by Steve Berry
But she told herself that deceit had been necessary.
Her old love, Josepe Salazar, was involved with something significant enough to have drawn the attention of the U.S. Justice Department. Last week, Stephanie had reported that Josepe may even have been involved with the death of a man. Nothing definitive, but enough to arouse suspicion.
She found it all hard to believe.
“Just a little recon. That’s all I need,” Stephanie had said six months ago. “Salazar might tell you things he would not tell anyone else.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Did you know there’s a photograph of you two in his Spanish house? It appears to have been taken years ago. Right there, near his desk, among other family pictures. That’s how I knew to approach you. A man doesn’t keep a picture like that around without a reason.”
No, a man doesn’t.
Especially one who’d been married and lost his wife.
Then last week Stephanie asked if she could accelerate her contact.
So she’d arranged for the trip to Denmark.
She’d once thought she loved Josepe. He’d clearly loved her, and seemed to still harbor some feelings. His hand on hers at dinner, which lingered longer than necessary, provided a hint of that. She’d continued the charade to prove to both Stephanie and herself that all of the allegations were wrong. She owed that to Josepe. He seemed utterly at ease with her, and she hoped that she wasn’t making a mistake leading him along. When they were younger, he’d been nothing but kind. Their relationship had ended because she refused to accept what he, his parents, and her own all believed to be true. Thankfully, he’d found someone to share his life with. But that person was now gone.
Too late to turn back. She was in.
This had to be played out.
“I sit here, or out on the terrace, most evenings,” he said to her. “Maybe we could enjoy the breeze in a little while. But first, I have something to show you.”
MALONE ROSE FROM THE GROUND.
At the sight and sound of the man with Cassiopeia—whom he assumed was Salazar—opening the French doors, he’d flattened himself behind a thick hedge. Luke, on the far side, had likewise disappeared downward. Thankfully, no one had stepped outside.
Luke stood.
Malone came close and whispered, “Did you know she was here?”
The younger man nodded.
Stephanie had failed to say a word to him, which surely was intentional. He brushed away damp mulch that covered the bed.
The French doors remained open.
He motioned for them to enter.
SALAZAR LED CASSIOPEIA THROUGH THE GROUND FLOOR TO A library that had once been his grandfather’s. It was from his mother’s father that he’d learned to appreciate the way things had existed in the church’s beginning—when heaven ruled absolute—before everything was changed to accommodate conformity.
He hated that word.
America professed a freedom of religion, where beliefs were personal and the government stayed out of churches. But nothing could have been farther from the truth. Saints had been persecuted from the beginning. First in New York, where the church was founded, which led to an exodus to Ohio, but the attacks continued. Then the congregation moved to Missouri, and a series of prolonged riots resulted in death and destruction. So they fled to Illinois, but more violence followed, ultimately resulting in a tragedy at the hands of a mob.
Every time he thought of that day his gut churned.
June 27, 1844.
Joseph Smith and his brother were murdered in Carthage, Illinois. The idea had been to destroy the church with the death of its leader. But the opposite had happened. Smith’s martyrdom became a rallying point, and Saints flourished. Which he took as nothing short of divine intervention.
He opened the library door and allowed his guest to enter. He’d purposefully left the lights on earlier, hoping he might have an opportunity to bring her here. He could not have done so any sooner since his prisoner had been jailed nearby. That man’s soul was surely, by now, on its way to Heavenly Father, the blood atonement assuring admittance. He felt content knowing that he’d bestowed his enemy that favor.
“Do not kill a man unless he be killed to save him,” the angel had many times said.
“I brought you here to see a rare artifact,” he said. “Since we were last together I have become an acquirer of all things related to Saints’ history. I have a large collection, which I keep in Spain. Of late, though, I’ve been privileged to be a part of a special project.”
“For the church?”
He nodded. “I was chosen by one of the elders. A brilliant man. He asked me to work directly with him. I ordinarily would not speak of this, but I think you’ll appreciate it.”
He approached the desk and pointed to a tattered book that lay open on the leather blotter. “Edwin Rushton was an early Saint. He knew Joseph Smith personally and worked closely with him. He was one of those who buried Prophet Joseph after his martyrdom.”
She seemed interested in what he was saying.
“Rushton was a man of God who loved the Lord and was devoted to the restoration. He met many trials in his life and overcame them all. Eventually he settled in Utah and lived there until he died in 1904. Rushton kept a journal. A vital record of the early church that many thought had disappeared.” He pointed toward the desk. “But I recently acquired it.”
A stiff map of the United States sat displayed on a nearby easel, and he saw Cassiopeia glance toward it. He’d pinned markers at Sharon, Vermont. Palmyra, New York. Independence, Missouri. Nauvoo, Illinois. And Salt Lake City, Utah.
“That traces the Saints’ path from where the Prophet Joseph was born, to where the church was formed, then on to Missouri and Illinois where we settled, and finally west. We traversed America and, along the way, became part of its history. More so than anyone even realizes.”
He could see that she was definitely intrigued.
“This journal is documentary proof of that fact.”
“It seems important to you.”
His thoughts were clear. His purpose beyond dispute.
“Tell her,” the angel said in his head.
“Do you know the White Horse Prophecy?”
She shook her head.
“Let me read you a passage from the journal. It explains a glorious vision.”
MALONE HAD MANAGED TO MANEUVER HIMSELF CLOSE TO THE open door, beyond which he could hear Salazar and Cassiopeia talking. Luke had drifted to other portions of the house, taking advantage of an opportunity to look around. Fine by him. He wanted to know what Cassiopeia was doing with a man who’d killed a U.S. Justice Department agent.
Everything about this rang wrong.
Cassiopeia, a woman he loved, alone with this devil?
He and Cassiopeia had known each other for two years, their beginnings anything but friendly. Only in the past few months had their relationship changed, both of them recognizing that they wanted more from the other, yet neither of them willing to reach too far. He understood that they were not married, nor even engaged, each with their own lives to live as they pleased. But they’d spoken as recently as a few days ago and she’d mentioned nothing about any trip to Denmark. In fact, she told him she was confined to France for the next week, her castle-rebuilding project demanding all of her attention.
A lie.
How many more had she told him?
Outside, he’d caught sight of Salazar. Tall, dark-skinned, hair cut in thick waves. Dressed smartly, too, in a stylish suit. Was he jealous? He certainly hoped not. But he could not deny the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. One he hadn’t felt in a long while. The last time? Nine years ago, when his marriage began to fall apart.
Nothing about that had been good, either.
He’d heard Salazar mention an old journal recently acquired and wondered if this was the same artifact Kirk had dangled as bait, the one whose owner was supposedly dead. He also wondered if
this was where Kirk had wanted them to end up. After all, the study had specifically been mentioned.
At the moment he possessed too few answers to test any hypothesis.
So he told himself to be patient.
He could not risk a peek past the doorway into the study, his position outside, in the corridor, already precarious. But another open room six feet away offered a retreat.
He stood silent.
Listening.
As Salazar read to Cassiopeia.
SEVENTEEN
ON THE 6TH OF MAY, 1843, A GRAND REVIEW OF THE NAUVOO Legion was held. The Prophet Joseph Smith complimented the men for their good discipline. The weather being hot, he called for a glass of water. With the glass in hand, he said, “I will drink a toast to the overthrow of the mobocrats. Here’s wishing they were in the middle of the sea in a stone canoe, with iron paddles, and that a shark swallowed the canoe and the devil swallowed the shark and himself locked up in the northwest corner of hell, the key lost and a blind man hunting it.”
The next morning a man who’d heard the toast returned to visit the house of the prophet and so abused him with bad language that he was ordered out by Smith. My attention was attracted to them, the man speaking in a loud tone of voice. I went towards them, the man finally leaving. Present then was the prophet, Theodore Turley, and myself. The prophet began talking about the mobbings and deridings and persecutions we as a people had endured.
“Our persecutors will have all the mobbings they want. Don’t wish them any harm, for when you see their sufferings you will shed bitter tears for them.”
While this conversation was going on we stood by the south wicket gate in a triangle. Turning to me, the prophet said, “I want to tell you something of the future. I will speak in a parable like unto John the Revelator. You will go to the Rocky Mountains and you will be a great and mighty people established there, which I will call the White Horse of peace and safety.”
“Where will you be at that time?” I asked.
“I shall never go there. Your enemies will continue to follow you with persecutions and they will make obnoxious laws against you in Congress to destroy the White Horse, but you will have a friend or two to defend you and throw out the worst parts of the law so they will not hurt you so much. You must continue to petition Congress all the time, but they will treat you like strangers and aliens and they will not give you your rights, but will govern you with strangers and commissioners. You will see the Constitution of the United States almost destroyed. It will hang like a thread as fine as a silk fiber.”
At that time the prophet’s countenance became sad.
“I love the Constitution. It was made by the inspiration of God, and it will be preserved and saved by the efforts of the White Horse, and by the Red Horse, who will combine in its defense. The White Horse will find the mountains full of minerals and they will become rich. You will see silver piled up in the streets. You will see the gold shoveled up like sand. A terrible revolution will take place in the land of America, such as has never been seen before, for the land will be left without a supreme government, and every specie of wickedness will be practiced rampantly. Father will be against son and son against father. Mother against daughter and daughter against mother. The most terrible scenes of bloodshed, murder, and rape that have ever been imagined or looked upon will take place. People will be taken from the earth, but there will be peace and love only in the Rocky Mountains.”
Here the prophet said that he could not bear to look longer upon the scenes as shown to him in his vision and he asked the Lord to close the scenes.
Continuing, he said, “During this time the Great White Horse will have accumulated strength, sending out elders to gather the honest in heart from among the people of the United States, to stand by the Constitution of the United States as it was given by the inspiration of God. In these days which are yet to come God will set up a Kingdom never to be thrown down, but other Kingdoms to come into it, and those Kingdoms that will not let the Gospel be preached in their lands will be humbled until they will. Peace and safety in the Rocky Mountains will be protected by the Guardians, the White and Red Horses. The coming of the Messiah among his people will be so natural that only those who see him will know that he has come, but he will come and give his laws unto Zion and minister unto his people.”
Cassiopeia had heard many tales about the Mormons. The religion thrived on grand stories and elaborate metaphors. But she’d never been told the one Josepe had just read to her.
“The Prophet Joseph predicted the American Civil War eighteen years before it happened. He said that we, as a people, would migrate west to the Rocky Mountains, four years before that occurred. He also knew he would never make that journey. He died less than a year after making the prophecy. He predicted that justice would come to the mobocrats. The ones who tortured and killed Saints in the early days. And it did. In the form of a Civil War that killed hundreds of thousands.”
Her father had told her about the persecutions, common prior to 1847. Homes and businesses burned, people robbed and maimed and killed. A pattern of organized violence that forced Saints to flee three states.
But not Utah.
There they dug in. Took a stand. Fought back.
“The prophecy tells us that we, the White Horse, will gather strength, sending out elders to collect the honest in heart from among the people of the United States. That we did. The church grew tremendously in the last half of the 19th century. And we were all to stand by the Constitution of the United States as it was given by the inspiration of God.”
She decided it was safe to ask, “What does that mean?”
“That something great is about to happen.”
“You seem excited by the possibilities. Is it that inspiring?”
“Indeed, it is. And this journal confirms that what we all suspected is correct. The White Horse Prophecy is real.”
She examined the book, carefully turning a few of its brittle pages. “Can you tell me any more about this?”
“It’s a great secret within our church. One that started long ago with Brigham Young. Every religion has its secrets, this is one of ours.”
“And you discovered it?”
He shook his head. “More a rediscovery. I found some information in the closed archives. My research drew the attention of Elder Rowan. He called me in and, together, we have been working on this for several years.”
She had to press. “And the White Horse Prophecy is part of it?”
He nodded. “Absolutely. But it’s more complex than simply the Prophet Joseph’s vision. Many events happened after he was murdered. Secret things that only a few are privy to.”
She wondered why Josepe was being so forthcoming. Trusting her, after all these years. Or was she being tested?
“It seems fascinating,” she said. “And important. I wish you luck with the endeavor.”
“I was actually hoping you might offer a little more than that.”
SALAZAR HAD CAREFULLY TIMED HIS REQUEST, OFFERING JUST enough information to impress Cassiopeia with the importance of his mission. He’d searched nearly two years for Edwin Rushton’s journal, then labored through three months of pointless negotiations trying to purchase it. Atoning its owner became the simpler method, especially after the man both lied and tried to cheat him.
He watched as she studied the journal.
Rushton was the type of Saint he wanted to be. An early pioneer who magnified his priesthood with good works, accepting the family responsibilities of four wives. He’d endured to the end in righteousness, becoming one of those the Heavenly Father surely accepted as having kept his second estate, entitling him to glory forever and ever. Could anyone ever doubt that those early Saints had been chastened, tested, and prepared for their last dispensation?
Of course not.
Those holy ones had established Zion on earth.
And he and every other descendant were the benefactors of their devotion.
“Cassiopeia, I don’t want you to leave my life again. Will you help me in my mission?”
“What can I do?”
“First and foremost, be there with me. The glory of its success will be so much sweeter if you are there. Next, there are matters that I could use your help accomplishing. I have followed, over the years, what you have been doing, rebuilding that castle in southern France.”
“I didn’t know you knew of that.”
“Oh, yes. I even donated funds to the effort, anonymously.”
“I had no idea.”
He’d always admired her. She was smart, with degrees in engineering and medieval history. She’d inherited full ownership of her father’s business concerns, a conglomerate currently worth several billion euros. He knew of her competent stewardship, and of her Dutch foundation that worked closely with the United Nations on world health and famine. Her personal life was not a matter of record, nor had he pried, confining his inquiries to what could be learned from the public record.
But he knew enough to know that he never should have allowed her to leave all those years ago.
“And she won’t. Ever again,” the angel said inside his head.
“I meant what I told you at dinner,” she told him. “I made a mistake with both my faith and you.”
He’d been alone a long time.
No one had been able to take his late wife’s place.
Then one day he’d found a photograph of him and Cassiopeia, from back when they were together. The simple sight of it brought him joy, so he’d kept it out, on display, where he could see it every day.
Now that image was here.
In the flesh.
Again.
And he was glad.
EIGHTEEN