by Steve Berry
Luke had returned in time to catch the tail end of the conversation. Stay cool, the young man’s eyes signaled. This Frat Boy obviously knew of his connection with Cassiopeia.
“Let me get you back to your hotel,” Salazar said from the study.
Malone pointed to the open doorway six feet away, and they both slipped inside a darkened media room. Soft chairs faced a huge video screen, an obvious addition to such an old house.
They flattened themselves against the wall.
He heard movement from the study, then steps in the corridor outside. Both Salazar and Cassiopeia came into view outside the half-open door. He peered out and watched as Salazar grabbed Cassiopeia by the arm, drawing her close and kissing her.
Her arms embraced him, caressing his shoulders.
The sight was at once unnerving and disturbing.
“I have wanted to do that for a long time,” Salazar said to her. “I never forgot you.”
“I know.”
“What do we do from here?”
“Enjoy our time together. I’ve missed you, Josepe.”
“Surely you have loved and been loved.”
“I have. But what we had was special, and we both know it.”
Salazar kissed her again. Tender. Sweet.
Malone’s gut churned.
“I could stay here tonight,” she told him.
“That would not be wise,” Salazar said. “For either of us.”
“I understand. But know that I wanted to.”
“I do, and it means more than you can imagine. Tomorrow, I’ll come for you around ten. Be packed and ready to leave.”
“Where are we going?”
“Salzburg.”
They disappeared down the corridor. A door opened, then closed. A few moments later a car engine growled, then faded into the distance.
He stood still, his heart pounding.
“You okay?” Luke asked.
His mind snapped back to the situation at hand. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“That’s your girl and—”
“I’m not some high schooler. And how do you know she’s my girl?”
“Three guesses. Look, that would have hurt, if it were me.”
“You’re not me.”
“Okay. I get it. The subject is off limits.”
“Stephanie tell you to keep her involvement from me?”
“She and Salazar were not supposed to be here. Vitt’s job was to keep him away for the evening.”
“Her job?”
“She’s helping Stephanie. A favor. We discovered that she and Salazar once knew each other. They were … close. Obviously. We just saw that. Stephanie asked her to make contact and see what she could learn. She’s just working him.”
But he wondered. Was she playing a part? Simply trying to gain Salazar’s confidence? If so, she was an excellent actress. Every word had sounded believable. Now Salazar himself was enlisting her help.
“I need to take a look inside that study.”
He grabbed Luke’s arm. “Is that all you’ve held back?”
“You said back at your bookshop you knew about Mormons. Did you know Cassiopeia Vitt was born one?”
He glared at Luke.
“I didn’t think so. Part of the connection here is that she and Salazar were childhood friends. Their families close. Same religion, too.”
Seemed like a night of surprises.
“Could you let go of my arm?”
He released his grip.
Luke brushed past and fled the media room.
He followed.
They entered the study, a warm space with paneled walls painted a sage green. The lights remained on, curtains drawn on the windows.
He focused on the task. “He doesn’t have any staff in this house?”
“Reports say there are a few, but they don’t stay overnight. Salazar likes his privacy.”
But the remaining Danites could appear at any time. “Those two may have discovered the ruse with the bus by now. Do what you have to do. He was reading to her from something. That old journal, there.”
Luke moved toward the desk and, with his Billet phone, snapped pictures of the tattered pages, especially the ones marked with slips of paper. While Luke searched the desk drawers, Malone was drawn to the map displayed on an easel. He’d heard earlier when Salazar rattled off the places where Mormons had settled on their way west to the Salt Lake valley. He’d actually once visited Nauvoo, in central Illinois, where they headquartered for seven years. The temple that stood there now was a reconstruction, the original 19th-century version destroyed by mobs.
Hate.
What a powerful emotion.
So was jealousy.
And he was feeling both right now.
He needed to listen to himself—he wasn’t some high schooler—he was a man who cared for a woman. He’d been divorced three years, separated from his ex-wife going on ten years. He’d lived alone a long time. Cassiopeia’s entrance into his life had changed things. For the better. Or at least that’s what he’d thought.
“Take a look at this,” Luke said.
He stepped to the desk—huge, inlaid with ivory and decorated with an ornate onyx inkwell. Luke handed him a catalog for Dorotheum, one of the world’s oldest auction houses, headquartered in Austria. He’d dealt with them while on Billet assignments and with his bookshop.
“Seems there’s an event tomorrow night,” Luke said. “In Salzburg.”
He noted the date, time, and place from the catalog. Thumbing through, he discovered it was an estate sale. Furniture, porcelain, china, books. One page was dog-eared. An offering for a Book of Mormon. From March 1830. An original printing. Published by E. B. Grandin. Palmyra, New York.
He knew that volume.
There’d been many editions printed since 1830, but only a few of the original lot still existed. He recalled reading a few months ago how one had sold for nearly $200,000.
“Apparently Salazar wants to buy a book,” he said.
And not just any book. One of the rarest in the world.
He stepped from the desk and again studied the map. Someone had taken a pink highlighter to Texas, Hawaii, Alaska, Vermont, and Montana.
“Why are those states colored? And don’t tell me you don’t know.”
Luke stayed silent.
He placed his finger on Utah, which had been highlighted in yellow. “And this?”
“It’s the center of the whole damn thing.”
Utah was the home of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Several splinter groups of that religion existed, but its main body was headquartered there.
“The center of what?” he asked.
“Hard to believe, actually. But Stephanie told me on the phone there’s a connection between Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, James Madison, and Abraham Lincoln. One that she’s just been briefed on. It stretches straight back to the Founding Fathers.”
“Involving?”
“The U.S. Constitution.”
“Leading to what?”
“A whole bunch of really bad trouble.”
TWENTY-ONE
DENMARK
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 9
9:20 A.M.
SALAZAR SPOKE INTO THE PHONE BUT STUDIED THE MAP. HE was in his study, finally connecting with Elder Rowan, explaining some of what had happened yesterday in Denmark. Their fears were now confirmed. The U.S. government was focused on him.
“They found you through me,” Rowan said. “There are people in Washington who do not want us to succeed.”
That he believed.
There’d always been animosity.
“From the beginning, Josepe,” the angel said in his brain.
Every Saint knew how Joseph Smith, in 1839, knocked on the door of the White House—which he described as a palace, large and splendid, decorated with all the fineries and elegance of this world—and requested to see President Martin Van Buren. When Smith asked to be introduced as a Latter-day
Saint, the request was viewed as nonsense. When he insisted, Van Buren merely smiled at the label.
“With his arrogance, Josepe.”
Smith had brought a letter that outlined all of the violent atrocities Saints had faced in Missouri, detailing the shocking loss of life and property. He described the infamous Executive Order 44, issued by the Missouri governor, which called for the extermination of all Saints. He respectfully asked the federal government to intervene, but Van Buren did nothing.
“He said that to take up their cause would cost him the vote of Missouri,” the angel reminded him. “He judged us before he even knew us.”
Many presidents thereafter shared Van Buren’s apathy.
“The government has always been controlled by ignorance, folly, and weakness.”
The angel was right.
“What is the government’s strength? It is like a rope of sand, weak as water. There is little regard for truth or right. Shame on the rulers of the American nation.”
Just as prophets had been with presidents, he was careful with Elder Rowan. But not out of mistrust. Rowan had made clear from the beginning that he did not want details. So he omitted what happened to the American agent, the deaths of two of his own men, and the disappearance of Barry Kirk. He understood the line of demarcation between the Quorum of Twelve and the remainder of the church. Joseph Smith, and his successor Brigham Young, had utilized men just like him who likewise safeguarded the collective interest.
“Is the situation in hand?” Rowan asked.
“Totally.”
“It’s important that it stay that way. The government will try with all its might to stop us. It’s inevitable. We could only keep this secret for so long. Luckily, we’re approaching the goal.”
“Would it not be helpful to know the extent of their knowledge?” he asked.
“I plan to make inquiries on this end. Perhaps you could see what could be learned there?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“But rest assured, Josepe, neither of us has broken any laws. Their inquiries are simply investigatory.”
He again said nothing.
Danites had always worked in secrecy. Recruitment 150 years ago, as now, was by personal contact only. Meetings were carefully guarded. Teachings were not openly discussed, even with fellow Danites, outside those gatherings. Members were taught to obey their leader’s instructions without question or hesitation, admonished to prove faithful in all things committed to their trust, come life or death. Each recruit took a solemn covenant not to reveal anything. Punishment for violations of the code was carried out in secret.
“We live in a new and different dispensation,” the angel said. “One in which the Kingdom of God will break into pieces and consume all earthly kingdoms. The duty of all noble and loyal Danites is to waste away the gentiles and consecrate them to the Kingdom of God. The earth is the Lord’s, Josepe, not man’s. And the laws of the land do not apply when one commits himself to God.”
“My fear,” he said to Rowan, “is that their investigative efforts could escalate.”
“And they will. So conduct yourself accordingly.”
He understood the instruction. Nothing the Danites did could ever become public. Josepe knew his role. He was the hammer and the sword. His reward was an inner satisfaction, not one to be flaunted for the benefit of others.
“It is not your business or place to know what is required by God,” the angel said inside his head. “He will inform you by means of the prophet, and you must perform.”
Amen, he mouthed. “I have matters in hand.”
“As I knew you would. I may need you here soon, so be prepared to travel. I’m on the way back to Washington. Contact me when you have more to report.”
He stared at the map and the states highlighted.
Texas, Hawaii, Alaska, Vermont, and Montana.
And Utah.
He checked his watch.
“May Heavenly Father watch over you,” Rowan said.
“Same to you, sir.”
TWENTY-TWO
COPENHAGEN
MALONE FELT LIKE THE OLD DAYS, TOSSING ONLY THE ESSENTIALS into a travel bag, then grabbing the knapsack from beneath his bed and retrieving the few hundred euros he always kept on hand, along with his passport. Years ago passports were the least of his concerns. As a Magellan Billet agent he’d moved about the world at will, sometimes legally, most times not. What a life. Occasionally he missed it, no matter how much he might say otherwise. He’d once been involved with some important assignments, a few that even changed history. But that was not his life anymore. Or at least that’s what he’d told himself for the past few years, ever since he walked away. Yet he’d also been part of some astounding stuff since retiring.
Which seemed the case here, too.
What had Luke Daniels said last night? There’s a connection between Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, James Madison, and Abraham Lincoln. One that stretches straight back to the Founding Fathers.
He’d parted ways with Luke after they returned to Copenhagen, and the younger agent had seemed glad to be rid of him. He’d once viewed Magellan Billet business through fresh eyes, too. Straight from the navy JAG, where Stephanie had recruited him for what became a permanent reassignment to the Justice Department. When he quit the government he’d also resigned his navy commission as Commander Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone, son of Forrest Malone—also a commander, United States Navy, lost at sea. His gaze darted to the frame on the wall and the handwritten note, dated November 17, 1971. His father’s last 640 words. Written especially for his family. He’d savored every one. Especially the final sentence.
I love you, Cotton.
Not something he’d ever heard much while his dad had lived.
He’d tried not to make the same mistake with his own son, Gary, now sixteen. He certainly hoped the boy knew how he felt. God knows they’d been through enough together.
He grabbed hold of the Beretta. It had served him well yesterday. How many people had he killed with it over the years? Ten? Twelve? Fifteen?
Hard to remember.
Which bothered him.
As did what he’d witnessed last night with Cassiopeia. Her kiss with Salazar hurt, no matter how much of a role she may have been playing. He was jealous, there was no other way to view it. She’d readily offered to stay the night. What would have happened if Salazar had said yes? He didn’t want to think about it. Of course, he had no idea what happened after they’d left the estate. Salazar could have stayed over at her hotel.
Stop.
Quit this.
He hated the doubts that swirled through him, wishing he’d never seen nor heard any of it. He was better off not knowing.
Or was he?
His marriage had disintegrated thanks to lies and mistrust. He’d many times wondered what honesty would have added to that equation. Could it have saved the relationship?
His cell phone rang.
He’d been expecting the call and was not disappointed to see Stephanie Nelle appear on the screen.
“I heard you had a rough night,” she said.
“You worked me.”
“I needed your help. This started off as a simple background investigation on a foreign national. But it’s turned into something else entirely. A U.S. senator is involved. A man named Rowan from Utah. I also had no idea Barry Kirk was a plant. Obviously, Salazar is way ahead of us.”
“Get to the important part.”
“Cassiopeia is there to expedite things and learn what she can. She’s the closest person to the problem. But I’m not sure that’s a good thing anymore.”
“You kept that from me.”
“You weren’t supposed to get that close.”
“So you just used me?”
“To find my missing man? You’re damn right.”
“Frat Boy tell you he’s dead?”
“He did. My first inclination is to take Salazar down. But I’ve been ordered not to do tha
t. Luke also said you were upset by what you saw. Cassiopeia is doing me a favor, Cotton. That’s all.”
“So she’s lying to Salazar?”
“That’s right. And she’s not happy about it, but agreed to play it out a little longer.”
“She didn’t look like she was suffering.”
“I know this hurts—”
“Does she know I was there?”
“I’ve told her nothing about your involvement.”
“Keep it that way.”
“She and Salazar were not even supposed to be in the house.”
“The whole thing seemed a setup.”
“I agree,” she said. “But it worked out. We learned some valuable intel.”
“That’s what Frat Boy said?”
“He’s not an idiot, Cotton. In fact, he’s quite good. Just a bit impetuous. Maybe a symptom of his last name.”
He hadn’t made the connection before this moment. Daniels. “He’s related to the president?”
“He’s Danny Daniels’ nephew. One of his brother’s four sons.”
“That how you ended up with him?”
“It’s not what you think. Luke’s a southern boy, like you, born and raised in Tennessee. After high school he enlisted and became an Army Ranger. A good one. His personnel jacket is loaded with commendations. He served all over the Middle East, including three tours in Iraq. He wanted to work for the CIA, but the president asked if I’d take him. No conditions, no special treatment. If he couldn’t cut it, I was free to fire him.”
“If he didn’t get killed first.”
“I remember, fifteen years ago, thinking the same thing about you. But that turned out all right.”
“You held back on me, Stephanie. I hated that when I worked for you and I really hate it now.”
“I never mentioned anything about Cassiopeia because I didn’t think you’d be around long enough to find out. She’s helping me out, and wanted it kept between us.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“You’re not married to her, Cotton. She has her own life to live as she pleases, just like you do.”
“Common courtesy would say otherwise.”
“So I assume you tell her everything?”