by Steve Berry
“There’s a lot of gold buried up here,” his father said. “More than any of us could ever spend. But it ain’t ours. Others own it. Our job is to protect it.”
He considered that. It seemed important.
“And besides,” his father said, “I don’t know how to find the hidin’ places.”
They crested the ridge and the ground leveled off.
His father stopped his horse before a holly tree. “Look there.”
He’d already spotted the carving. A snake of some sort, in the bark.
“I can’t read the signs,” his father said. “I have no idea what they mean. That was on purpose. We just watch over ’em. Protect ’em. Make sure they last. So before I pass, I’ll show you all of ’em I know.”
“But he never did,” Morse said. “He died a year later from a fall off his horse, while huntin’ more cows.”
“What about the stone?” Cotton asked, getting back to the original question.
“He showed me. That first day, when we found the snake on the tree.”
“There are sentinels, then there are special ones, like us,” his father said. “Sure, there’s lots of gold all around here in the ground, but there’s also somethin’ extra important. And that I do know how to find.”
They rode for a few minutes in silence. Then his father stopped and dismounted. He did, too. In the underbrush, near a stand of elm, he saw the rusted remnants of an iron strongbox.
“That came off a stage robbed near Hot Springs back in the 1870s.”
On one side, visible through the rust were the faint letters WELLS FARGO.
“Jesse James left that here when he hid the gold it contained. He was a knight of the Golden Circle. All those banks he robbed. That gold ended up in these hills, hidden away, belongin’ to the Order. But there’s somethin’ else you need to know. Somethin’ real special I was told by my pa.”
“Most of that gold is gone,” Morse said.
Cotton stared at the older man.
“They came and got it.”
“Who came?” Cassiopeia asked.
“Knights. They went all around everywhere and collected the gold, leavin’ only some.”
“And did what with it?” Cotton asked.
“Took it to one place. They called it the vault. We never knew where, just that it was all bein’ brought together. A few of the smaller hidin’ places were all they left. But my grandpa and my pa were given a extra-special job. One that passed to me. We guarded that stone out there.”
“And why is it so important?”
“It leads to the vault.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WASHINGTON, DC
10:45 P.M.
Stephanie retreated from the rotunda as Smithsonian security and the local police examined the shattered display case. Rick had gone silent, professing to know nothing. One of the DC police approached her and wanted some information. Her first inclination was to tell them about Thomas’ murder, but a plea from Rick’s eyes asked her to stay silent. So she just flashed her Magellan Billet badge and told the officers to take it up with the U.S. attorney general.
“What about Thomas’ body?” she whispered to Rick as they stood off to one side in the rotunda.
“At the moment, only a couple of people know about that.”
“What in the world have you brought me into?”
She drifted away, taking another look at the shattered wooden display case. The inside housed the institution’s ceremonial objects, each described by a printed card. On the rear wall hung a mace made of gold, silver, diamonds, rubies, and polished Smithsonite, a mineral first identified by James Smithson and named for him after his death. From the placard she also learned that the mace was encrusted with symbolism relating to Smithson. She knew that universities employed a mace to represent jurisdiction, authority, and academic independence. She assumed those same ideals applied here, and she read how the mace was presented to each incoming secretary. Also displayed was a sterling-silver salver and badge of office.
Lying at the bottom, a printed card described the ceremonial key.
The tradition of passing this key to the incoming Secretary originated with the 1964 induction of S. Dillon Ripley, as eighth Secretary of the Smithsonian. In lieu of the administration of an oath of office, outgoing secretary Leonard Carmichael proposed instead a key-passing ceremony based on similar ones frequently used in the inauguration of university presidents. Chief Justice Earl Warren, Chancellor of the Smithsonian at the time, presented the key to Ripley prior to the January 23, 1964, meeting of the Board of Regents. The key, as a representation of knowledge and of guardianship, is an appropriate Smithsonian symbol. Dating to 1849, this large brass key may have opened one of the original massive oak doors of the building.
Beside the card sat a small wooden box, hinged open, lined with blue velvet. An indentation outlined what appeared to be a skeleton key.
Gone.
“What about the key that’s not here?” one of the DC police asked, noticing the empty container, too.
“It’s been out of there for a while,” Rick said. “We’re duplicating it.”
“You have any idea why this case is the only thing destroyed?”
“Could have been an accident,” she said. “He was in a hurry to leave.”
“And you were here because—?”
“Just helping out a friend.”
She turned and faced Rick, who stood on the far side of the rotunda. He slowly nodded, both agreeing with her statement and thanking her for the partial lie.
A cell phone buzzed and she watched as Rick answered, then drifted down the hall for privacy. What was so important about a ceremonial key that it cost Martin Thomas his life?
“Stephanie.”
She turned.
Rick motioned for her to come.
She left the police and approached.
“Someone wants to speak with you.”
* * *
They descended the spiral staircase back to Rick’s basement office. There he led her into the tunnel beneath the Mall and over to the natural history museum. When they came to Thomas’ body she saw that it had been covered with a sheet and a security guard stood watch. Rick had locked the gate on the Castle side when they entered, and another guard was on sentry at the portal inside natural history.
“No one will come in here,” he told her.
They made their way up to the Cullman Library, where an hour ago all this had begun. Everything inside the natural history museum loomed cemetery-quiet. During the day this was a place of people, light, and noise. Rick had told her that no cleaning crews worked inside any of the buildings after hours. All that work was done during the day. So at night the exhibits slumbered alone, in a surreal silence. Easy to see why books and films liked to dramatize the tranquility.
A man waited for them inside the library. A monk’s ring of white hair, like a halo, encircled a bald pate. He carried some girth at his waistline, beef to his limbs, and puffiness around the eyes, but this gentleman had a reputation for brilliance.
Warren Weston.
Chief Justice of the United States.
Chancellor of the Smithsonian Institution.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the jurist said, rising as she came into the library.
Rick turned to leave.
“No. Please stay.”
“I need to see about Martin. I’ll be back.”
And he left.
“I’m afraid I’m the reason you’re involved in this,” Weston said to her. “We needed help, and I learned that you and Rick were friends, so I asked him to call you.”
“After you involved Cotton Malone. Mind telling me why?”
“That’s a long story.”
She nearly smiled. Exactly what Cotton liked to say when people asked him about his name.
“We have a serious situation here,” Weston said. “One that seems to have taken a tragic turn. I was informed about what happened, so I t
hought it best to speak with you directly.”
“No disrespect, sir. But this is not my problem. I’m here only because Rick asked for my help. I came into this blind and allowed it to escalate far past what was prudent. My agency deals with issues of national security. This is now a job for the FBI or the DC Police.”
“Before I arrived, I spoke with the attorney general. He told me the Magellan Billet was at my disposal.”
She resented the end run. “That was quite presumptuous of you.”
“I realize that, and apologize. But it’s necessary.”
She knew what was happening. The new AG cared nothing about the Magellan Billet, originally wanting it eliminated. But on Inauguration Day, Danny had stopped that from happening, forcing President Fox to keep the agency in place. True, it had been reconstituted with the same personnel and funding as under previous administrations, but she harbored no illusions. No longer would it be the White House’s go-to agency. In fact, it would probably do little to nothing. So they were occupying her time. Keeping her busy. Not that this wasn’t important. And not to discount what had just happened with Martin Thomas’ death. But it was as she’d noted. The local police and the FBI were more than capable of handling this.
“I require absolute discretion,” Weston said to her. “Your agency can provide that. And for the moment, I need Martin Thomas’ body secured somewhere for a couple of days, until we sort this out.”
“You realize that’s a crime. He was murdered. We’d be tampering with evidence.”
“Which I’m sure your agency does routinely, while handling issues of national security.”
She caught the mocking. “How are you going to explain Thomas being gone?”
“Let that be my concern.”
With no choice, she found her cell phone and entered a code. The unit was specially made for the Billet, preprogrammed, able to dial straight into a secure line. When it was answered she said, “I have a priority cleanup situation at the National Museum of Natural History.” She listened a moment, then said, “On my authority. You’ll be met at the building entrance on Constitution Avenue with further instructions. Do it now.”
She clicked the phone off.
“That’s impressive,” he said. “I assume in your line of work people die all the time.”
“Not too many civilians drafted into service. We prefer to kill only the trained ones.”
She saw on his face that her sarcasm was noted. “I suppose I deserve that.” He motioned for her to sit, which he did, too.
She decided to switch to diplomacy. “You’ll have to forgive my surliness but, unlike you, I’m operating in the dark. And you’ve yet to tell me why Cotton is involved.”
“I share your frustration. I’ve served as chief justice for over thirty years, and probably have lingered longer than I should. When I retire I really won’t miss being a judge, but I will miss being chancellor of this great institution. I’ve never missed a regents’ meeting. Few of my predecessors can say that.”
“And the point of me knowing that?”
A look of irritation swept over the older man’s face.
“I get it,” she said. “I’m being difficult. Probably not something you’re accustomed to dealing with. But I’m not one of your clerks, or a lawyer standing before you at oral argument. And I haven’t had a good evening.”
“Martin Thomas’ death was not your fault.”
“Then whose fault was it?”
The meaning of the question was clear.
He shook his head. “We had no idea Thomas was coming here tonight with that man. None at all. He placed himself in that danger.”
“But we saw the gun and allowed it to continue. It should have been stopped, and I blame myself for that omission.”
“Please don’t. I take full responsibility. I’m not looking for a scapegoat here. I’m looking for help.”
And she heard the desperation. “All right. I’ll shut up and listen.”
He seemed to appreciate the gesture.
“This all started a long time ago, during the Civil War. The Smithsonian played a dangerous game. Our secretary at the time, Joseph Henry, wanted us to remain neutral as an international science organization supposedly above politics. But that noble gesture angered a lot of people. And it didn’t help that Henry and Jeff Davis were close friends. We barely had enough funds during the war to operate. By its end we were broke, operating on a deficit. That situation led to choices. Martin Thomas managed to learn about some of these, and Diane Sherwood has shown a disproportionate interest in them, too.”
There was that name again. “Did you ever speak to Senator Sherwood about this?”
“I did. About two weeks before he died. I told him that his wife was pressuring one of our employees and misusing her position. I told him that she should resign her position on the libraries’ advisory board. He told me he would speak with her. But apparently that conversation never took place, or she didn’t listen, and now both the senator and Martin Thomas are dead.”
She had to say, “Thomas was not up front with you.” And she told him what she’d heard about lost Confederate treasure, the book Thomas wanted to write, and the cut he’d demanded. “That’s why he told no one he was coming here tonight, and bringing a guest.”
The chief justice sighed.
They sat in silence for a few moments.
Finally, he said, “I need to tell you some things. In confidence.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Grant slowed his pace to a brisk walk. He’d made it out of the Castle, utilizing a fire escape door that he’d many times gone in and out of as a kid. It opened to the building’s south side and the gardens, paved walks leading from there to the streets beyond. He knew there were precious few exterior cameras on Smithsonian buildings, its security all concentrated on what was stored inside. So once he crossed Independence Avenue and disappeared into the maze of government buildings beyond, he should be fine. The fact that no one was following made him feel better. The sirens he’d heard had gone toward the Castle but, as he suspected, the woman chasing him had come alone. He’d caught a quick glimpse of her face and wondered if she really was with the Justice Department.
Killing Martin Thomas had been the only option. If Thomas had done his job, accepted their generous payment without becoming greedy, he would have let him be.
But that had not been the case.
And writing a book?
That was the last thing he could allow to happen.
He wondered if his subterranean route into the Castle had been discovered. Could the Justice Department woman have come that way? Or was she waiting in the Castle? But how would she have known to be there? From Thomas? No way. During a call earlier arranging the visit no mention had been made of where he planned to go, only that he needed access into the buildings. He hadn’t told Thomas where they were headed until they left the Cullman. So there was no way anyone, including Thomas, could have known that he planned to use the old tunnel. No. They’d been followed across the Mall through the tunnel, which meant the corpse had been found.
Diane would not be pleased with what he’d done. She’d been the one who’d greased his path into the Smithsonian, connecting him with Thomas. Questions would surely come her way, but that was assuming they knew of any links among the three of them. He had to hope that they did not. If so, then this would all be over soon with his arrest. Connecting the dots would not take long. But something told him that the other side was working blind.
Unfortunately, he’d needed to make two stops tonight. One in the Castle, the other back in the natural history museum. He’d retrieved Thomas’ Smithsonian badge and swipe card, intent on using them for access back into the natural history museum once he’d obtained the ceremonial key. But that second errand had not been possible.
Which raised issues.
He slowed his pace and his breathing.
The whole thing had been close.
Too close.
<
br /> He kept walking, following a procession of streetlamps, his shirt clammy with sweat. Finally, he found 14th Street, where he crossed, hailed a cab near the Holocaust Museum, then rode to Dupont Circle. Traffic and the sidewalks were light with people and cars. He walked a few blocks, avoiding Embassy Row where there’d be more cameras, keeping to the quiet residential neighborhoods. Only an occasional car jolted past. Eventually he crossed the river into Georgetown. He’d ignored his phone during all the excitement, the unit set on silent, but now he checked its display.
An email had come from Arkansas.
Found the stone with Morse and took pictures, which are attached. Unable to get the stone as two federal agents showed up. We tried to find out why they were here, but learned nothing. They don’t know who we are. We got away from them, but we’re done. Goodbye.
Now they tell him.
That information would have been welcomed a few hours ago—or maybe not. He might have lost his nerve. But a Justice Department agent here? More federal agents in Arkansas?
He viewed the photo that had been sent.
The Witch’s Stone.
And stopped walking.
Damn. Terry Morse really had been its keeper. Thankfully, the scant few records he and Diane had managed to find among their fathers’ papers had proved correct and the right sentinel had been found. So if one stone was real, the other four might be, too.
Diane would be thrilled.
Perhaps thrilled enough to overlook the unfortunate death of Martin Thomas.
Short of Diane, nothing linked him to Thomas, as all calls to the librarian had been made from the few remaining pay phones around town. Their face-to-face meetings had taken place at Thomas’ apartment, with no witnesses. And he’d been careful with the cameras inside the buildings tonight. Unless Thomas himself had ratted him out, which he doubted, nothing should lead back to him.
The gold coins clinked in his pocket.
Face value $10.
Worth a few thousand dollars each today. Three had done the trick tonight, which he’d retrieved from Thomas’ corpse. No sense leaving that evidence to be found. He’d unearthed those himself from a cache hidden in western Kentucky. One of the paycheck holes was meant as payment for a sentinel. Records his father had kept for decades had led the way, and Diane had deciphered the clues, pinpointing the location of a decayed iron pail full of gold. That money had helped finance everything to this point, but those funds were dwindling. Unfortunately, the remaining records they had did not provide good leads on other caches.
