by Steve Berry
“How about you don’t worry about the president of the United States. And that’s what he is. He’s the commander in chief. Our boss. He’s ordered us to do a job, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
Luke saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
He was impossible, just like Cotton once was.
“And you know I meant no disrespect,” he said. “But you’re not a Daniels, so you don’t know what I know.”
“Don’t be so sure about that.”
Never would she mention the turmoil that she and Danny Daniels had been through together. That was not this youngster’s business. A part of her understood Luke’s bitterness. The president could be a hard man. She’d seen that firsthand. But he was not made of stone, and she’d seen that, too. Right now, though, she was the one in the crosshairs. She’d told Luke to not get caught, but the same advice applied to her.
She turned to leave. “I’ve emailed you particulars on the security at Montpelier, which isn’t all that much. It’ll be a nearly moonless night, so you should be able to get in and out with no problem.”
“Where will you be?”
She grabbed the front doorknob. “No place good.”
THIRTY-FOUR
SALZBURG
MALONE KNEW THEY WERE COMING. HE’D ACTUALLY BE disappointed if they didn’t. He’d purposefully chosen to descend from the castle with Salazar and Cassiopeia, and immediately spotted the two young men waiting for their boss. Cassiopeia’s little show at the cashier’s desk had—he hoped—been for Salazar’s benefit. Nice touch, actually. Her anger had appeared genuine, her defense of Salazar entirely reasonable under the circumstances.
He walked at a leisurely pace down the inclined cobbled street, into an open square behind the cathedral, risking no surreptitious glances over his shoulder. The night was chilly, the sky cloudy and devoid of celestial glory. The shops were all closed, their fronts tightly shuttered with iron grilles. He picked once more through his many threads of recollection about these narrow streets. Most were pedestrian-only, connected by winding paths built under the close-packed houses that served as shortcuts from one block to another. He spotted one of the passageways ahead and decided to avoid it.
He passed the cathedral and crossed the domplatz. He’d once visited the Christmas market held here every year. How long ago was that? Eight years? Nine? No, more like ten. His life had changed immeasurably since then. Never had he dreamed of being divorced, living in Europe, and owning an old-book shop.
And being in love?
He hated even admitting that to himself.
He glanced up at the cathedral, parts of it reminiscent of St. Peter’s in Rome. The archbishop’s former residence, its 17th-century façade tinted green and white and gold, blocked the path ahead. The Residenzplatz, from which he’d called Stephanie earlier, spread out before the building, the lighted fountain still splashing water.
He needed privacy.
And darkness.
A location occurred to him.
He turned left and kept walking.
SALAZAR TRIED TO CONCENTRATE ON CASSIOPEIA, BUT HIS thoughts kept returning to Cotton Malone.
The insolent gentile.
Malone reminded him of other arrogant foes who, in the 1840s, terrorized Saints with unchecked vengeance. And the government? Both state and federal had sat by and allowed the mayhem to happen, eventually joining the fray on the side of the mobocrats.
“What did you mean,” he asked Cassiopeia, “when you told Malone he’d be sorry for what he did?”
“I’m not without abilities, Josepe. I can cause that man many problems.”
“He works for the American government.”
She shrugged. “I have reach there, too.”
“I didn’t realize you had such wrath inside you.”
“Everyone does, when challenged. And that’s what that man has done. He challenged you, which means he’s challenged me.”
“Dissenters,” the angel said in his head, “must be trodden underfoot, until their bowels gush out.”
That they must.
“I’m so glad to have you here with me,” he said to Cassiopeia.
They continued to walk beside each other, finding Getreidegasse and turning back toward the Goldener Hirsch, which sat at the far end. He’d come a long way in the eleven years since he and Cassiopeia had last been together. Both personally and professionally. Thankfully he’d met Elder Rowan, who’d encouraged the recreation of the Danites. Rowan had told him that Charles R. Snow himself had sanctioned the move but, as in the beginning, there could be no direct link. His job was to safeguard the church, even at the expense of himself. A difficult task, for sure, but a necessary one.
“It is the will of God that those things be so.”
The angel had just repeated what Joseph Smith had said when he first visited a Danite meeting. Intentionally, the prophet had not been told the extent of the group’s mission, only that they were organized to protect the Saints. From the beginning there were those who spoke with Heavenly Father, as Prophet Charles now did. Those who administered and implemented the revelations, as Elder Rowan and his eleven brethren did. And those who protected and defended all that they held dear, as he and his Danites did.
Cotton Malone threatened that.
This gentile had come for a fight? Okay. That he would receive.
He and Cassiopeia arrived at the hotel.
“I will leave you here,” he said to her. “I have some church business that must be handled before we leave. But I will see you in the morning, at breakfast.”
“All right. Have a good evening.”
He walked away.
“Josepe,” she said to him.
He turned back.
“I meant what I said. Malone now has two enemies.”
MALONE ENTERED ST. PETER’S GRAVEYARD, A CHRISTIAN burial site founded only a few years after Christ’s crucifixion. The oldest parts were the caves hewn into the rock face, and a hundred feet above them were strangely labeled catacombs. Centuries ago the monks of St. Peter’s lived there, in seclusion, the isolated perch their hermitage. The ancient Benedictine monastery remained—towers, offices, storehouses, a church and refectory, all grouped behind a fortified wall encasing both the cemetery and the Gothic St. Margaret’s Chapel.
The scene was a bit surreal, more like a garden than a cemetery, the colorful flowers adorning the elaborate graves muted in the darkness. He’d visited before and always thought of the von Trapps as they fled to freedom through here in The Sound of Music, though their escapades all happened on a sound stage. Many of Salzburg’s wealthiest families lay buried in the outer Baroque porticoes. What made the place unique was that the graves were not owned but rented. Fail to pay the yearly fee and the body is moved. He’d always wondered how many evictions had actually occurred, since each plot was always lovingly tended, decorated with candles, fir branches, and fresh blooms.
His minders had stayed back and unsuccessfully tried to be inconspicuous. Maybe they wanted him to know they were coming. If so, they were clearly amateurs. Never give yourself away by signaling your intentions.
He needed both hands free, so he laid the wooden box at the base of one of the markers, among a cluster of pansies. Then he hustled ahead, toward St. Margaret’s Chapel, its entrance doors closed and iron-barred. He rounded a corner and pressed himself against the rough stone, spying back toward the entrance. There were two ways into the cemetery. The one he’d just utilized and another a couple of hundred feet ahead of him, down a paved path that paralleled the rock face. All of the monastery buildings were pitch dark, only a few incandescent fixtures attached to the outer porticoes breaking the blackness.
One of the men entered through the gate to his right.
He smiled.
A little dividing and conquering? One at a time?
Okay.
To draw the man his way, he bent down, retrieved a few pebbles, and tossed them toward one of the iron grilles that protec
ted the porticoes.
He saw the shadow react and head his way.
Another tossed pebble ensured the decision.
The Danite would have to come right past the edge of the chapel, where he waited, darkness making any danger invisible.
He heard footsteps.
Approaching.
The shadow cleared the chapel wall, staring ahead, toward the porticoes, surely wondering where his target could be. He lunged, wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, and tightened, cutting off air. A few seconds of pressure, then he released his grip, spun the man around, and slammed his elbow up and into the chin. The combination of blows staggered the Danite. A kick to the face sent the body sprawling to the ground.
He searched the man’s clothes and found a pistol.
The other threat would not be far behind so he doubled around the chapel, rounding its rear and heading for the porticoes that lined the outer wall. A tiled pavement fronted them that kept his steps silent. He came to the end and picked his way through the hard-packed earth, back toward the entrance that both he and the first Danite had used, keeping down, using the tall markers as cover. The terrain inside the compact cemetery was inclined, rising to the chapel at the center.
He spotted the second pursuer.
On the pavement, heading up the incline, through the graves.
He kept his steps light and closed the gap.
Forty feet.
He passed where he’d left the wooden box and reached down and retrieved it.
Twenty feet.
Ten.
He pressed the barrel of his pistol into the nape of the man’s neck. “Nice and still, or I’ll shoot you.”
The man froze.
“Is Salazar waiting to hear that you have me?”
No answer.
He cocked the hammer. “You mean nothing to me. Nothing at all. You understand?”
“He’s waiting on my call.”
“Nice and slow, find your phone and tell him you have me.”
THIRTY-FIVE
ORANGE, VIRGINIA
4:15 P.M.
LUKE ARRIVED AT MONTPELIER JUST IN TIME FOR THE LAST tour of the day. The group was small, led by an attractive young lady identified by a badge as Katie and wearing some impressive tight-fitting jeans. He’d driven straight from Washington in his Mustang, a wonderfully restored 1967 first-generation model that he’d bought as a gift to himself while in the army. Silver with black stripes—not a scratch on it—it was stored in a garage adjacent to his apartment building. He didn’t own a lot of things, but his car was special.
Stephanie’s sullenness had troubled him. All she seemed interested in knowing was what, if anything, awaited at James Madison’s home. He was no student of history. God knows he’d barely made it out of high school. But he knew the value of information.
So he’d managed some quick browsing.
Madison was born and raised in Orange County. His grandfather first settled the land where Montpelier stood in 1723. The house itself was built by Madison’s father in 1760 but, after inheriting the estate, Madison made many changes. He was an ardent Federalist, a believer in a strong central government, and had been instrumental in drafting the Constitution. He served in the first Congress, fought to have the Bill of Rights adopted, helped form the Democratic party, was secretary of state for eight years, then a two-term president.
“Mr. Madison retired here in 1817, when his last term as president ended,” Katie told the group. “He and his wife, Dolley, lived in this house until he died in 1836. After that, Dolley sold the estate and nearly all of their belongings. The estate was reacquired by the National Trust for Historic Preservation in 1984.”
The house was nestled on 2,700 acres of farmland and old-growth forest in the green foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. A $25 million project had restored the house to the size and shape it had boasted when Madison had lived here, its columned portico, brick walls, and green shutters now reminiscent of colonial times.
He was following Katie from room to room, more watching her jeans than the décor, but definitely absorbing the geography, his gaze occasionally drifting out the windows to the grounds.
“There were once tobacco fields, farms, slave quarters, a blacksmith’s shop, and barns out there.”
He turned and saw that Katie had noticed his interest outside. He threw her a smile and said, “Everything a 19th-century country gentleman needed.”
She was cute and wore no wedding ring. He never touched the married ones, at least not if he knew they were hitched. There’d been a few who’d lied, which he wasn’t responsible for, but a couple of their husbands had not seen it that way. One broke his nose. Another tried, but had come to regret the challenge and spent a few days in the hospital.
Women.
Nothing but trouble.
“Tell me, darlin’, what’s that thing out in the field? It looks like a Greek temple.”
She stepped to the window and gestured for the others to join her. He caught a whiff of her perfume. Not much. Just a tad, the way he liked it. She stood close, inside his space, and seemed not to mind.
Neither did he.
“That was built by Madison. Below is a thirty-foot-deep pit where he kept ice year-round. We’d call it a gazebo today, albeit an elaborate one. He intended it to become his summer study, where he could work and think in peace, with the cool from the ice below refreshing him, but it never happened.”
“Anybody ever been into the pit?” he asked.
“Not since I’ve been around. It’s sealed up.”
She moved away from the window and led the group through the dining room and into Madison’s library. The escorted tour only extended to the ground floor, the upper floor self-guided. He checked his watch. Maybe another three hours of daylight left. But he’d have to wait until much later to return. He decided to bypass the rest of the house and left out the front door, following a graveled path to the garden entrance. He passed through a portal in a long brick wall, guarded by hydrangeas, and walked toward a low knoll among the trees in the north yard.
Eight white columns held up the temple’s domed roof. No walls, the fifteen-foot circle open to the elements. Katie had been right. Just a fancy gazebo. He stepped onto the concrete floor and tested one of the columns. Solid. He stared down at the flooring and stamped his foot. Rock-hard. The concrete was gray-aged but at its center lay a separate square-shaped piece, outlined by a one-inch grout line. Surely a way to get below, if need be.
He glanced back out at the grounds.
Black walnut, cedar, fir, redwood, and evergreens dominated, all old growth. A few appeared as if they could have even been around when Madison himself lived. He noticed little to no security, though the house interior was equipped with motion sensors. No problem. He wasn’t going anywhere near there. No fence encased the property. But with 2,700 acres he could understand why not. He’d already checked Google Earth and learned that a road cut close to the temple, through the woods to his left. Maybe three hundred yards, he estimated. An easy way in and out. He’d brought some rope and a flashlight.
But what the hell was he looking for?
Like he’d told Stephanie, during the last two hundred years, that pit had surely been picked through.
But she’d also been right.
Not a single image of the inside existed anywhere online. Before entering the house, after buying his ticket, he’d thumbed through every book in the visitor center. Not a photo there, either.
So what was down there?
Probably not a damn thing. But he had his orders.
“You enjoying the view?”
He turned to see Katie standing beyond the columns.
“You need a bell on or somethin’,” he said. “You can creep up on a guy.”
“I saw you leave.”
“I wanted to check this out,” he said. “It’s a beautiful spot. Real peaceful.”
She stepped beneath the dome. “You don’t look like a history buf
f.”
“Really? What do I look like?”
She apprized him with a soft glare, through eyes that were a lovely shade of blue. A crop of short strawberry-blond hair hung in sexy, layered bangs that flattered her freckled face.
“I think you’re military. Home on leave.”
He rubbed his jaw, which like his neck was dusted with a two-day stubble. “Guilty. Just back from two tours overseas. Had some time, so I thought I’d visit a few presidents’ houses and see what I was fighting for.”
“You got a name?”
“Luke.”
“As in the evangelist?”
He chuckled. “That was the idea.”
Confidence fueled her forwardness and he liked it. He’d never cared for the Melanie Wilkeses of the world. Give him the Scarlett O’Haras. The tougher the better. Nothing excited him more than a challenge. Besides, he needed to learn about this place, and what better way than from an employee.
“Tell me, Katie, where do you get somethin’ good to eat around here?”
She smiled. “Depends. You eat alone?”
“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”
“I’m off in twenty minutes. I’ll show you.”
THIRTY-SIX
SALZBURG
CASSIOPEIA NEVER ENTERED THE GOLDENER HIRSCH. INSTEAD she’d waited until Josepe had turned a corner fifty meters away, then rushed after him, following, hoping not to be noticed. Thankfully, she’d worn low-heeled shoes to the auction, which helped on the street’s uneven stones. Dusk had deepened to night. Josepe remained fifty meters ahead, darkness providing plenty of cover.
He stopped.
So did she, retreating into a doorway, glimpsing a neat list of names posted to one side that signaled apartments overhead.
The angle of his shadowed right arm confirmed that he was talking on the phone. A short call. Just a few seconds. He then replaced the unit inside his jacket and kept walking. He was headed down a street identified as Sigmund-Haffner-Gasse. They were a block or so over from the cathedral and the Residenzplaz, heading toward the rock face that rose north of the city and supported the castle. Shadows from the streetlights near him danced a strange jig on the pavement. If caught, she could use the excuse that she’d risen to his defense at the auction and had not wanted to sit idly by while he might need her. Sounded good. She was still angry with Cotton, and wondered why he was so involved. Buying that book for a million euros had made a loud statement. She needed to speak with him.
