Silver Cross

by B. Kent Anderson

  Journey laughed out loud. “So here he was, with knowledge of this huge deposit of silver, and now he couldn’t do anything about it without making the U.S. angry that he’d offered to help the Confederates. And he couldn’t offer to purchase the land either. Then he would have had to explain that he’d had French soldiers illegally roaming around Texas. So he had no recourse, and he put it away in the archives.”

  Brandon smiled. “So you see. It must have been quite difficult for the most powerful ruler in Europe to know of these incredible riches, yet be unable to do anything about it.”

  “But,” Journey said, “you sold the map and the letter. After all that, you sold them.”

  Brandon’s face darkened. The sun had sunk low on the horizon, and the crowd on the beach had thinned somewhat. The noise level on the pier was down a notch.

  “I only had them for a few months,” the old man said.

  “What happened?”

  “The Associates,” Brandon said, and lowered his head.

  “Who are they?” Journey said.

  “Two men, one quiet, reserved. One loud-voiced, insistent, threatening. They said they wanted to know about the Silver Cross map. I thought they were treasure hunters, and I’ve dealt with more than a few of those in my day. Then they said—well, the loudmouth said—that they were businessmen, always on the lookout for opportunity. I made the mistake of showing them the map, and the letter.” Brandon bowed his head again. “God forgive me. But someone had shown an interest. No one had shown an interest in my collection in so long. I’ve buried two wives and both my children, Dr. Journey. My only son died in Vietnam in 1969, and my only daughter died of breast cancer in 1981. Her son, my only grandchild, lives in California and has no use for me. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years. And here before me were two men with a strong interest in my world, my life. My own history, my family’s history…”

  Journey thought of Tolman, how she’d said, “You don’t have many friends, do you, Nick?”

  Is this me? he thought. Am I this man in another fifty years or so? Lost in history, talking about the Civil War to anyone who looks in my direction?

  He swallowed, reached out, and covered the old man’s hand with his own. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it.

  “Yes, pathetic,” Brandon said. “I could be seduced by a degree of interest. They became very excited about the map and the letter. I asked them how they knew I had both the letter and the map at all. They implied they were ‘well connected.’ I suspect they meant government connections. And as you are certainly aware, Dr. Journey, there is no such thing as privacy in this day and age. Anyone can read anyone else’s mail, look at their bank records, listen in on their phone calls … it seems our society is willing to trade some liberties for a degree of security, though of course we aren’t secure, either.” Brandon thumped his cane. “You must forgive my editorializing. These men weren’t historians, but they wondered what the map and letter meant. I was somewhat familiar with Napoleon III’s ‘silver problem’ and his adventure in Mexico, and I casually mentioned that to them. Treasure hunters, businessmen … it’s all about treasure, though, isn’t it? In one way or another, that’s always what it is about.”

  Journey nodded, for in the end, Brandon was right, based on what he had seen.

  “They wanted to buy the letter and the map. I said they weren’t for sale. The loud one threatened me, first with tax investigations. I laughed at him. I am absolutely scrupulous about my business affairs, Dr. Journey. I have no dark corners in my financial life. Taxes are the price we pay for freedom and I never complain about taxes. Some people have called me a ‘liberal’ for such a stance, and that word is heresy in these parts. But be that as it may, it did not scare me. He began to make veiled threats about actual bodily harm, and I confess that the man frightened me.”

  Journey thought about what he knew. “I think you were right to be afraid of him.”

  “Yes. So I gave in, and I sold them for two hundred thousand dollars. He walked off this very pier with them in his hands. I couldn’t help thinking of Charles Roberts, and that night on the Condor, a few miles south of here, and how Rose Greenhow went to her death thinking she was serving the Confederacy and that there was a still a chance for the South to win the war. And I thought of John Brandon and Will Brandon spending his life trying to understand all this. And I watched that vile man walk out of here with those papers, and I heard nothing more until I saw Congressman Mercer on television. If he gets his way, we’ll fight the war again, and again, there will be divisions. There will be no winner in this debate, and it’s all because I sold those papers for a few coins.”

  “I don’t think you had a choice,” Journey said. “These people are vicious. Did they say anything about what they did? The Associates? What are they all about?”

  Brandon reached into the pocket of his shirt and took out a white card that had been repeatedly bent. “This won’t tell you much, but you are welcome to it. You are a legitimate scholar, Dr. Journey … after your call, I looked up your credentials on the Internet. You may keep that.”

  Journey looked at the card in the fading light. The black printing simply read: THE ASSOCIATES, INTERNATIONAL BUSINESS CONSULTANTS, followed by a phone number and two names: Victor F. Zale, J. Terrence Landon.

  “Did they mention a woman named Ann Gray?” Journey asked.

  “What a common sort of name,” Brandon said. “No, they mentioned no one else. The quiet one, Mr. Landon, said maybe ten words the entire time they were here. Zale did all the talking. A rude, disagreeable man. He is missing three fingers on his right hand, and he kept putting it on the table between us, almost as if he were daring me to stare at it. So do these men have some connection to Mr. Mercer? And who is this Ann Gray?”

  “I’m not sure. We don’t understand who she is. These men, The Associates … did they have any connection to the government? To the White House?”

  Brandon looked startled. “I’ve told you they implied a government connection. But they certainly never came out and said such a thing. Surely the White House was not responsible for the theft.”

  “No, the CIA did that, and that is—at least we think—where this Ann Gray enters the picture. But we’re exploring—”

  “The White House,” Brandon said softly. “You know, our president is a North Carolinian. Though of course he was vice president at the time all this happened. I am acquainted with him. I met with him when he first ran for attorney general of this state, and was an honorary chair of his first campaign for the Senate. He’s an honest man, Dr. Journey. I realize the popular view is that no politician is honest, but Robert Mendoza is a fine man, and I’ve contributed to his campaign to win the job in his own right this November. You cannot think he has some knowledge of all of this.”

  “Mr. Brandon,” Journey said, “I don’t know. I truly don’t know. But there are some troubling things happening in this country.”

  “That is true, sir. I was born the same year that Charles Roberts died, the year John Brandon sent that letter to his brother in the United States. I’ve lived through two world wars, a Depression, a Cold War, the invention of technology that could not even be imagined when I was born. I’ve lived through scandals and terror and uncertainty and fear. And what’s happening right now—buildings being destroyed and people being killed, civil unrest that hasn’t been seen since the Vietnam and civil rights era, a petition to in essence revisit the issues that led to the War Between the States in the first place—it does frighten me.” Brandon closed his eyes. “And all because a lonely old man was hoodwinked by a couple of ‘businessmen.’ I am very sorry, Dr. Journey. I am truly sorry for what I have done to my country.”

  To Journey’s horror, the old man began to weep, quiet tears streaking his weathered face. Journey put his hand over Brandon’s again, but didn’t speak.

  They sat that way for a few minutes, then the waiter arrived with their crab cakes. Journey pulled his hand away and Brandon
wiped his face with a napkin. “I must have forgotten my handkerchief,” Brandon said. “A gentleman carries a handkerchief, my father always said. None of this silly business with paper tissues.” The waiter departed. The sun was down. “What is your part in all this? Where do you come into the picture?”

  “I’m not even sure how to answer that, Mr. Brandon. I’m a historian, and I’m helping … a friend, who is trying to figure all this out.”

  “Will you do justice, Dr. Journey? With all that has happened, will you see justice done?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “An honest answer. I appreciate your candor. Bear in mind that justice does not mean revenge.”

  Journey felt in his pocket and closed his fingers around the silver cross. “Yes.”

  “Do you have the letter and the map now, Dr. Journey?” the old man asked.

  “My friend has them.”

  “I have one more thing to tell you, and something to give you,” Brandon said. “It will complete the set. There is one more piece to this story, and it is written nowhere. No record of it exists. There are only a few words that point to its existence, but I have it. It has stayed with my family for almost my entire lifetime, and I’m going to give it to you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Brandon folded his aged hand over Journey’s, a reversal from a few moments earlier. “Come, sir,” he said. “You must try the crab cakes.”

  CHAPTER

  41

  Five minutes before takeoff, Tolman’s pilot told her that a cell of summer thunderstorms had broken out over the Texas Panhandle, and he refused to fly into them. Tolman paced the charter service office for hours, waiting for the pilot to check the weather, which he did hourly. Sharp sat without speaking, even dozing at times.

  Tolman made phone calls, talked to Erin at RIO four times, catching up what administrative business she could over the phone. She talked with her father, with Voss, even called Duke to thank him for what he’d done for Voss and for RIO.

  Late in the afternoon, her phone beeped once—a text message coming in. Tolman checked the screen and didn’t recognize the number. She opened the message.

  “Would you care to meet me at the Silver Cross? You may find further enlightenment here.”

  The text was signed: “A.G.”

  “She’s there,” Tolman said.

  Sharp looked up but said nothing.

  “She’s there right now,” Tolman said. “Gray is at the mine right now.”

  “Might be a trick,” Sharp said.

  “I don’t think Gray is the one playing all the tricks.”

  “What about those guys this morning?”

  “She isn’t The Associates,” Tolman said, pacing again. “Since this whole thing started, Gray has been hanging around in the shadows, and every now and then gives us a nudge in the direction of finding things. I don’t think she’s the danger. She has the answers, but she isn’t the danger to us.”

  Sharp shrugged.

  “That’s not to say that we aren’t still in danger, because we are. But I don’t think it’s from her.”

  The pilot came in and said, “Storm cells still strong. Forecast says they’ll still be over the Panhandle for another four hours or so.”

  Tolman slammed a hand on the table. “Dammit!” She flipped open her laptop and pulled up Google Maps, asking for directions from Oklahoma City to Memphis, Texas.

  “About four and a half hours to drive it,” she said, then looked up at the pilot. “And you’re telling me you’re not clear to fly for at least four hours?”

  “I won’t fly into a storm cell,” the pilot said. “No responsible pilot will.”

  Tolman closed the laptop and shoved it into the bag. “If we drive it, we could be there before the planes are clear to fly. What do you think, Darrell?”

  Sharp arched his eyebrows at her.

  “Your Jeep’s still running after this morning, right?”

  “Might be a trap.”

  “I don’t think so. I think I’m starting to understand Ann Gray a little. If there’s a trap, she’s not the one who set it.”

  “That message might not even be from her.”

  “Possible,” Tolman said. “But we were going anyway. Like I told Nick, maybe we don’t find all the answers there. But everything points back to the Silver Cross.”

  Sharp shrugged and stood up. “Better be ready, then.”

  Tolman wrote a reply to the A.G. text: “I am all about enlightenment.”

  She sent it. There was no further reply. She hadn’t really expected one.

  * * *

  Journey’s head was still reeling as he left The Oceanic, his bodyguard trailing five steps behind. “Are you all right, sir?” Deputy McCaffree asked.

  “Fine,” Journey said, but he wasn’t fine. His heart was racing and his blood pressure was probably off the charts. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d taken his medication. Days ago, at least.

  They reached the rental car and Journey slid behind the wheel. He very carefully took the package Noah Brandon had given him and slid it under the driver’s seat.

  “What’s the package?” the guard asked.

  The Silver Cross, Journey thought, then said, “It’s nothing.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  “Texas,” Journey said. “We have to get to West Texas.”

  CHAPTER

  42

  The storms had passed on to the east, but the sky remained gray. It was a few degrees cooler than Tolman remembered, but she didn’t expect it to last. Sharp pulled the Jeep off Highway 70 on the gravel path toward the mine. The gate was standing open, the chain and padlock lying in pieces beside it. “Well, that’s one less thing to worry about,” Tolman said, and Sharp pulled slowly forward.

  The gravel road wound into the backcountry, with small mesas to the left, the dry bed of the river to the right. Nearly a mile from the highway, they bent around a sharp curve. Several buildings came into view. All were institutional looking, single stories. A sign in front of one identified it as PANHANDLE MINING COMPANY OFFICES. The others, set back across the gravel road, were long and low. Tolman remembered that the company had built dormitories for its workers.

  They drove on, Sharp keeping a wary eye all around as he drove. His guns were within easy reach. Tolman’s SIG was in her hand.

  The road rose, and at the top of the rise, they spotted the open pit of the mine below. It was kidney-shaped, with an outcropping of rock jutting into its curve. Tolman had no sense of distance, but it was deep, and the land had been blasted away in tiers, with shelflike protrusions on each tier. It looked almost like a natural amphitheater on one side. The other side was sheer rock on its face. The floor of the pit looked oddly smooth. Tolman had expected it to be craggy, jagged—but then, she’d never been around a working mine before.

  Nothing working here anymore, she thought as Sharp steered the Jeep onto the road that ran around the top edge of the pit. The road dipped as another shelflike wall rose to their left. The road then split, one fork going down into the pit, the other rising. Tolman pointed to the higher road.

  They climbed again, and Tolman noticed that to the left, another thirty yards or so beyond the road, vegetation began again, the tall grass of the prairie. On the other side, toward the mine, the land had been scrubbed clean, stripped of its outer covering. The Jeep rounded another curve and they found the way blocked by a massive dump truck. The tires alone were nearly ten feet tall.

  “Jesus,” Tolman said. “Guess we’re not getting around that thing.”

  “Big truck,” Sharp said, then backed the Jeep into a clearing and turned it around.

  “Let’s go down to the office. You see any signs of anyone?”

  “Nope. Could be hidden, though.”

  He drove around the pit and down to the office building. They got out of the Jeep, Tolman with her SIG still in her hand. Sharp was wearing double holsters, the M&P340 on his hip,
the Glock on his shoulder. He held his rifle in his hand.

  The sun was fully up, but it still wasn’t hot yet. When Tolman’s shoes touched the ground, it felt mushy. The storms had loosened the hard-baked Texas earth. She pointed to Sharp, and the two of them approached the office building from different sides. A screen door was in place, but the building’s frame door was wide open.

  “Creepy,” Tolman said. “I don’t like all this quiet.”

  Sharp’s mustache twitched a bit as he moved toward the door.

  * * *

  “Wait,” Victor Zale said to his men, watching through binoculars from the top of the ridge behind the office building. He was near the mine’s crushing facility, where the ore was brought after extraction from the pit. Trucks dumped the ore and non-ore rock, called “overburden,” into the crusher, and the rock slid down a long chute to another truck. One of the two-hundred-ton trucks sat immobile under the chute.

  “They’re going inside,” Zale said. “We’re going to get them all at once. What a cute idea, Ann, to have Tolman come out here. Now the history teacher and I’ll have all the loose ends tied up.”

  He motioned the team into position, coordinating by radio. He didn’t know who the big bald man was, but he had Ann Gray—with a bonus of Meg Tolman—right where he wanted her.

  Once the men were placed, Zale drew his Les Baer 1911 in his left hand. With his missing fingers, he’d had to learn to shoot left-handed a long time ago. He was a pretty damn good left-handed shot. Zale started to pick his way down the ridge.

  * * *

  The office was like any office, with a paneled reception area, some plaques on the walls from chambers of commerce and such, commending Panhandle Mining for being a good corporate citizen. Computers, filing cabinets, printers … all the ordinary ingredients of any business operation. Cubicles, a few offices with doors. Tolman heard nothing.