The Lost Order_A Novel

by Steve Berry

  Sibley Memorial.

  And a name.

  Stephanie Nelle.

  The information desk had supplied the room number after she lied and said she was the patient’s sister.

  She’d fled Alex’s apartment building without encountering anyone. Surely Taisley Forsberg’s body had been found by now and the police alerted.

  But she still had time.

  The elevator climbed to the fifth floor.

  Something about hospital elevators was always different. They seemed to move so quickly and smoothly. The doors opened and she stepped out into a corridor crowded with gowned nurses and attendants. She followed the signs toward the room number she sought, Alex’s gun heavy inside her purse.

  “A woman I care deeply about.”

  That’s what Daniels had said. Why should he be allowed to care about anyone? All he’d done was destroy everything she’d worked for. And though she could do nothing about the interference of the Knights of the Golden Circle, Senator Danny Daniels could be dealt with.

  A sign indicated that Stephanie’s Nelle’s room was around the next corner. She approached, turned left, then stopped, retreating out of sight. Ahead, Daniels stood in the hall talking to another man.

  Good.

  He was here.

  She risked a peek and watched.

  After a few moments the man left Daniels and headed her way. She drifted back, spotted an open doorway for one of the patients’ rooms, and slipped inside. The space was dark and unoccupied. The man she’d seen walked by and headed on. She watched as he disappeared around a corner.

  Back at her original position the corridor was clear.

  Daniels was nowhere to be seen.

  But she knew where he’d gone.

  * * *

  Danny approached the bed. “I’m having your man let Atlanta know that you’re going to be fine. I’ll tell Cotton when he checks in. We’ve all been concerned.”

  “Nice to know you care.”

  “It’s more than that, and you know it. I love you.”

  She seemed surprised to hear the words. And maybe she should be. They’d been tough for him to say.

  But not anymore.

  “It’s time we be clear with each other,” he said. “I always thought it would be me in that hospital bed. Not you. That’s not a sight I want to see again.”

  Her eyes warmed. “I love you, too, Danny.”

  The door opened.

  He turned, expecting to see a nurse or doctor.

  Instead Diane Sherwood entered.

  And he did not like the look in her eyes.

  Especially when she locked the door.

  “Who are you?” Stephanie asked.

  Diane removed a gun from her purse and aimed it across the room.

  “This ain’t good,” he muttered.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  NEW MEXICO

  Cotton examined the ultralight’s square-tipped gray wings, delicate angular tail fins, and rear stabilizers, all connected by a thin skeleton of metal tubing that supported a single seat and controls. The whole thing resembled an enormous aluminum moth. An air-cooled engine, not much more power than a go-cart, and a single propeller provided thrust. He’d flown ultralights before, enjoying more than one Sunday afternoon cruising low over the Øresund. They were available for rental at a local airfield and he’d made it a point to take some lessons and learn. This one was a bit different from the Danish version. A little heavier, equipped for search and rescue.

  The Taos County deputies had driven him to a grassy field just outside the Carson National Forest, where they kept a fleet of the flying lawn chairs. He was told that they were the fastest and easiest way to keep tabs on a huge rural county, capable of long range and low altitude, with the ability to land and take off from almost anywhere.

  He strapped himself into the seat and started the engine, which fired to life. He lifted his foot from the brake and maneuvered the craft toward the meadow. More throttle revved the propellers to full strength and he picked up speed, then quickly went airborne, scudding off the hard ground.

  Rick Stamm had taken what they knew from the available stones and compared it with satellite imagery of the Carson National Forest. Since the park stretched across four counties and encompassed nearly 1.5 million acres, the target had to be narrowed. That information came from Danny Daniels, who’d learned that land once owned by Angus Adams was key. Luckily, the Taos County land records were digitized and available online, which allowed Stamm to isolate the correct 1500 acres of land. Northern New Mexico had once been inhabited by the Anasazi, who’d left behind a slew of adobe ruins. Eventually Europeans claimed everything, the titles all tracing back to land grants by both Spain and Mexico. In 1908 a national forest had been established, named for Kit Carson, with Angus Adams’ initial gift forming its central nexus.

  Inside his helmet he wore a headset, connected to a radio. He’d reported to Stamm what he’d discovered on the edges of Adams’ journal. Amazingly, the church depicted still existed, more a ruin than a functioning building, the other three structures wasted away to their foundations, but still there in the satellite imagery, situated in a triangle as on the Horse Stone.

  A river ran beside the four buildings, an offshoot of the nearby Rio Grande, one of many that crisscrossed the Carson forest, and the topography suggested that the church occupied a rise, just as the fore-edge painting had indicated. The folks back at the Smithsonian in DC had even provided GPS coordinates, which he’d entered on the cockpit’s compass.

  One of the deputies informed him over the radio that the vehicle with the Breckinridges was closing in on the same coordinates. Apparently the older Breckinridge either found the fore-edge painting or already knew where to look. He asked about the old church, but none of the deputies knew much about it. One of the park rangers was an expert on the local history, and the deputies were making contact with him.

  He climbed to five hundred feet and admired the rugged mass of terrain. All around him were dark-brown contours of mountains, fissured sweeps of plateaus, green valleys, and endless stands of spruce, aspen, fir, and pine. The sun began to creep above the eastern horizon, casting crisp-edged shadows, slowly lighting the Sangre de Cristo Mountains with their namesake reddish hue.

  The blood of Christ.

  He suddenly felt a connection with Angus Adams, who’d lived amid this raw, undisturbed beauty. A landscape devoid of people. Not a speck of civilization in sight as far as he could see. Back then it would have been even more isolated.

  The cyclic control stick moved between his legs, his feet resting on rudder pedals. He worked them both in unison, keeping the craft steady. He loved flying, particularly this kind—which was about as close to being a bird as a person could get. But it was a noisy experience, the engine whining loud behind him.

  “We have some more information,” a voice said in his ear. “The church has been there since the 18th century, but it suffered a lot of damage during an earthquake in the 1920s. It’s been a partial ruin ever since. Hikers use it as a reference point since it sits high. It’s fairly isolated and no one gives it much thought. There are a few hundred more just like it scattered all across New Mexico.”

  He hadn’t heard what he really needed.

  “What was it called?”

  “It’s had a few names, no one knows which one is right. We call it Pasto al Norte.”

  Which he immediately recognized from the Horse Stone.

  Shepherd of the North.

  Good enough for him.

  * * *

  Cassiopeia stood outside the car, her hands still bound, but at least she was in brisk morning air. They were high in forested mountains, parked among the trees about fifty meters off the highway. Proctor was out, too, stretching his legs, clearly waiting for something. A cigarette dangled at a raffish angle from his mouth. Silence reigned around them. They’d been waiting for nearly half an hour, dawn steadily arriving in the eastern sky.


  She heard the growl of a car engine that drew closer, headlights cutting a jagged path through the trees.

  Another vehicle appeared and pulled to a stop.

  Two men emerged.

  One older, the other young. Proctor shook hands with the older man, who introduced the younger as his son, Grant.

  She made the connection. Grant Breckinridge. Who’d hired and sent the three men to Morse’s bee house.

  “Is this our federal agent?” the older Breckinridge asked.

  “Cassiopeia Vitt,” Proctor said.

  The older man pointed a finger at her. “I suspect she may be the reason we lost that gold in the truck.”

  “We can only hope.” She was pushing her luck with the sarcasm and wondered how long her usefulness would last. They would kill her the moment she was no longer needed, which might not be all that far away.

  Proctor finished his smoke. Then he and Grant opened the trunk of the car that had brought her from Arkansas.

  “It’s good to be back,” the old man said, studying the ever-brightening sky and sucking deep breaths of the clean air.

  The trunk slammed shut.

  Proctor returned, shouldering an automatic rifle. Grant carried a pick and shovel, along with a backpack.

  “Let’s go find that stone,” Breckinridge said.

  She’d already surmised that there was nowhere for her to run. So she had no choice but to cooperate. Some feeling in her arms and legs had returned, though her tied wrists and shoulders hurt. The old man led the way into the trees, followed by Grant, then her, with Proctor at the rear.

  A new sound disturbed the silence.

  Like a high-pitched whine.

  Constant.

  Far away.

  But drawing closer.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Diane surveyed the scene before her. A woman, about her age, lying in a hospital bed, tubes and wires in and out of her. The former president of the United States stood beside the bed, glaring at her with a look she did not appreciate.

  “Is this why your marriage failed?” she asked Daniels. “You chastised me? Judged me? But you’re no better.”

  “I never said I was.”

  She aimed the gun straight at him. The woman in the bed reached out with her hand and grasped Danny’s arm in a loving gesture, one that signaled a silent desire to stand with him. She had no such comforts. No one stood with her.

  “I never realized how sick you really are,” Daniels said.

  “I would have been fine if you’d stayed out of my business. But you couldn’t do that. You’re such a damn hypocrite. Just like Alex. Both of you are no better than me. I met his mistress, too.”

  “And where did that happen?”

  “In Alex’s apartment. I found her there, cleaning up, as though she owned the place. I shot her. Twice.”

  She enjoyed the shock she saw on Daniels’s face.

  “Did you kill her?”

  She shrugged. “I hope so.”

  * * *

  Danny had a healthy respect for the gun aimed at him, since its holder was clearly disturbed. No telling what she might do. Hearing that Taisley had been shot ripped his gut. A lot of people were paying a heavy price for all that was happening. He needed to see about her. But he felt Stephanie’s hand clasped to his right wrist, the alternating pressure in her grip telling him, Be careful, don’t be foolish.

  He dare not risk a look down at the bed.

  Instead he kept his gaze locked on the crazy woman.

  With a gun.

  * * *

  Diane said, “My father was a great man. He was smart and highly respected. He headed one of the finest museums of the world. On his deathbed he asked me to finish what he started.”

  “Looking for the vault?”

  “The knights talk like that gold belongs to them. It doesn’t. They were common thieves. That treasure belongs to whoever finds it.”

  “A man is dead because of that treasure. Stephanie is lying here, in this bed, thanks to that treasure. Another woman may be dead in Alex’s apartment. Hasn’t enough blood been spilled?”

  She resented his moralizing. “This is about you and me.”

  Daniels nodded. “I get that. You murdered Alex.”

  “And what makes you say that?”

  “I watched the video. I suspect you have, too.”

  She wondered about the comment. “The knights contacted you?”

  “Oh, yes. I talked to the commander himself, who told me all about you and Alex. They’ve been watching you both. Then he showed me the video. There was no need to kill him.”

  “You and Alex are just alike,” she said, voice rising. “Both so smug in your positions of power, accustomed to people jumping when you speak. Alex was a fool. Just like you. Neither one of you ever took a tough stand in your life.”

  He seemed to resent the insult. “I was twice president.”

  “And what did you accomplish? What will history record of Danny Daniels’ time in the White House? How many compromises did you make to get what you wanted? How many interests did you appease?”

  “Enough to get the job done.”

  His lack of fear infuriated her.

  “And enough to find my friend’s killer.”

  * * *

  Danny had no intention of backing down. If this nut shot him, then so be it. But he had not forgotten Stephanie’s warning of just a few minutes ago about it hurting. So avoiding that would be better. “Diane, this is all over. Don’t make it worse.”

  “Screw you, Danny. And screw those damn knights. My father hated them, and so do I.”

  “Then why wear a cross and circle?”

  “That was my brother’s idea. He wanted us all to feel part of the great movement. Of course, women were never allowed as knights. We were too stupid. Too delicate. Too precious to be involved. I’m sure it’s the same even today. An all-boys club. But it was me who taught Vance what to do.”

  Stephanie’s grip on his arm tightened and he agreed with her. Diane was rapidly losing control of what few faculties remained.

  “What are you going to do about Vance?” Diane asked.

  “He’ll be stopped. This morning.”

  “Not if you’re dead.”

  And his respect for the gun multiplied. This woman had killed once. Maybe twice. Why not again? He’d never cared for her. She’d always been distant and sullen. The one time she did approach him for a favor—to have Alex elevated to the Supreme Court—he’d refused. But through all of that he’d never suspected the depth of her instability, the breadth of her resentment, and the height of her ambition. She was clearly willing to do anything to accomplish her goal. She chastised him for compromise. But her version of “standing your ground” was to murder her opponent. Unfortunately, that option had never been available to him.

  “I hate you,” she spit out. “I hate you with every fiber in my being.”

  But he saw something in the eyes, something that contradicted her words. “No, you don’t hate us.”

  Her pupils flashed hot.

  “You hate yourself.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Cassiopeia was led across a rope bridge that spanned a swiftly moving shallow river about twenty meters wide. The sun had risen enough to brighten the other bank, where she could see a stone tower rising above the treetops. It sat on a rise, three other sets of ruins below and off to the left. Once back on solid land, they climbed the rise to the tower and she saw the ruin of what had once been a large adobe church. The whine in the distance persisted, and she wondered about its source. Her three captors seemed to ignore it, the older Breckinridge focused on the ruins. The walls still stood, the windows devoid of glass, the front door gone. Some of a wooden roof remained, and she spotted more recent attempts at shoring up from lumber formed into braces.

  “Pasto al Norte,” the older man said.

  Her Spanish was excellent. Shepherd of the North.

  “This church has been
here a long time,” Breckinridge said. “But it once had another name. La Capilla del Psalms. The Chapel of the Psalms.”

  She checked its orientation and saw that it did indeed sit on the north side of the river. “Does this connect with the stones?”

  “You know about those?” he asked.

  “I saw the Witch’s Stone and was told there are four more.”

  “Grant, if you please.”

  The younger man removed his backpack. Inside, wrapped in a towel, was a heart-shaped stone with etchings similar to what she’d seen in Arkansas. The older man studied the carvings, which she saw were on both sides.

  “This is the Heart Stone, one of the five. It’s vital to finding the vault since, without it, you’d wander these mountains for decades looking for the end point.”

  The old man slammed the stone down hard to the ground, atop a scab of exposed rock that poked from the dry earth.

  It shattered into dust and pieces.

  With the sole of his shoe he pummeled the larger bits into gravel.

  * * *

  Grant was in shock. He’d been hoping his father would have a change of mind. “You just said without that stone, no one can find the vault. How do you ever plan to do that?”

  “I don’t. Not right now, anyway. But I’ll make arrangements for others to be able to find it.”

  “You know where it is?”

  His father nodded. “Of course. I’m its sentinel. And as I said, son, your greed is why you can never be one of us. We’re caretakers. Nothing more. That gold is not ours to take.”

  He’d had enough. “That gold is for whoever gets it first.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” his father said. “The knights have always, and will always, protect it from people like you.”

  “You had no intention of paying me anything.”

  “Not at all.”

  Now he knew why he’d been brought along, and he was in a quandary. No weapon. Out in the middle of nowhere with another man toting an automatic rifle. The woman could be an ally, since she probably had no idea who he was or what he’d done. Which he might be able to use to his advantage long enough to secure his freedom.