Ben took off his helmet and put on a baseball cap.
A trooper emerged from the cruiser.
Following Dreyfuss’s advice, Ben smiled broadly. “Good evening, Officer!”
The trooper nodded.
“Christ be with you.” Ben unzipped his riding jacket and reached inside.
“Hey!” The trooper’s hand rested on the butt of his sidearm. “Keep your hands where I can see them!”
“It’s just a letter.” He offered the envelope with a slight bow, as if handing over a business card.
“A letter?”
“From the holy temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Ben kept smiling. “I am here to deliver it to Governor Morgan personally.”
The trooper examined it.
“Have you heard a testimony of Christ yet?”
“Yes, I have.” He smiled back. “Can you show me some identification?”
Ben handed him Sampson Allard’s stolen Temple Recommend Card. “May I share with you a marvelous story I recently learned about the prophet Joseph Smith’s last sermon in Nauvoo?”
“Another time, buddy. Are you carrying?”
Ben shook his head.
“It’s just routine.” The trooper patted him down, then again over his back, under his arms, and between his legs. He found Ben’s iPhone in a pocket and fiddled with it, making sure it was a working phone. “Okay,” he said. “Follow me.”
They marched up the driveway, passing by a black SUV with federal government plates and a few late-model luxury cars. Approaching the house, they reached a set of wrought-iron gates connected to a tall fence, which was covered with a thick layer of ivy that made it disarmingly decorative.
The trooper spoke into an intercom, and the gate clicked open. Walking up a paved footpath, they entered a vestibule, which welcomed guests to the main entrance under a domed ceiling and a brass chandelier. The front doors, made of heavy wood beams braced by metal joints, seemed to have formerly belonged to a cathedral in Europe.
The door opened. A man in a blue jacket appeared. He took the letter and the Temple Recommend Card from the trooper and went inside.
They waited.
A few minutes later, the Secret Service agent reappeared. He handed Ben the Temple Recommend Card and beckoned him inside. The trooper turned and headed back to the street.
“Wait here.” The agent pointed to a pair of armchairs on one side of the spacious foyer.
Another agent, nearly a carbon copy of the first, peeked out of a side room, where they had likely set up camp after the candidate was given Secret Service protection.
Porter searched the Ghost. He found the pager, a wallet with cash, a fake driver’s license, a fake Temple Recommend Card of the same name, and the keys to the Ducati. She carried nothing else.
He examined her hands, which were cold and large, the fingertips burnt off with acid to remove her prints. The wristwatch was a cheap drugstore piece, which he removed, just in case. He stood back and looked at her, the bloodied face frozen with a blank expression, turned up to the gilded ceiling. No one would be able to find out who she really was. A true professional.
Covering her face with the bloodied towel, Porter left the Celestial Kingdom hall. “Too bad,” he told Brother Pat. “A tragic accident.”
“Yes, tragic.”
In the lobby they found a fireman, who was unable to find out where to go in the huge temple. His frustration was boiling. “What the heck is going on?”
Porter held up his badge. “I’m with Community Relations. One of the worshippers fell on a statue and got herself knocked off. A freak accident, but it’s done.”
“Let me see her.” The fireman picked up a red first aid box. “Where—”
“Please!” Brother Pat held his hands up. “Temple sanctity requires removal of shoes and street clothes. This is the House of the Lord.”
The fireman hesitated. “I just need to see—”
“He’s got a point.” Porter pointed to his own feet in white slippers.
“You want me to take off my gear?” The fireman’s radio crackled, and a tinny voice reported a car crash on Rockville Boulevard.
“Listen,” Porter said, “there’s nothing for you to do. She’s gone. And I’m gone too.” He smiled. “You guys will take care of the accident report, right?”
“Sampson?” A woman in a business suit walked out of another door. “I’m Katie, one of the campaign coordinators.”
“Hi.” Ben got up. “Are we going to win?”
“Sure looks like it.” She laughed. “Please follow me.”
He tugged on the visor of his baseball cap. It covered most of his back-from-the-blond natural hair. They walked down a hallway decorated with framed family photos of skiing vacations, sailing trips, and weddings. A doorless entry led into a kitchen that could easily belong in a busy restaurant. A cook was busy at the stovetop, and a woman in a maid’s uniform was scrubbing pots in a stainless steel tub.
A long table was set against a wall of windows overlooking a well-lit backyard swimming pool. Twenty or so family members of all ages were sitting at the table. At the head of the table was Joe Morgan, who stood up and extended his hand. “Welcome, Brother Sampson!”
Ben shook his hand, which was dry and firm. Up close, Morgan’s handsome face and silver hair were as impeccable as they looked on TV. “It’s an honor, Governor.”
“Oh, please, call me Brother Joe.”
“Thank you, Brother Joe.” Ben looked at the others. “Hello, everyone.”
They chorused, “Hello, Brother Sampson!”
Katie circled the table and whispered something in Morgan’s ear. He grinned. “Great news! You’re a wiz, girl!”
Beaming, she left the kitchen.
There was an awkward silence.
Mrs. Morgan, sitting at the opposite end of the table from her husband, cleared her throat.
“Please, have a seat,” Morgan said to Ben. “Jeremy is teaching us from the Book of Mormon.”
Morgan’s son, about twenty and every bit as handsome as his father, held up the volume. “I’m sharing the prophesies about the fate of the Jewish people.”
Ben almost said, “How appropriate,” but held his tongue, instead nodding and smiling at Beanie Morgan, the candidate’s youngest daughter, who sat next to him. She moved her copy of the book closer to him so that they could share. It was a heavy volume titled: The Book of Mormon – The Earliest Text – Edited by Royal Skousen.
Noticing Ben’s interest in the cover, Morgan said, “We like to study the original text. The prophet Joseph Smith said that the first version of the Book of Mormon is the closest to the word of God as it was revealed to him.”
“We read in One Nephi, twenty-five,” Jeremy said, “the prophet’s recounting of the events during the years before and after the destruction of the Jewish Temple, the ruination of Jerusalem, and the exodus of his family, led by his father Lehi, over the oceans to the new promised land of North America. Nephi explained why the Jews, who hardened their hearts and rejected the message of Christ when He first appeared and then crucified Him, were therefore destroyed and exiled by God the Father as punishment. Nephi prophesized that they would suffer for generations—”
“A true prophesy,” Joe Morgan interjected, “as we now know.”
Everyone nodded in agreement.
“But he also,” Jeremy continued, “predicted that they would eventually be restored to Jerusalem—another true prophesy, as it turned out. Let me read to you the pertinent parts. First, in verse nine, Nephi prophesized: ‘And as one generation hath been destroyed among the Jews because of inequity, even so have they been destroyed from generation to generation according to their inequity.’ And continuing in verse eleven, he added: ‘And notwithstanding that they have been carried away, they shall retur
n again and possess the land of Jerusalem. Wherefore they shall be restored again to the lands of their inheritance.’”
“Which indeed happened after two thousand years,” Mrs. Morgan said from her end of the table. “In nineteen forty-eight, many centuries after Nephi had spoken, and also over a century after Joseph Smith translated the golden tablets and published the Book of Mormon. The establishment of the modern state of Israel confirmed the trueness of Nephi’s prophesy.”
“Which proves,” Beanie said, “that he was a true prophet, because he correctly predicted that the Jews would be restored to the land of Israel!”
“And so did Isaiah and Ezekiel,” Jeremy said. “But Nephi further prophesized that modern Israel would suffer from wars, which indeed has happened continuously since its founding. And he also predicted what will happen to the Jews when Christ the Lord comes again.”
Ben caught the eyes of Joe Morgan, who was watching him with a pleasant, almost fatherly expression, except that he blinked rapidly a few times. Was it nervousness or the dryness of the indoor heating?
“Nephi predicted,” Jeremy continued, “the future of the modern state of Israel: ‘But behold, they shall have wars and rumors of wars, and when the day cometh that the Only Begotten of the Father—yea, even the Father of heaven and of earth—shall manifest himself onto them in the flesh, behold, they will reject him because of their inequities and the hardness of their hearts and the stiffness of their necks. Behold, they will crucify him!’”
“Again?” The question came from one of the younger kids, probably Morgan’s grandson. “They’ll do it again?”
“I’m afraid so,” Morgan said.
“That’s right,” Jeremy said. “Nephi prophesied it: ‘Wherefore the Jews shall be scattered among all the nations…and the Lord hath scourged them…until they shall be persuaded to believe in Christ the Son of God and the atonement…that they shall believe in Christ…with pure hearts and clean hands and look not forward any more for another Messiah…the Lord will set his hand again the second time to restore his people from their lost and fallen state.’ And then,” Jeremy concluded, “after another crucifixion of Christ and another destruction and exile for many generations, only then will the Jews finally accept Christ the Lord and be restored back to Jerusalem for time and eternity.”
“Amen!” Joe Morgan looked at Ben. “Would you like to give testimony before we adjourn?”
Shutting his eyes, Ben recited from memory the sentence he had first read in Zachariah Hinckley’s diary. “Joseph Smith is the True Prophet. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which he established, is the only True Church, and all other churches are false abominations perpetrated by Satan and led by him to divert souls from the path of the True Gospel.”
Everyone chorused, “Amen!”
Joe Morgan hugged and kissed his wife and each of his children and grandchildren. He picked up the letter, which had rested by his plate on the table, and beckoned Ben to follow him.
Outside the temple, Porter found the white Ducati and searched it, finding nothing but a certificate of registration and an insurance card. The owner was a corporation based in the Cayman Islands. He tore both papers into small pieces, which he threw into the wind. The VIN on the motorcycle, Porter knew, would lead nowhere as well.
Driving slowly down the access road, he searched both sides for the black-and-yellow GS, staring deep into the vegetation. But the motorcycle was no longer here.
He stopped on the side and contacted the dispatcher on the radio. “Can you put me through to the guys watching Governor Morgan’s house?”
She did as he asked.
“Inspector Porter here,” he introduced himself. “Community Affairs. Who am I speaking with?”
“Trooper Baker. State police.”
“You’re doing security at the Republican candidate’s house, right?”
“Yup. What’s happening?”
“Probably nothing, but I’m just out of the Mormon temple. They had a small disturbance here. Since Morgan is a member of the LDS Church, I’m checking in, that’s all.”
“Fair enough,” Trooper Baker said. “All quiet here, but I think the saints are ahead of you. We just let in a messenger from the Mormon temple.”
“Probably a coincidence,” Porter said. “Can you describe him?”
“Some guy on a motorcycle—a nice one, BMW, black and yellow.”
“Interesting.” Porter forced out a fake chuckle. “It’s probably nothing, but I’ll stop by to check.”
“Do you want us to pull the guy out?”
“No need.” He kneeled, drew his revolver from its ankle holster, and verified that it was loaded. “We don’t want to overreact and embarrass ourselves or the candidate, do we?”
“No, sir.”
“Right on.” Porter drove off. “See you in a few.”
Keera was paged to call reception. Hoping that Ben was back safely, she ran straight downstairs. But it wasn’t Ben. Rather, it was Fran DeLacourt in her blue uniform and cap. She was chatting with the security guards.
“Hey,” Keera said.
Fran turned to her. “Here you are. What’s happening?”
“Same old, same old.” Keera noticed her bag at Fran’s feet. “You brought my stuff. Thanks.”
“If Mohammed doesn’t come to the mountain…”
“I’m sorry.” Keera picked up the bag. “I figured I’d use the time Ben is away to do all my overnights for the month.”
“So it’s not about our poor hospitality?”
“Listen, I got to go back to work.” Keera pointed up.
“You’re right to be upset.” Fran walked with her toward the stairs. “Lilly is totally pissed off with me, and she’s right too. It wasn’t my place to interfere—”
“You didn’t interfere. You told me I should leave Ben. That’s way worse than interfering.”
“I’m sorry. Taking the girl’s side is my weakness. I love him like a brother, but he’s got to do the right thing, you know?”
“I sure do.” Keera raised her left hand, turning it to show the ring finger.
Fran’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth. “It’s beautiful! Gorgeous!”
Chapter 61
The library was just as Zachariah had described it in his journal. The carpet was thick, the walls were covered with books, and the furniture invited hours of pleasant study, especially the sofa set in front of the fireplace, where steady flames glowed with the blue hue of natural gas over fake logs.
Ben walked across the room to the section of the wall dedicated to photographs of men in uniform. Some of the photos were of poor quality, but all the men displayed the Medal of Honor—two for each—except for the photo of a Marine Corps captain with dark eyes that gazed straight into the camera. There was only a single Medal of Honor on his chest because, as Zachariah had written in his diary, the second medal was awarded after the captain’s fiery death.
Keeping his body turned away from Morgan, Ben slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out the iPhone. First he opened the e-mail he had sent himself with the attached folder of Zachariah’s trial and evidence, clicked forward, and addressed it to Ray and to Dreyfuss with the words: Publish Immediately! He didn’t press send, though, but instead minimized the draft e-mail for later sending. Then he turned on the voice-recording application and dropped the iPhone back in his pocket.
Morgan came over with a silver tray. It held a thermos and two glasses. “How about some hot cider?”
“Thank you.”
Morgan placed it on a side table and poured.
There was a knock on the door, and Katie came in with a bundle of papers. “Here are the fundraising numbers for last week. The conference call with the bundlers is about to start.”
“Start without me,” Morgan said. “I’ll join in a few minutes.”
She hesitated. “They’ll expect you—”
“They need me as much as I need them.” Morgan rested his arm on her shoulders, leading her to the door. “Thank you, Katie.”
When the door closed, Ben asked, “I take it she’s not Sister Katie.”
“Not yet.” Morgan smiled. “She’s still a Gentile, but we’re working on it.”
“Satan fights to keep every soul from the True Gospel.”
“Exactly. By the way, are you related to the Sampson Allard?”
“Not really.” Ben sipped, savoring the warm sweetness of the cider. “This is very good.”
“Sampson Allard was a great man. Carrying such a powerful name carries the weight of history. It’s the embodiment of our divine mission.”
“My mission is not so lofty.”
“Oh?”
“My true mission is the truth.”
Morgan watched him over the rim of his glass, expecting an explanation.
Ben said nothing.
Taking a long gulp, Morgan said, “Brother James knows the truth.”
“Who?”
Holding up the envelope with the emblem of the president of the temple, Morgan raised his eyebrows.
“Brother James! Of course!” Ben finished his drink and put down the glass. “Shall we discuss the truth Brother James knows about?”
“I don’t understand. Don’t you have a message for me from Brother James?”
“I have a message. Yes.” Ben gazed back at the familiar face, oddly close and real after years of seeing it only on TV screens—debating other candidates, extolling his own virtues in campaign commercials, attacking political opponents without losing the joyous expression he always wore. “What do you think the message is?”
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