by Steve Berry
They approached and carefully entered the tunnel, swallowed by a yawing darkness. A shaft stretched before them that angled slightly upward into the hillside, the walls bearing evidence of the picks that had long ago been used to chop through. The air hung close and stale.
“I know the story of this place,” Lea said. “Back in the 1840s the locals mined lead and silver that they shipped off to England. They made good money. Then the Confederates came and took over, mining silver during the war. Union troops blew it up after, and it’s been empty ever since.”
“Except for who?”
“My friend’s uncle. He guarded this place real careful, like Grandpa does the woods. He wouldn’t let anyone get too close. But he’s been dead a long time and there hasn’t been a sentinel since.”
They continued their walk up the incline. Overhead ran a frayed cable of old-fashioned braided ceramic fiber wiring, with corroded empty sockets every five meters. Once, this whole thing had been electrically lit. She felt no drafts, which meant this was probably a one-way route. About thirty meters in, the way became blocked by an iron gate, bars thick as her thumbs drilled directly into the stone at the top and sides. At its center was a barred door fitted with hinges and a built-in lock. The iron was coated with a crusted layer of rust, but the lock and hinges were aged brass. Ordinarily it would be a formidable portcullis, but the door hung half open.
“It’s never been unlocked before,” Lea said. “We tried to open it, but never could. I was going to see if you could do it.”
More alarm bells rang.
The lock looked like many she’d seen in castles all across Europe, opening only by a skeleton key. Was this one of the Knights of the Golden Circle’s caches? If so, something she’d read back at the American history museum urged caution. Booby traps. Explosives were their favorite. But something told her that whatever danger might have existed did not any longer.
After a few meters she noticed a black line on the dirt floor. The bobbing puddle of the flashlight beam revealed the end of an electrical cord with a three-pronged male plug. She traced the wire’s path ahead and saw that it disappeared down the tunnel. They followed the cord as it wound its way toward a large gash. The main shaft continued farther into the mound, but here somebody had dug sideways into the tunnel wall, where the electrical cord headed, too.
She stepped through and saw that it was a short connector to another tunnel. It would be easy to become disoriented in the blackness. Thankfully, they had the cord to lead them back to where they came from. The new tunnel was narrower, about two persons wide and tall enough that that they could stand.
“Somebody knew exactly where to dig,” she said to Lea, “to get where they wanted to be.”
The new tunnel wound a path that she estimated to be perpendicular with the main shaft, with several twists and turns. Luckily, no offshoots. It ended at a wooden door, the hinges coated in rust. Once, a hasp had held it closed, but no lock was there. It swung inward on a wood frame. The electrical cord slipped past through a crack.
She handed the flashlight to Lea and shoved at the door.
The hinges squealed but held.
She threw her shoulder into it.
The door creaked inward a fraction, but it remained wedged tight. She backed up and drove her body into it hard. The hinges released and the thick slab of wood burst inward. Momentum drove her down to the earthen floor.
“That was harder than it needed to be,” she said, rising to her feet and brushing the dirt from her clothes.
The flashlight revealed a spacious chamber with a vaulted roof carved from the rock. The electrical cord ended at a stand for two large floodlights. Wooden trunks of various sizes lay across the floor, each covered in dust and fused together by decades of grime.
She did a quick count.
Nineteen.
Two-thirds of which were open and empty.
Seven were still closed.
She approached one and hinged open its lid, which resisted but gave way.
Gold bars lay stacked inside.
She heard a distant engine coughing, then the lights sprang to life and the chamber was flooded with brightness, which burned her pupils.
A generator?
They had to leave.
But there was only one way out.
A man appeared. Then three more in the doorway.
Not the same people from earlier at the Morses’.
Different.
And far more threatening.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
TENNESSEE
5:40 A.M.
Danny stood at his bedroom window, his mind tangled with scattered images. Daylight was breaking, the first pale rays of silver streaks thrusting above the eastern mountains growing in intensity, the events of the night before seemingly far away, as if a dream.
But they weren’t.
The governor was already up and gone, headed for an early breakfast with business leaders. They’d agreed last night that the announcement of his Senate appointment would be made later in the morning, giving Danny time to get to DC so the vice president could immediately administer the oath of office. Once he was sworn in, for the next two years he’d be the junior senator from Tennessee. He’d already decided to keep Alex’s staff in place and make do with what he had. Their former boss had been a close friend, so he assumed that there would not be a whole lot of enemies there.
His number one job would be to look after the people of Tennessee. But in the short term, his goal was to find out what had happened to Alex, along with discovering what Lucius Vance was up to. Thankfully, he was a world-class practitioner of multitasking. Damn, it would feel good to be wanted again. He’d known he would miss it, but the extent had actually surprised him.
He was a power addict.
Pure and simple.
Not the kind of power, though, that brought personal gain or pain to others. His addiction was more to the process of getting things done, making a difference. He loved the tense, theatrical atmosphere of DC, one that echoed conflict and confidence. Constituent service was the linchpin of any good public servant. People elected their representatives to take care of their problems, and he liked being a solver. He’d never been one to go with the flow. Instead he’d swum upstream, bucking the system, loving every minute of it.
Finally, he felt alive again.
The house phone rang and he stepped toward the bed and answered.
“Mr. President, it’s Cotton Malone.”
His spine stiffened.
Nothing about this call was going to be good. “You finding out how to get a hold of me means there’s a big problem.”
“The Magellan Billet had your home number on file. And you’re right, this is bad news.”
He knew instantly.
“What’s happened to Stephanie?”
* * *
Cotton tapped off his cell phone.
He stood in an empty hospital waiting room, on the sixth floor, near the intensive care unit. He’d arrived in DC by jet at Reagan National a little over an hour ago and had come straight here. Stephanie was out of surgery, which had taken several hours and had been touch and go, the two bullets doing some internal damage. With its leader down, the Magellan Billet was being operated by procedures she’d long ago set into place. There was no formal second in command, the Billet strapped with as little bureaucracy as possible. Everything was centered on Stephanie, which was good and bad. Her administrative assistant was as close to a vice commander as the Billet got, and she was now directing the agents in the field, withholding that Stephanie had been injured.
Danny Daniels had taken the news hard, saying he’d been on his way to Washington anyway this morning and would accelerate his travel plans.
“But by God keep me informed,” Daniels ordered.
They’d exchanged cell phone numbers and Daniels had said he’d text the number where he could be reached. Cotton knew about the connection between Daniels and Stephanie. Not the details
, nor the particulars, but enough to know that they cared for each other. Cassiopeia knew far more, which she’d kept to herself. Earlier, when she’d encouraged him to call Daniels, he’d understood. The exact nature of their relationship was none of his business, but what had happened to Stephanie was definitely Daniels’ concern. So he’d opted to break with Billet rules and make the call. Per her standing command, no one was to be alerted to the situation. Not unless she died. Then the attorney general was to be told first, and he or she would decide what happened next. But as long as she breathed, silence reigned. Those procedures were all part of Billet training, designed to keep things flowing uninterrupted by what might or might not happen to her.
A strange mixture of emotion swirled through him. Seeing Stephanie so tied to tubes, wires, and oxygen was more than disconcerting. He had few close friends in the world. Most of the people he met were around for a short while, then gone. Sure, some relationships lasted, but they were more acquaintances than friends. Henrik Thorvaldsen, perhaps the person closest to him in recent years, got himself killed in Paris. Cotton had arrived a few moments too late to prevent it from happening, and the guilt from that had never left him. Even worse, they’d been estranged at the time, Henrik taking a path that he hadn’t agreed with, which friends did sometimes. Now his other closest friend, a woman he’d known for a long time, someone who’d altered the course of his life, lay in critical condition.
Why had this happened?
What was she doing working with the Smithsonian? No mention had been made of her when the chief justice asked for his assistance. Nor had her name come up the past few days.
Rick Stamm waited down the hall, just outside Stephanie’s room, which was now guarded by a Magellan Billet agent. That wasn’t part of Stephanie’s contingency plan, but Cotton had insisted, and no one in Atlanta disagreed. So an agent had been diverted and two more were on their way.
He walked back to where Stamm stood alone. “Talk to me. What happened?”
“I called her for help. She’s an old friend. This is my fault. Thomas is dead and Stephanie is fighting for her life, thanks to me.”
He laid a hand on the curator’s shoulder. “Look, we don’t have time for the blame game. Tell me what happened.”
Stamm told him how he had been inside Martin Thomas’ apartment when he heard two shots. He ran outside to find Stephanie on the ground, bleeding, a car racing away.
“Was she there when Thomas was killed?”
Stamm nodded, then recounted the rest of the evening’s events.
“Do you think the person who shot Stephanie was the same man from the Castle?” he asked.
“Who knows? I didn’t see a thing.”
He told Stamm what he and Cassiopeia had found in Arkansas.
The Witch’s Stone.
Which seemed to get the curator’s attention.
“Is that what the chancellor is after?” The inquiry was met with silence, and Cotton did not like the hedging. “I assure you, this is no time to be coy.”
“We need to get back to the American history museum,” Stamm said. “We can talk there. In private. That’s where Stephanie and I were headed before … this happened.”
Fair enough.
The doctors had said she would be out for a few hours in a medically induced coma.
And he’d already compartmentalized his worry and turned his focus to the mission.
Not always a good thing, but necessary under the circumstances.
“Lead the way.”
* * *
Danny drove to the Knoxville airport, which sat on the far-east side of Blount County, where the state’s jet would be waiting. The governor had offered the ride, which he’d accepted. He was thinking back to the first time he and Stephanie actually had a face-to-face conversation, not in a formal meeting, but private. Just between them.
A few years ago.
At Camp David. During another crisis.
“Contrary to what you might think, I’m not an idiot,” he said.
They were sitting on the front porch of the cabin, each in a high-backed wooden rocker. He worked his with vigor, the floorboards straining from his tall frame.
“I don’t think I ever called you an idiot.”
“My daddy used to tell my mama that he never called her a bitch to her face. Which was also true. I have a problem, Stephanie. A serious one.”
“That makes two of us. According to your deputy national security adviser I’m under arrest. And didn’t you fire me?”
“Both had to be done, so you could be here now.”
He recalled how unimpressed she’d seemed with her predicament. So he’d told her a story.
“One of my uncles used to say, want to kill snakes? Simple. Don’t give ’em a chance to bite you. Make ’em come to you. Just set fire to the underbrush and wait for them to slither out. Then you just whack their heads off. That’s what we’re going to do. Set some fires. I need your help.”
“To do what?”
“Find my traitor.”
And that was exactly what she’d done.
In fine style.
As she always did, she’d yanked his butt out of trouble. The Magellan Billet had been the one agency he could trust to get the job done, headed by a remarkable woman whom he’d hoped to spend the rest of his days with.
Now she was fighting for her life.
He’d originally planned to head to Washington and set some fires, chase out the snakes, then whack their heads off.
But he added one other task to his list.
God help the bastard who shot his girl.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Cassiopeia kept blinking, allowing her eyes to adjust to the sudden burst of harsh blue-white light. Lea was doing the same.
“Who are you?” the man in front asked.
He was lean and drawn, with an almost military bearing about him. Maybe mid-forties, handsome features, the eyes a deep, striking brown beneath a tousled mop of shaggy, grayish hair. She decided to use the truth, which might be their only weapon.
“I’m Cassiopeia Vitt. I work with the U.S. Justice Department.”
“And the young lady?”
“Lea Morse. She lives around here.”
“Are you related to Terry Morse?”
“I’m his granddaughter.”
He seemed impressed. “Do you know of the Witch’s Stone?”
And apparently informed.
“What if we do?” Cassiopeia said, answering for Lea. “And you never mentioned your name.”
“James Proctor.”
His accent was decidedly southern, like Cotton’s, both men using the soft drawl as a measure of control. The fact that he revealed his name brought her no comfort, nor did his tone. Neutral. Businesslike. Unwelcoming.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Same reason you are.” She motioned to the open trunk. “The gold.”
“But it doesn’t belong to you.”
“And it does to you?”
“In a sense. We are its keeper.”
“Is this the vault?”
A slight smile came to his lips. “I see you’re familiar with us.”
“I’m not the only one.”
She hoped he got the message that people back in Washington were aware of things—which, sadly, wasn’t exactly true.
They were on their own.
Proctor stepped close to where she and Lea stood. “This gold has waited here a long time. But no, this is not the vault. Just one of a few remaining repositories we made use of.”
“You can’t be serious. The Knights of the Golden Circle still exist?”
She’d already concluded that these men bore no relation to the three imposters from earlier at the Morse place.
“We are knights,” Proctor said.
He was deadly serious, so she decided not to antagonize him.
“Were all these trunks filled with gold?”
He nodded. “We’ve been removing
it for the past several days. You arrived while we were carting off the next-to-last load. One of my colleagues was standing guard outside in the woods and saw you approach. Now tell me, are you really here for the gold?”
“We know about sentinels,” Lea said. “My grandpa is one.”
“That he is, and an excellent one, too. He held to his duty for a long time. His grandfather, your great-grandfather, was specially chosen to guard the Witch’s Stone.”
This man had access to some precise information.
“Were you being trained to assume the duty?” Proctor asked.
Lea nodded. “I was.”
Smart girl, she knew a lie was better than the truth.
“I assume there are no grandsons?”
“Not a one.”
“Women can’t serve?” Cassiopeia asked.
“It’s not usual. But if you were being trained, why would you violate this place?” Proctor asked Lea. “A sentinel’s job is to protect.”
“Why’d you send those men to hurt my grandpa?”
For the first time Proctor seemed surprised. So it was just as Cassiopeia had thought. There were two different factions at work here.
“I sent no men,” Proctor declared.
She seized the moment. “Which means others are onto you. They also claimed to be knights and knew the handshake and the right words of greeting.”
A look of concern came to Proctor’s face. “That’s disturbing to hear. But I assure you, those men were not with us.”
She needed a diversion. “There’s a lot of gold here.”
He nodded. “Somewhere in the range of $50 million worth, depending on the purity, which is usually quite good.”
She still had her gun, tucked tight to her spine. With the warm night she’d worn no jacket so, if she turned around, its bulge would be exposed. She could reach for it, but the men standing before her were surely armed, too. The ensuing firefight would be no fight at all, and Lea could get killed.
“I pride myself on being a gentleman,” Proctor said. “So it’s most unfortunate that you came. I must apologize for what I have to do.”
He motioned and two of the men surged forward.
She did reach for her gun then, but Proctor’s right hand whipped up, holding a semi-automatic.
