand.”

“There are some people I'd prefer to keep in the dark. At least for a time.”

“You're usually never so shy about your scientific discoveries. This could earn you a Copley in Britain.”

“That's not why I'm doing this. Though keeping from peril my Fire Brigade is a worthy endeavor. Your oath, for the last time.”

“All right, then, I promise,” said William. A lightning bolt flashed and the sky seemed to suddenly open. Rain fell in torrents around them. “It's for him, isn't it?” William said.

“For whom?” Franklin asked, although he knew. It was then he remembered what had happened to Prometheus after stealing the secret of fire from heaven. Zeus had chained him to the side of a cliff, where an eagle had picked out his liver each day, though it grew back each morning.
Is that the grim price of being immortal?

William looked up at the heavens, his young face drenched and bleak. “Your ‘obsession.’ That's how Deborah refers to it, when you're not about. And your midnight experiments. Those mysterious drawings you study in your office at night.” He pointed up at the kite, fluttering crimson against the black clouds. “The world should know about this.”

Franklin stared at his son. A great sadness washed over him. It was neither William's ambition nor his avarice which fueled the young man's conviction. It was jealousy. Franky had been dead for more than fifteen years, and yet his spirit still lingered, still haunted his older brother… as it still haunted him. “If only the world were ready,” he said. “In truth, I didn't do it for this world.” Franklin turned away, pulling the kite string behind him. “I did it,” he said, “for the next one.”

K
OSTER AND
S
AJAN TRAVELED BY PLANE TO
P
HILADELPHIA
the following morning and headed straight for the Four Seasons Hotel. Sajan checked in with her office and then joined Koster for coffee in his suite as he verified the coordinates they had discovered in Washington. For some reason, though he checked them again and again, they seemed slightly off. When he ran the numbers against a more precise map on his laptop, the coordinates were actually a few meters distant from Carpenters' Hall. But this, Koster realized, was probably due to the less accurate instruments of the eighteenth century. He had spent several hours the previous evening in D.C. reading up on the building, its history and construction. He was ready, he told Sajan, as he stowed Franklin's journal in the safe in his closet. Then they packed up their gear—Koster's laptop, the Garmin and camera, a flashlight and drawing pad—and headed downstairs to the lobby.

The streets were jammed for the holiday weekend. A doorman hailed them a cab and they rounded the Square, heading eastward on Vine. Philadelphia was in
the midst of a face-lift. City workers patrolled every thoroughfare, festooning lampposts with flags and colorful banners and pennants. Dozens of “minutemen” in authentic period costumes clustered on street corners preparing to practice a bold reenactment of the Battle of Germantown. Extra cops were stationed to ensure that the revelers didn't get out of hand. Koster and Sajan cut right onto Eighth Street, and then left onto Chestnut. Independence Hall came into view up ahead, with its tall pointed spire. Originally the State House of Pennsylvania, the structure was completed in 1756, Koster told Sajan, and served as the seat of Pennsylvania's government until 1799. There, in the Assembly Room, the Second Continental Congress had adopted the Declaration of Independence. There, the Federal Constitutional Convention had first framed the Constitution. And there, he concluded, from 1800 to 1802, the Grand Lodge of Pennsylvania had used the west room on the second floor as its temple.

They passed the Second National Bank. “It's on the next block,” Koster said, and the driver pulled over.

As they got out of the cab, Koster noticed a cut in the wall on the south side of the street, framed by two solid brick pillars and a wrought iron gate. The gate was open. A red-brick and cobblestone walkway stretched back one hundred and twenty-four yards from the street, flanked by two-story brick buildings, and a small tree-lined courtyard. At the far end of the alley stood Carpenters' Hall. Sajan and Koster strode down the walkway, by the New Hall Military Museum in one of the flanking brick buildings.

Carpenters' Hall was a huge Georgian affair, built in a squat cruciform shape of dark brick with white shutters and trim, and a classical triangular pediment. A small wooden cupola on the roof was topped with a brass ball and weathervane. Three flagpoles jutted out from the
front of the Hall directly over the entrance, bearing period flags.

They crossed the small courtyard and moved round the hall down a narrow brick path toward the rear of the property. The building ran thirty feet deep, and the arms of the cruciform wings added another ten feet on each side. Koster stopped for a moment and pulled out his Garmin. As they circled the structure, he kept halting and spinning about, looking down at the screen. It was difficult to get an accurate reading. In truth, he could be off by some feet.

“You look a little like Spock with a tricorder. Why don't we go in?” Sajan asked.

Koster shook his head. “The coordinates say it's right here.” He pointed at the brick paving just south of the Hall. A wooden fence marked off the property a few yards away. Beyond it, Koster could see a stretch of lawn leading down to Dock Creek, and some period row houses and gardens at the end of the block.

Koster sighed. He looked back at the Hall: at the three Palladian windows on the second floor; at the belt course between the two stories—outlined in wood, instead of brick; at the pedimented rear doorway with its Doric details. Sajan was right, he thought. They were wasting their time here.

They returned to the front of the Hall. There was a small wooden sentry box on one side of the courtyard, and some sort of raised plaques which they stopped to peruse.

“The Hall was built in 1770 by the Carpenters' Company,” Koster said. “As it notes here, the Company was the oldest trade guild in America. Robert Smith was one of most successful architects of his day. He designed not only Carpenters' Hall, but the Christ Church steeple and many other celebrated buildings, including Ben Franklin's house up on Market Street. What they don't
tell you here is that Smith was also a Freemason, like Franklin and Washington. The Hall hosted the First Continental Congress in 1774 and was home to Franklin's Library Company.” He stared up at the building, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. “The Hall's part of the Independence National Historic Park. But, unlike most monuments, it's still privately owned and maintained. I called McKenzie and Voight yesterday. My firm has contacts down here in Philly, members of the Carpenters' Company. We've got permission to poke around pretty much where we want. Within reason, of course.”

“Good thinking,” Sajan said.

He pointed up at the walls. “Notice how the black-colored bricks, called ‘headers,’ are turned on their ends, tying together several courses of bricks, which otherwise might come apart at the mortar joints? Apparently, the foundation is equally sturdy, consisting of random-sized pieces of stone mortared together in what is known as a ‘rubble foundation.’”

“Fascinating,” said Sajan. “Can we go in now?”

Koster glanced down at her, pursing his lips.

“Just a suggestion,” she said mildly.

The main entrance was flanked by white pilasters, crowned with a glass fanlight transom and triangular pediment, echoing the one at the top of the building. As they passed through the door, Koster noticed a stairway leading up to the second floor to his right, blocked off by a small metal gate, and a door leading down to the basement. Then they entered the main hall itself. It was huge, with a lustrous stone floor made up of black and white diamond-shaped tiles. There was a concession stand on the opposite side selling postcards and books. The walls near the ceiling were crowned with a white dentil molding. Bright light poured in through the numerous windows, giving the expansive chamber a luminous feel.
Smith's plan was straightforward and simple—a two-story, fifty-foot-square building with ten-foot cutouts at each corner.

There were no steel supports in those days, Koster told Sajan, so the weight of Carpenters' Hall was borne mainly by the exterior walls, which appeared to be at least a foot thick. They studied the fireplaces—made of black and white marble—at each end of the room. Above each mantel was a flag in a glass-covered frame, adorned with the words
Carried in 1788
, with the logo of the Carpenters' Company. Clearly, much had been added to the building since its original construction. Even the beautiful tiled floor had been laid down almost a hundred years later, Koster said, after the Civil War, by the same British company that supplied tile for the Capitol. The only articles from the period were eight green Windsor chairs used by members of the First Continental Congress.