by Steve Berry
Almighty God we plead with thee,
Give them strength that we might see.
Stand with them we pray this day,
Our aging warriors all clad in grey.
He’d always admired the lyric prose, ornate and elegant, replete with clever figures of speech. Its meaning now much clearer.
“There’s something else special about the book.”
He saw the twinkle in his mother’s eye and was intrigued. Usually the stories about the family’s past came from his grandfather.
But not today.
He watched as she parted the covers and grasped all of the pages with her thumbs and forefingers. Applying pressure, she fanned out the long edge. The gold gilt slowly dissolved into the image of a pueblo-like building, in a desert, with mountains in the distance.
He was amazed and said, “That’s like magic.”
His mother smiled. “It’s called fore-edge painting, an old art form. The artist would force the pages into this position and use a vice to hold them fanned. He would then paint what he wanted on the edge. Once dry, he released the fan, then gilded the edges to hide the color. It can be revealed only by refanning the pages. The technique was quite popular after the Civil War.”
“What’s the building?”
“We think it was where he was living out west, but I really don’t know for sure.”
He’d waited until now, wanting to be alone, to see for himself.
The embossing at the corners of the front and back covers of the 4, 8, N, and P seemed a sign. Like the odd trees in the woods. There, but not there. Meaningful only if you were able to make a connection. Angus Adams had placed them on both the Witch’s Stone and here on the journal for a reason.
Warren Weston may have been right when he intentionally involved him in all of this.
He did know things.
Time to find a secret.
* * *
Danny was growing impatient.
Malone was waiting for answers, as was he.
“It’s the book Malone has,” Weston said. “Frank Breckinridge apparently stole it from Smithsonian collections and hid it away. I never was able to actually see or touch the book. I know only that Angus Adams handed it over to Joseph Henry in 1877, not long before Henry died. It was to be returned to Adams’ family seventy-five years later. I was hoping that might have happened, and that Malone knew about it. I never knew, until now, that Breckinridge had the book. When I learned about Adams’ connection to Malone, I decided to see where it would lead. Maybe the book had been returned in 1952. The Smithsonian is conscientious in honoring gift conditions.”
“You should have been up front with Malone. That’s a hard man to corral. He doesn’t take to a saddle lightly.”
“Which I’ve learned.”
“What about the book? Why is it important?”
“Adams had a great affection for both the Smithsonian and Joseph Henry. He also was the only man alive who knew everything about the vault. But the Order chose well with Adams. He was a man of honor and protected that wealth as if it were his own. By the 1890s the vault had faded to obscurity. Henry was dead, Adams was an old man, and the Order had deteriorated. We know that Adams made a point to deliver both the key and his journal back to the Smithsonian in 1877. Perhaps he thought that the safest place for both to rest, unnoticed among countless other artifacts. Beyond that, I don’t know how the book points the way to the vault. I only know that it does.”
* * *
Cotton grasped the pages in Adams’ journal, just as his mother had with Adams’ book all those years ago, using the two numbers and two letters on the covers to position his hold on the pages. He was careful, making sure not to clamp the old paper too firmly. Slowly, he fanned the edges out, the gilt dissolving, as he remembered with his mother, into a defined picture.
He brought the book close and examined the image. A river dominated, beside which stood what looked like a church and three other buildings. His gaze shot to the laptop and the images of the Witch’s and Horse Stones.
Together they said, The servant of faith, I shepherd to the north of the river. This path is dangerous. I go to 18 places. Seek the map. Seek the heart.
On the Horse Stone, extending from the head, he followed the squiggly line with a cross beside it. In the upper left corner he studied the other squiggly line marked RIO. Spanish for “river.” Three dots surrounded what looked like a 5, but it had been intentionally angled. Like an L attached to an inverted U. Classic Golden Circle misdirection. You thought you saw one thing, but it was actually quite another. He glanced at the fore-edge painting again and noticed that there were three buildings before the church, arranged in a triangular shape.
Just as on the stone.
Adobe houses with heavy tiled roofs, sash windows, and chimneys, among grass and trees.
He released his grip on the pages and smiled.
Now he knew.
* * *
Danny listened as Malone explained through the phone what he’d found.
“The stones are not meant to be read in any particular sequence. Instead, they’re random instructions, scattered over the four that we have. Part of the puzzle is learning how to assimilate that varied information. The Witch’s Stone is like an introduction. It tells us that the path is dangerous, that there are eighteen markers, and to seek the map and the heart. I suspect the hooded figure and other symbols on there are going to be relevant at some point. The Horse Stone narrows things to a specific location. North of the river. So we need to know more about Adams’ landholdings.”
“It was over ten thousand acres,” Weston said. “In northern New Mexico, which have remained public lands since the turn of the 20th century.”
“The vault is on that land, and the starting point is the church north of the river. We need some satellite mapping. Have Rick Stamm wake somebody up and let’s pinpoint exactly where we’re headed. I’ve got two hours until I’m on the ground. I need an answer by then.”
“You’re assuming,” Danny said, “that Breckinridge found the fore-edge painting.”
“He did. You can count on it. The good thing is, he doesn’t know we have, too.”
“He’ll destroy all the stones,” Weston said. “Including the Heart Stone you allowed him to take.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Malone said. “I’m sitting here looking at the Trail and Heart Stones combined elctronically. There’s still the Alpha Stone, the one that actually gets you going in the right direction. Only nine markers are visible on the merged map we now have. There are nine more on the Alpha. My guess is that stone is waiting at the shepherd north of the river.”
“So you have to beat him to it,” Danny said.
“That’s the idea.”
He ended the call.
And faced Weston.
“We’re not done here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Grant woke from his sleep.
The drone of the jet engines had lulled him into rest, which he’d needed. Yesterday had been a long day. He checked his watch and noted he’d been out for over two hours. They had to be halfway across the country by now. His father sat across the cabin, spread out on a white leather sofa, looking entirely comfortable in the lap of luxury.
“Sleep some more,” his father said.
There’d been food waiting for them in the galley, and he’d eaten before dozing off. He felt refreshed, ready to go. But some of the wind had gone from his sails. He was no longer on a hunt for gold. Instead he was a prisoner of his father. Sure, he’d been promised a consolation prize. But he wondered if he might be able to get back on course.
“I can be useful,” he said.
His father did not seem impressed. “You have no idea what it means to be a knight.”
“Tell me.”
His father sat up. “They took an oath to freely sacrifice life and everything dear for the perpetuity of the Order’s principles. They pledged death and destruction t
o abolitionists, leaving no means untried to circumvent their schemes.”
“That was 150 years ago.”
“Honor is timeless.”
“Slavery is gone.”
“As it should be. But the Order stood for much more than that. Things many Americans today might find attractive.”
“Name three.”
“Representative government. Political accountability. Voter responsibility.”
He decided to stop being antagonistic and asked, “Have you been part of the Order all of your life?”
“Your grandfather was a member and he encouraged me. But my true calling came during the fight with Davis Layne.”
“How did you find the key?”
His father reached into his pocket and removed it. “A total accident. I was barely on the job in the late 1950s. I was in the Castle attic working on repairs—and there it was beneath some insulation. One of the workers found it and had no idea of its significance.”
“Why did you?”
His father tossed him the key. “Look at the end of the stem.”
He did and saw that the rounded brass was notched, forming a cross in a circle.
“That cross is needed for the lock it fits. But it also sets that key apart. There’s only one like it in the world. I knew the moment I saw it that it was the same one Angus Adams left with Joseph Henry. Remember, I told you that it originally would have opened the Confederate archives. But those were moved to the vault, along with the wealth. That’s when the key took on a greater significance.”
“How could this key possibly have any relevance now? It’s been such a long time.”
His father pointed a finger at him. “And that’s why you could never be a knight. You lack faith.”
“I’m just being realistic. Maybe an inattention to reality is why the knights faded away.”
His father went silent for a moment and the drone of the engines dominated.
“Some of what you say is true,” his father said. “We did become indifferent to a changing world. Which makes what we’re about to do all the more meaningful.”
His confusion still ran rampant. “What are we doing?”
“Settling a dispute.”
* * *
Danny was trying to decide if his opinion of Warren Weston had changed, and he concluded that it had. He now thought even less of him.
“We still have an agent missing,” he told Weston. “I know her. She’s also Malone’s girlfriend.”
“That gold found in the truck in Texas,” Weston said, “was Breckinridge’s way of appeasing my side of this fight. He sent word that he had it and that it would fund whatever fight we had in mind. But he obviously has no idea what it costs to sway public opinion.”
“Needless to say, the Order won’t be getting that gold. The Yankees have it now.”
Weston chuckled. “I suppose that’s true. But that cache pales in comparison with the vault. In addition, the Confederate archives are most likely there. Those documents could rewrite history.”
“And maybe not in a good way. Those could be secrets that are better off staying secret.”
“I’m willing to take that chance. A long time has passed and here we are, still waiting for change. You heard what I said about the Confederate constitution. Things are there people today would embrace. A line item veto. No pork barrel legislation. States fending for themselves. No debt forgiveness. Those make sense, Danny.”
“Yet there’s disagreement even within your precious Order as to whether they should even be debated.”
“Some do prefer to wait for another time.”
“And you both want the vault.”
Weston nodded. “I want to spend it. Use it for what it had been intended for. That’s why I decided to use Diane Sherwood, Grant Breckinridge, and Cotton Malone to see if I could obtain it.”
His anger arose again. “You led Stephanie Nelle into a dangerous mess, without telling her what she was facing.”
“Believe me, I had no idea Breckinridge would kill Martin Thomas or try to kill her. None at all. Things had been happening for nearly two years without even a hint of violence. The older Breckinridge seemed to be using his son in an odd way, just as I was using Diane Sherwood. We each were after the same thing, but neither one of us could get it on our own. I simply wanted Ms. Nelle’s assistance, and the president offered.”
But something else was bothering him.
“This can’t all be about just finding some lost gold and a difference of opinion, maybe changing history. Tell me, Warren. What more is at stake?”
* * *
Grant listened as his father explained the dispute.
“In 1861 the South decided that violence was the only way to end its arguments with the North. The Order was not part of that decision. Instead it was made by ill-prepared men who lost that fight. We have to learn from those mistakes. The next war cannot be fought from a position of weakness. Quite the contrary, in fact. Unfortunately, there are those among us who have not learned that lesson.”
“So you disagree with what Kenneth Layne is doing, trying to call a constitutional convention?”
“I see the wisdom, but I told the commander in no uncertain terms that I would oppose it. His desire to move forward with constitutional change, to my way of thinking, involves far too much compromise. If we’re smart and patient, which the Order has always been, we can grab it all instead of achieving it piecemeal.”
Grant didn’t see the importance, or value, in any of it.
His father was nuts.
* * *
Cotton was waiting for Rick Stamm to access satellite maps of northern New Mexico. The Smithsonian possessed digital imagery of every square inch of the planet. Librarians inside both the American and natural history museums were up and working, despite it being the middle of the night in DC.
He’d also been both disturbed and encouraged by a call from Magellan Billet headquarters. Cassiopeia’s watch had been located inside the back of a paneled truck that contained a huge cache of gold bars. Terry Morse had been found tied up in the back of that truck and was now safe. Morse told them that some man named James Proctor had knocked him unconscious at the mine, but not before he’d seen the three men who’d assaulted them in the bee house. As to what happened to them, Morse had no idea. Likewise, Morse had not seen Cassiopeia and knew nothing about her whereabouts. But Cotton knew from Lea, who’d been there, that Cassiopeia had been taken away at gunpoint by Proctor. He’d been hoping that her GPS watch would lead them to her.
But that had not happened.
Where was she?
He wanted to be on the ground, looking for her, but he was hurtling through the dark sky, gaining time somewhere over Texas. Another hour and a half and he’d be in New Mexico.
Not knowing if she was okay tortured him. This was not her fight. She’d come along only because of him.
He gently pounded his fist on the tabletop.
Maybe they took too many chances? Perhaps it was time, in light of how they felt about each other, to be more cautious. Both of them were middle-aged, seasoned, and should know better. What gave him hope was that she’d intentionally planted that watch. Which meant she’d been on the move. Hopefully, both she and the man named Proctor would turn up.
He unbuckled himself, stood, and paced the empty cabin.
Billet headquarters had determined that the plane with the two Breckinridges remained about an hour ahead of him. The flight plan seemed unchanged, as they were still headed for Taos Regional Airport. So he’d told his pilots to head there, too, since they would arrive after their targets had left. They’d secured the assistance of the local sheriff, who would post someone at the airport to keep an eye on things. He assumed the Breckinridges would be heading for the land once owned by Angus Adams, and he needed to give them a wide berth so they’d lead the way.
The laptop signaled an incoming communication.
He clicked open Skype to see Stamm’s smiling f
ace.
“I think we have it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Cassiopeia had been awake for over an hour, the taste of sleep still sticky in her mouth. She’d been knocked unconscious by Proctor, out for a couple of hours at least, maybe more. She’d lain still and not let him know she was back among the living. Twice his cell phone had vibrated and she’d listened to the call. The first time he’d reported what happened with the gold. The second call had been shorter, Proctor doing more listening than talking, as if being given instructions. He’d seemed unconcerned with her. While still groggy, she vaguely recalled their stopping, probably to gas up. Water bottles rolled on the floorboards among packs of peanut butter crackers. Apparently, Proctor had been thirsty and hungry.
Road signs indicated they were in New Mexico, but not on the same westbound four-laned highway. The road was two lanes now, and they were headed north. Her arms were still bound behind her back, and her shoulders ached. Just one opportunity. That’s all she’d need.
And he’d pay.
“I know you’re awake,” he said.
She’d been slouching with her head angled toward the door.
She sat up straight.
“Your breathing changed once you came around,” he said.
They must have been on the road ten hours. Dawn at least two more hours away. The terrain had changed from flat and treeless to high, rugged forest. She could also tell they were climbing in elevation.
“We’re headed to a special place,” he told her. “Land that was long ago utilized by the Order. I never thought I’d get to see it.”
He sounded proud.
“Is there a point to this trip?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Do you get to kill some more people?”
He seemed not to appreciate her sarcasm. “I hardly think those three pieces of scum I shot back at the mine qualify as people.”
“What about me and Lea Morse?”
“You left me no choice. But what does it matter? You both survived. No harm, no foul.”
She did not reply.
Nor did she agree.
* * *
