The Lost Order

by Steve Berry

  She nestled the weapon’s barrel to his right kneecap.

  “I’d like nothing more than to pull this trigger and make you a cripple,” she whispered, her tone at variance with her smile.

  “I see I made a mistake not shooting you before tossing you into that hole.”

  “Add that to your growing list of errors.”

  He returned his attention to the ham and eggs on his plate. “And what other mistakes have I made?”

  “One of your men is dead. I assume the knight who was just here reported that. Then there’s another knight with probably a destroyed knee out in the truck. And don’t forget about the stack of gold still waiting out in the open back at the mine. That’s a lot of problems. Not to mention that your men led me straight here.”

  He motioned with his knife and fork. “Did you ever think I might have wanted that to happen?”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  She pressed the gun firmer to his kneecap to make her point clear.

  His eyes locked on hers and she saw, for the first time, a touch of annoyance. And she doubted that face ever relaxed into a smile, except to deceive.

  “Give it a try,” she said, reading his mind as he seemed to be deciding whether to challenge her. “Please. I want you to.”

  And her right thumb cocked the gun’s hammer, which clicked into place, adding an exclamation point to her request.

  “What do you want?” he calmly asked her.

  “Answers.”

  He returned to his food and stuffed a fork full of runny eggs into his mouth. “I was assuming you’d be soon dead, so I didn’t mind providing you information back in the mine. Now is a different story.”

  “And I’m sure, at the moment, you’re trying to decide how you can get out of here with both legs intact.”

  He chewed. “The thought had occurred to me.”

  “Do the Knights of the Golden Circle really still exist?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  She pressed again with the gun.

  “But I can take you to someone who can.”

  “Nice try. But I never give up a position of advantage.”

  He reached for a piece of toast and buttered it. “You must forgive my manners, but I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. It was a long night.”

  “Moving all that gold works up an appetite?”

  “Your name, Cassiopeia Vitt, it sounds mysterious.”

  “More Spanish.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman.”

  “You can’t honestly think that’s going to distract me.”

  “I didn’t say it to distract. I just spoke the truth.”

  “You do this all the time?”

  He motioned to his plate. “Have breakfast? Of course. Every day. It’s the day’s most important meal.” He grinned at his own joke, and she told herself to be careful. “If it matters, I took no pleasure in tossing you down that hole.”

  “I feel so much better. Thank you for sharing that.” She’d been around Cotton too long, now mimicking his sarcasm. “You clearly don’t understand. I am with the federal government and you’re coming into custody.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Murder.”

  He chuckled. “Who did I kill? From what I was told, Terry Morse shot my man. Do you plan to take him into custody, too?”

  “What do you think?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with him. A knight does not kill another knight.”

  “I thought he was a sentinel.”

  “He is. But he’s also a knight.”

  She decided to point out, “This is an intelligence operation.”

  He seemed to consider that for a moment. “I feel honored.”

  “Don’t be. But prosecuting you is not what the people I work for will want.”

  He got the message. No rules. “You’ll learn nothing from me.”

  She shrugged. “There’s a dead man in Washington, DC, and another woman fighting for her life. She’s head of a major U.S. intelligence agency, the one who sent me here. I’m betting there’s a connection between that murder, what happened to her, and you. Her agency is going to want to talk to you, and they’re not going to be subtle about how they get answers.”

  Proctor pushed his plate aside and patted at his mouth with a napkin. A sinister expression swept over his face, which deepened into a look of cruelty. “That all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “You getting out of this town alive.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Danny stepped from the taxi. His new chief of staff had learned that Lucius Vance was having lunch near the White House at the Willard Hotel. He knew the place. A city landmark since before the Civil War, it liked to brag that every president since Franklin Pierce had either slept or attended an event there at least once, himself no exception. He’d visited several times, even staying there in the days leading up to his first inauguration.

  All of the hype was correct. A lot had happened at the Willard, its halls always thick with ambassadors, politicos, and celebrities. “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” had been composed in one of its rooms. Martin Luther King Jr. polished off his “I Have a Dream” speech while a guest. Dickens and Hawthorne had frequented. Lincoln and Coolidge even lived there awhile. If legend was to be believed, Ulysses Grant liked to sit in the elegant lobby, drink whiskey, and smoke a cigar. Folks would approach him and ask political favors, which supposedly led to the term lobbying.

  Danny entered through the front doors, the atmosphere rich in ambience, the walls and floor adorned with veined marble, mosaics, and glass. He’d always thought it looked more like a museum than a hotel, exuding the same timeless feel. It was definitely one of the finest hotels in the country. They simply were not made like this anymore.

  He followed a palm-lined promenade called Peacock Alley back to the Willard Room. What was the brag? The best dining space in DC. No question. And it came with all the bells and whistles. Two stories high, walnut-paneled, green-veined marble columns, bold fabrics. He’d always liked how the tables were spaced apart with lots of elbow room, offering an element of privacy that wasn’t often found in such a grand space. As president, he’d attended a couple of diplomatic luncheons there.

  The paneled doors leading into the dining room were swung open and two Secret Service agents stood guard, as he would expect given the Speaker of House was nearby. He recognized both from Alex’s funeral and last night at Diane’s house. He could hear a murmur of conversation and the tinkle of cutlery to china. He caught sight of the tables, and it appeared this was a small private gathering. Only three were adorned in white tablecloths beneath dimly lit chandeliers. Stewards fussed around, serving a cozy midday meal. He took a quick count. Twelve diners. His new chief of staff had learned that Vance was having a working lunch.

  “Hastily called,” the source had privately noted.

  And conspicuously away from the Capitol.

  Vance sat at one of the tables, talking to a few other congressmen, all of whom Danny recognized. He surveyed the remaining faces and was pleased he recalled nearly all of them, too. Thankfully, he’d been blessed with a good memory for faces.

  He took a step to enter and one of the agents stopped him. “This is a closed lunch, Mr. President.”

  He threw the man a glare. “At least you still recognize me.”

  “I do, sir. And this is awkward, to say the least.”

  “Not really. I need to see the Speaker.”

  “He instructed us that this was to be a closed gathering. No one allowed in.”

  He’d always been irritated with how the Secret Service took everything literally. “You’re not serious, are you? Do you really want to have this fight? I’ll tell you now, you’ll lose.”

  For eight years he’d had to do exactly what his protection detail required. So many rules and procedures, all aggravating. At first he’d bucked the system. Eventually, he just gave in and did what he was t
old. But that had not meant he’d liked it. So he sure as hell wasn’t going to be told what to do now.

  He allowed the agent time to consider the gravity of his challenge and a chance to make the right call.

  Which the man did.

  Stepping aside.

  “Good move,” Danny said.

  He entered the dining room and walked straight over to Lucius Vance. He noticed that the others present instantly recognized him, tossing that look he’d grown accustomed to while in the White House. The there’s the president of the United States stare. Several had given it to him out in the lobby, including the doorman, but he’d just kept smiling and walking.

  Vance saw him coming and stopped talking, rising from his seat. “Our newest senator from Tennessee. What brings you here?”

  The Speaker extended a hand to shake, which he did not accept. Normally, he would have, rocking his enemy to sleep, adhering to what Vito Corleone told his eldest. Never let anyone know what you’re thinking. But this was different. He’d come to set a fire and drive snakes from the bushes. No use mincing words or actions. Vance clearly did not appreciate the rebuke, especially in front of his peers.

  “We need to talk,” he said to the Speaker.

  “You can see I’m engaged in a lunch, with House members.”

  Fair enough. He’d embarrassed him, so a little pushback. To be expected. So he turned his attention to the others, who might not be willing to be so brazen toward a former president of the United States and new senator from Tennessee. “You folks care if I borrow him for a few minutes?”

  No one said a word.

  He extended his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “See, they don’t mind.”

  This was fun. Like back in Maryville on the city council when you made your plays upfront, right in the face of your enemy. Toe-to-toe. Not like the hit-or-miss warfare-from-the-bushes practiced around this town. He was betting Vance would be too curious to know what was going on to refuse his invitation, and he was right.

  The Speaker nodded and motioned. “Let’s step outside.”

  They exited through the doorway and turned left.

  The protection detail started to follow.

  “You don’t want them hearing what we’re about to say,” he whispered as they walked.

  “Maybe I do.”

  He shrugged. “Your call. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Vance stopped and stared at him, as though trying to read something, anything. But a lifetime of hardball politics had taught Danny the value of a poker face.

  Vance turned to the agents. “Wait back at the Willard Room. We’ll be right here, at the end of the hall, in sight.”

  The agents nodded and retreated.

  Vance faced him. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s not going to work.”

  A curious look came to the younger man’s face. “I don’t understand.”

  “What you’re planning. It’s not going to work.”

  He was running a huge bluff. On the Sherwood deck Diane had told Vance that, from now on, she thought they should keep their relationship proper. “Especially with what’s about to happen.” Then she’d made clear, “You’re about to become the most powerful man in this country, and powerful men need wives and children. Not mistresses.”

  “I have not the slightest inkling what you are talking about.”

  “‘Changing history can be quite an aphrodisiac.’”

  Exactly what Vance had said to Diane on the deck. He’d decided a quote, one only Vance would know he’d uttered, would be the quickest, clearest and most decisive way to start a fire.

  And it worked.

  “You can’t stop me,” Vance whispered.

  “Want to bet?”

  “You couldn’t as president, and you sure as hell won’t from the Senate.”

  God, he felt alive. To be back in the saddle, engaged in a meaningful fight, with a worthy adversary, the stakes surely high—there was nothing better. His whole psyche seemed geared for just this. Was it a sickness? An addiction? Probably. But it was a malady that he had no intention of ever being rid of. He was definitely born to a storm.

  “How did it feel when your own party shunned you for the presidential nomination,” he asked Vance.

  “There are many ways to achieve power. Being president is but one.”

  A hint. Whatever it was would affect the White House.

  “The people said no to you.”

  Vance chuckled. “The people have no idea what they want. They just want.”

  “Spoken like a true opportunist.”

  “I do appreciate the warning, though,” Vance said. “I know now who to watch carefully.”

  “And you’re going to have to ask yourself, why would I give you a heads-up? Why not just keep what I know to myself until I was ready to strike? Believe me, you’re going to love the answer to both questions.”

  “Is that why you asked your pal in the governor’s mansion to give you the appointment?”

  “That, and other reasons. You better hope to God you had nothing to do with Alex Sherwood’s death. The governor of Tennessee was a friend of Alex’s, too.”

  The solemnity in Danny’s voice seemed to give Vance pause and he watched for a reaction. Anything. But none came.

  Which told him something.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught the agents keeping a close eye on them.

  Vance noticed their interest, too. “Threatening the Speaker of the House is a dangerous thing.”

  “Screwin’ with this country, and my friends, is even worse.”

  “I had nothing to do with Alex Sherwood’s death. Which I understand was an accident. But this country needs changing. The time has come. And I plan to do it.”

  “One congressman from a small district in the middle of nowhere. You’re going to be our savior?”

  “Something like that.”

  He’d pushed this as a far as he could.

  One last jab.

  “Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.”

  Lincoln’s words, as quoted by Diane right before she and Vance had kissed. One thought had to be shooting through Vance’s brain.

  How could he possibly know that?

  “You have a good lunch, Mr. Speaker.”

  He walked away. No need to look back.

  The fire in the bushes had started.

  And the snakes would scurry soon.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Cassiopeia assessed the situation. She had a gun nestled to Proctor’s knee. Though he was surely armed, both of his hands were visible on the table. The diner was crowded, and the last thing she wanted was a shoot-out, but she was puzzled by Proctor’s confidence.

  He settled back in the booth. “Let me put this in perspective for you. You’re here and, yes, you can make me a cripple. But I have men all around you.”

  She knew of only four, including Proctor, one of whom was dead, another incapacitated. The waitress sauntered over and asked if they wanted anything else.

  “I’m good,” Proctor said. “How about you?”

  “He’ll take the check,” she said.

  And she noticed when Proctor gave the woman a playful wink before she walked away.

  “Are you always a flirt?” she asked.

  “Only when I think I have a chance.”

  “And what made you think you had one with me?”

  He shrugged. “Women have been known to offer things—when backed into a corner.”

  “Not the women I know.”

  A chuckle slipped from his thin lips. There it was again. That deception.

  “That wasn’t a flirt to that woman,” he said. “She’s the daughter of the owner of this place. And you’re about to have a whole lot of trouble.”

  Her gaze darted right as a man in a white body apron emerged through a swinging door, shotgun in hand. She swung her gun out from beneath the table and fired
one shot into the ceiling, which had the desired effect. People panicked, rushing from their chairs and booths, heading for the door. The confusion stopped the owner’s approach, and she doubted he was going to fire into the crowd. She slid from the booth and decided to join the mass exodus. But before leaving, she swiped the butt of her pistol hard into Proctor’s right temple, which send the bastard’s head down to the tabletop.

  The owner was trying to get to her, but she managed to fall in with the patrons, jamming the gun into the waistband beneath her shirttail and emerging into the late-morning sun. Morse’s truck was parked fifty meters away. Most of the people who’d fled the diner had run across the street to the opposite sidewalk. She joined them, keeping quiet and trying to blend in. Hopefully no one would identify her as the person who’d fired the shot.

  The man in the apron appeared from the diner, without his shotgun. She hid herself behind a wooden column that held up a canvas awning. The people around her were all talking with excitement. A police car sped down the street and stopped at the diner. A uniformed officer emerged and talked with the café owner. She could imagine what was being said. A woman fired into the ceiling. Dark hair. Spanish looking. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved shirt. Not too many of those around. No mention would be made of the shotgun appearing first. No reference to a man named Jim Proctor.

  The uniformed officer and the owner disappeared inside the diner.

  That was her cue to leave.

  She hustled down the street toward the truck. The other men who’d come from the mine in the Toyota were nowhere to be seen. She needed to find out where that gold had been taken. The quickest way would be to follow Proctor. Right now, though, she had to get out of town. All the excitement had attracted a crowd, people streaming out of the shops and other eateries onto the sidewalk.

  Her cell phone vibrated.

  She checked the display. Lea.

  They’d exchanged numbers back at the mine to be able to communicate.

  She answered.

  “Some men just came,” the young girl quickly said. “Grandpa told me to hide when they drove up. They took him with them. At gunpoint.”

  “Where are you?”