The Lost Order_A Novel

by Steve Berry

  “By all means.”

  “There’s a line item veto, which allowed the president to accept some and reject some of each piece of legislation. As you well know, no such power exists in our current Constitution. Wouldn’t it have been nice to have that power?”

  That it would have been.

  “Protective tariffs were forbidden, so no industry was given an unfair advantage. Congress had no power to forgive a debt. Think about that one. Nor could it pay for any internal improvements within a state. That was all left to the states, individually, to handle. So no pork barrel legislation. The postal service was expressly required to financially sustain itself. Can you imagine? There were even specific provisions designed to prevent corruption in the spending of public money.

  “Most important, states, not the central government, were regarded as supreme. And yes, that constitution still sanctioned slavery and demeaned the human rights of all the people in bondage. That is its one central flaw, a gross mistake of the time. But know this, no one who has served in the Order during the last seventy-five years believes that anyone should be denied their civil rights. It’s contrary to everything we stand for.”

  “All minorities? Gays and lesbians?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay,” Danny said. “I get your point. There were aspects of the Confederacy that made sense. Things that could go a long way to fixing what’s currently wrong with the federal government. But come on, that document has the stink of slavery. No one would ever cite it as authority. Look what happened with the Confederate battle flag. That image is now totally repugnant.”

  “As it should be,” the voice said. “It was used to fight for the continuation of slavery. But the modifications we need today reach far across racial lines. Black and white both want governmental change.”

  “Just a different kind.”

  “Not necessarily,” Paul said. “Vance has strong support from the Black Caucus in Congress for what he’s about to do. They’re going to promote it.”

  “Because they smell a power grab. They realize that as Vance moves up, so do they. There’s somethin’ there for everyone, and plenty enough to go around.”

  “The difference,” the voice said, “between us and Vance is that we want our changes legally adopted at a constitutional convention after open debate and discussion, then submitted to the states for ratification.”

  “And you’ll do your damndest to sway your way.”

  “Which is our right. I’m prepared to trust this country’s fate to the will of the people. Are you?”

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple. Every pundit and scholar agreed that once a constitutional convention was called there were few to no rules on what happened next. Some argued that a convention could be expressly limited to a specific subject matter. Others asserted that such a restriction would be illegal. After all, the 1787 constitutional convention had been called only to revise the existing Articles of Confederation. Instead, the convention abolished the Articles and created an entirely new constitutional government. So if a runaway convention was good enough for the Founders, it was good enough for everyone else.

  “There’s no way to control what would happen,” Danny said. “It could be a free-for-all. Which probably explains why a convention has never actually been called. Not even by those wise men from the 1850s. They didn’t fight their battles from the safety of the dark.”

  “No,” the voice said. “They did not. But this is a different time, with different ways. And come now, Mr. President, don’t you think the American people could handle a convention? After all, it is their country. And by the way, the Confederates were far more progressive on this point, too. Their version of Article V allowed as few as three states to call for a gathering to propose changes. Our constitution requires an unwieldy two-thirds. Even so, we’re nearly there.”

  “The immediate concern,” Paul said, “is stopping Vance. But I can’t do it. I’m one of his picks on the Rules Committee. For me to openly buck him would be suicide, and we’d lose our eyes and ears on Rules. You have to stop him.”

  “I was planning on doing just that.”

  “I came here,” the voice said, “so you could hear, firsthand, where we stand. We know of your connection with Alex Sherwood. We also know that Kenneth Layne tried to recruit the senator into what he, his sister, and Vance are doing. Needless to say, Kenneth Layne was playing both sides. When we became aware of his duplicity, we began to carefully watch all concerned. Layne should have never involved the senator. We know that Alex Sherwood confronted his wife and told her he planned to openly protest what Vance was doing. Less than two hours later, the senator was dead.”

  They monitored the Sherwood home? “What are you saying?”

  “Show him,” the voice said.

  Paul stepped close and produced a cell phone with a video on the screen. Taken in a pine forest, through a column of trees, it showed a rocky bluff and two people. Alex and Diane. Talking. Alex smoking a pipe. More talk. Diane appeared to cry. Alex comforted her. Then she shoved him off the cliff.

  He could hardly believe his eyes.

  He looked up at Frizzell, whose strained face was visible in the ambient glow.

  “She killed him? You’ve known this, yet done nothing?” he asked both men.

  The figure across the room kept a stolid silence.

  So Danny made clear, “I asked a question.”

  “We’ve been debating what to do,” the voice said. “All of the choices come with an assortment of risks and rewards. We heard your conversation with Mrs. Sherwood, in her study, after the funeral. We also know about Taisley Forsberg. And when you challenged Vance today at the Willard Hotel, we realized why you were appointed to the Senate. You want the truth, Mr. President. So do we.”

  “What about Vance?” he asked.

  “To our knowledge he knows nothing of the murder. He confronted Mrs. Sherwood earlier, in the senator’s apartment, but she denied any wrongdoing.”

  “You people have bugs everywhere?”

  “Only where we need them.”

  “That’s when we knew we had to speak to you,” Paul said to him.

  “Stop Lucius Vance,” the voice said through the darkness. “Do what you have to do. If you need help, we’re here to assist where we can.”

  He’d had enough of the games. “What about Diane?”

  “We are dealing with her. Which is something you cannot take the lead in. Let us—”

  He lunged for the light switch and flicked it upward. Fluorescent fixtures flickered on, their ballast catching, warming, then flooding the bulbs with current, which threw out bursts of white light. He squinted against the glare, trying to see, but the man was gone.

  He ran across the diner and saw a door leading back to the kitchen. He pushed through and found a rear exit.

  He yanked it open and stepped out into the night.

  Only to see a pair of taillights turning left, rounding the building, then vanishing.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Diane stepped from the cab in front of the Lincoln Memorial. The caller on the phone had told her to come here with all the information she possessed. Everything she had was on her iPad and in files stored in Dropbox, so she’d brought the device with her, tucked into her purse.

  The memorial stood at the west end of the National Mall. A broad flight of steps led up. Off to the east, past the Reflecting Pool, the floodlit Washington Monument pierced the night like a warning sword. It was approaching 11:00 P.M. and though no massive streams of chattering tourists milled about, the place was not deserted.

  Above her, at the top of the steps, the immense statue of Lincoln sat inside its shaded colonnade. Thirty-six columns held the roof aloft, each, she knew, representing a state in the union during Lincoln’s time. She climbed the steps and caught sight of the sad, brooding face of the dead president, which had a quieting effect and added to the atmosphere of a shrine.

  Standing near the foot of t
he seated giant was a squat, brown-haired man with ball-bearing eyes, small ears, and thin lips. She was drawn to him though they hadn’t yet exchanged a single word.

  “What is this all about?” she asked in a quiet but annoyed voice, when close. “And where is my brother?”

  “You can start by losing the attitude. You’re not in charge here.”

  “And what makes you think that I haven’t already called the police?”

  He shrugged. “If you have, then I’m going to have to show them this.”

  He held out a cell phone.

  A video started.

  Showing her killing Alex.

  A cold cloud rushed through her.

  “Still want the police involved?” he asked.

  She said nothing.

  “Let’s you and I take a walk.”

  * * *

  They left the memorial, descending the stairs and crossing the street toward the Reflecting Pool. He led her down a paved walk that paralleled one side of the shallow pond.

  Her nerves were frayed from the video, her body cold.

  “Your brother has done a bad thing,” he said. “He was working in conjunction with us, furthering our agenda. You being brought into the picture was our idea, but involving Lucius Vance was another thing entirely. And finally, there is the issue of your late husband.”

  “Are you with the Knights of the Golden Circle?”

  “Why do you seem surprised? Your father studied us for years. You’ve studied us, too.”

  “In the abstract. He never told me that the organization still existed.”

  “Because he never knew. His battle was with Frank Breckinridge, not with us, though Breckinridge is a knight. Your father wanted the vault. As apparently do you and the younger Breckinridge.”

  “Where is Grant?”

  “On that I have more bad news. It seems that he’s found a new benefactor and does not require your assistance any longer.”

  Now it made sense. “He broke into Alex’s apartment and stole the key.”

  “He needed it back.”

  “He’s going after the vault?”

  He nodded. “Without you.”

  “So you’re not really interested in having me arrested for murder.”

  “Not at the moment. We need your assistance. I showed you the video so that you would understand how seriously our requests should be taken.”

  She stopped walking and faced him. “Where is Kenneth?”

  He turned his phone around, tapped the screen, then showed her. On it she saw her brother, being held upright by two men, a third pummeling his abdomen with swift blows. Kenneth reeled from the punches, seemingly struggling to breathe.

  Then he vomited all over himself.

  The two men holding him upright released their grip and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, swiping his arm across his mouth.

  “He’s being taught a valuable lesson,” the man said to her. “We created the Committee to Save America. We funded it. We staffed it. We gave it a mission and purpose. It was originally run by someone else, but when you and Grant Breckinridge started your quest, we hired Kenneth. He was offered membership in our organization and told what was at stake. Eventually we had him make contact with you. He was to be our conduit for information from you and Grant Breckinridge. But then he started creating his own agenda. Connecting you to Lucius Vance was not in our plan. And when he involved your late husband, that altered everything.”

  “So why didn’t you stop him?”

  “By the time we knew it was happening, things were too far gone, and we’ve been cleaning up ever since.”

  On the phone screen a pail of water was thrown over her brother, reviving him. Then the two men lifted him back to his feet. She saw the look of fear on his face and the helplessness in his eyes.

  More fists pummeled the chest and kidneys.

  “Why not just kill him?” she asked.

  “A bullet to your brother’s stupid brain would be simpler. Fortunately for him, he has a job to do.” He motioned at the screen. “He just requires some policy instruction and proper motivation.”

  The two men again let Kenneth go and he dropped to the floor. She knew she should feel something for her twin brother, but nothing flowed through her except the image of her shoving Alex over the cliff.

  “You expect him to keep working with you?” she asked.

  “Of course. He has no choice. He has some terrific relationships across the country with many key state legislators. I think after tonight he’ll be more than anxious to please. Of course, he won’t be participating in your venture, nor will Grant Breckinridge. Which means you’re on your own.”

  Now she understood. They were isolating her. Rendering her impotent, with no allies, no support.

  Insignificant.

  Just as Alex had wanted to make her.

  “Your treasure hunt is over,” he said, sounding proud. “Did you bring what I asked?”

  She nodded. “It’s all on e-files stored on my iPad and an off-site server.”

  He handed her a slip of paper. “Email everything to that address. Then erase all the files and never think of the vault again. I assure you, if you make any attempt to locate it after tonight, we will know and you will be arrested for murder. If you stay silent, we stay silent.”

  She had no choice.

  “We’re doing you a favor. Grant Breckinridge has already killed one man at the Smithsonian and shot a federal agent.”

  Exactly what Daniels had told her, too.

  “The agent’s name is Stephanie Nelle. She heads an intelligence division of the Justice Department. She’s in a coma at Sibley Memorial Hospital. Please know, Grant Breckinridge is about to be a seriously wanted man.”

  “That’s his problem.”

  “True. I just wanted to make sure it didn’t become yours.”

  They’d walked about half the length of the Reflecting Pool.

  Few others were around in the darkness.

  The man faced her. “I believe that concludes our business. Hopefully, this will be the last time we ever speak.”

  And he walked off.

  But there was one point he hadn’t mentioned.

  “You don’t care that he’s dead?” she asked.

  He stopped and turned back to her.

  She’d intentionally not used Alex’s name.

  “You saved us the trouble.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Cotton’s phone rang.

  He was back across the Mall in the American history museum, inside the secured archive where they’d left the Trail Stone. They were still monitoring the Breckinridges. One of the two Magellan Billet agents on the scene was overhead, watching the car used for the escape from a safe distance. The skies over DC were regularly patrolled by military helicopters, so the presence of one more would arouse no suspicion. And besides, it was nearly 11:30 P.M., with darkness providing perfect cover. The second agent was following the car at a discreet distance, being guided by the chopper, no need to get close. They were all headed outside DC, west into Virginia. So he and Stamm had taken a few moments and transferred their base of operations from the Castle.

  He checked the phone’s display.

  Magellan Billet headquarters.

  He excused himself, drifted to the far side of the archive, and answered among the shelves.

  The report was disturbing.

  Cassiopeia had disappeared several hours ago. Lea Morse had been there. She’d been told to stay back, out of the way, but disobeyed Cassiopeia and watched as an explosion rocked an old mine, then Cassiopeia was led away at gunpoint by a man Lea identified as James Proctor, someone who’d tried a few hours earlier to kill them both. Her description of the vehicle was not much help. Even more disturbing was that Terry Morse was also missing. Cassiopeia had gone to find him. Lea had found the sheriff, but the locals had waited a long time before informing the Justice Department. Finally they made contact and were eventually routed to the
Billet.

  “They think Morse might be trapped inside the mine,” came the report. “So they’re digging. We initially tried Cassiopeia’s GPS tracker and got nothing. But a few minutes ago it came back on the grid.”

  Like himself, Cassiopeia wore a Billet-issued watch that provided GPS locating. She’d used his to find him inside that incinerator, and now he learned that her watch was near Amarillo, Texas, heading west, along Interstate 40.

  “That’s a long way from Arkansas. Give the tracking info to the Texas Highway Patrol and find it.”

  “Already being done. We just wanted you to know.”

  He ended the call, worried about Cassiopeia. Nothing he’d heard sounded encouraging. He walked back to where Stamm sat at the monitor, a greenish night-vision video feed still coming from the helicopter following the Breckinridges.

  “They’re headed toward Manassas,” Stamm said. “There’s a regional airport there.”

  He got the message. They could be leaving. “We can follow, but we need to know the destination.”

  He grabbed the radio they’d brought with them and told the agent in the chopper and the one in the car about the nearby airport.

  * * *

  Grant wondered where they were headed. His father had provided the driver with specific directions. So far no one had pursued them.

  Which was good.

  “There are some things you need to know,” his father said.

  They sat together in the rear seat.

  “The current Order numbers around 550 members. At present there’s a schism among the knights. One group, led by our commander, wants to move forward with legal changes to the Constitution. You’re familiar with that through Kenneth Layne. What you don’t know is that the Order funds his organization. The other faction, led by me, prefers that we stay dormant.”