by Steve Berry
She understood. “So I’m to be the bait?”
“Why not? You and I understand each other. Together, we can solve this.”
“Looks like we don’t have a choice.”
“That’s the thing I’m going to miss most about this job. People are once again going to have choices when it comes to me.”
She smiled. He was impossible.
“I actually wanted to bring you in earlier, but I’m glad I didn’t. Now that Rowan himself has focused on you, it’s perfect. He’ll never see it coming and, if he does, he wants this so bad he’ll take a chance.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
He pointed again at Madison’s note. “First, find whatever it is Madison left at Montpelier. I don’t want you to do it personally, though. Do you have an agent you can trust?”
“I do. He should be back here, in Washington, right now.”
She stared at him long enough that he understood.
“Can Luke handle this?” he asked.
“He’s good, Danny.”
“Okay, let him handle it. But God help him if he screws this up. I’m bettin’ the farm on that wild boy.”
“Seems like Luke’s not the only one in the firing line.”
“You’re a pro, Stephanie. You can handle this. I need you to handle this. I’m also going to want you to meet with Rowan and gain his trust.”
“And why in the world would he ever trust me?”
“Tell him you can’t respond to his subpoena. To do so would end your career. But you get why you were served. No one would ever respond to such a sweeping request without a fight or a compromise. Obviously, he wants something. So ask him what it is, then make a deal.”
“Again, there’s no way he’s going to buy that.”
“Actually, he will. Last evening we leaked through secured channels that your job is on the line.”
She was civil service, not a political appointee, and worked for the attorney general. Once Daniels’ term ended and a new AG was appointed by the next president, though she would not be fired, she could be reassigned. So far, she’d survived several changes in administrations and had many times wondered when her luck would run out.
“And why is my job in jeopardy?”
“You’ve been stealing.”
Had she heard right?
“From your discretionary account, the money used for your covert operations. I’m told, on any given day, there’s several million dollars at your personal disposal, not subject to any regular GAO audit. Unfortunately, information has come to us that that around $500,000 is unaccounted for.”
“And how did this information come your way?”
“That would be classified,” Daniels said. “But you’re going to tell Rowan that you have a problem, one his subpoena may draw attention to. Ask him what you can do to make it go away.”
“Why would he believe me?”
“Because you actually have been stealing, and I have the records to prove it.”
THIRTY-TWO
SALZBURG
SALAZAR WAS READY.
He told himself to calm down, be patient.
“Our next item,” the auctioneer said, “is an original Book of Mormon, bearing the Palmyra, New York, identification and the statement, printed by E. B. Grandin, for the author, 1830. Its provenance is detailed in the catalog, verified by experts. A rare find.”
Fair market value was 150,000 euros, give or take a few thousand. He doubted anyone here possessed the resources to outbid him as, so far, items had sold for only modest amounts. But he’d learned not to underestimate the zeal of collectors.
“The opening bid is one hundred thousand euros,” the auctioneer said. “We will work off increments of one thousand euros.”
That was common for a Dorotheum sale. The house generally started things rolling. If no one bid that amount, the item was returned to its owner. If no house floor was proffered, that meant the highest bid won, no matter what that might be.
He flicked his right hand, signaling that he opened with one hundred thousand. He’d already informed the auctioneer that he would be bidding on this item.
“We have one hundred thousand.”
“One hundred twenty thousand,” a man said from across the aisle.
“One fifty,” Salazar stated.
“The bid is 150,000 euros. Is there more?”
No one replied. He was pleased.
“One hundred sixty,” a new voice said.
He turned and saw Cotton Malone standing at the rear of the hall.
“It’s the man from earlier,” Cassiopeia said.
“That it is,” he whispered.
Malone stepped toward the chairs and sat in an empty one.
“We have a bid of 160,000 euros,” the auctioneer announced.
“One hundred seventy,” Salazar said.
“Two hundred thousand,” Malone called out.
The auctioneer seemed surprised.
So was Salazar. “I request to know if the gentleman is certified.”
That was allowed, particularly when bids exceeded market value. Otherwise, owners and speculators could run up the price through nonsensical amounts that they were not prepared to honor.
“Herr Salazar wishes to know your credentials,” the auctioneer asked.
MALONE STOOD FROM HIS CHAIR. HE’D ATTENDED ENOUGH auctions to know this might happen, which was why he’d removed from the knapsack beneath his bed back in Copenhagen his Justice Department credentials, which Stephanie had allowed him to keep. Rarely in his former occupation had he ever carried them. He fished the leather wallet from his pocket and flashed the gold badge and photo identification to the auctioneer.
“Cotton Malone. United States Justice Department. Good enough?”
The auctioneer never flinched. “So long as you can honor your bid.”
“I assure you I can.”
“Then, let us proceed. The bid is two hundred thousand euros. Herr Salazar?”
“Two fifty.”
CASSIOPEIA GRABBED SALAZAR’S ARM AND WHISPERED, “YOU told me the value of this book, which is far less than you just bid.”
“Things have changed.”
“Three hundred thousand,” Cotton said.
SALAZAR TURNED AND FACED HIS ADVERSARY. TRUE, HE’D wanted the Americans to come, even hoped that Malone himself would appear. But he’d not expected this type of challenge.
“Four hundred thousand,” he said, his eyes on his opponent.
“Four hundred fifty,” Malone quickly replied.
“Five hundred thousand.”
Silence filled the room.
He waited.
“One million euros,” Malone said.
He kept his gaze locked on his enemy.
“Satan is here. See him, Josepe. There he sits. He is an agent of the U.S. government. Wherever there is any dominion that is beneath that of the celestial world, we are to be free of it. The American continent was not designed for such a corrupt government as the United States to prosper long upon it. Let him win. Then make him pay.”
He’d never questioned the angel before and was not going to start now.
He turned toward the auctioneer and shook his head.
Ending the sale.
He watched as Malone paid the cashier an amount seven times what any other original edition would command. The Book of Mormon lay on the table, sealed in plastic, inside a stylish wooden box.
Malone lifted the prize out for a quick inspection.
Cassiopeia marched over and said, “Was it worth it?”
Malone smiled. “Every euro.”
“You are a despicable man.”
The American shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
“You’ll regret what you just did,” she said to him.
Malone threw her a quizzical look. “Is that a threat, ma’am?”
“Take it as a promise.”
Malone chuckled as he laid the book back inside the box and
sealed the lid. “I’ll do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”
“Know that there are more treasures than one for you in this world,” the angel told Salazar. “Worry not over the loss of this one. But neither allow the enemy to walk easy.”
The auction house was holding a reception after the sale, one he’d originally planned to attend.
Not anymore.
He and Cassiopeia descended to the castle’s lower level and made their way to the funicular station. The route took them across another of the castle’s open terraces, past a restaurant busy with evening diners. He pointed beyond the parapets, eastward, where she could see the streets and building lights of Salzburg’s antiseptic suburbs.
“The local ward is headquartered down there. I should call and schedule a visit before we leave town.”
“We can do that tomorrow,” Cassiopeia said.
They entered the station and found the railcar. Inside stood Cotton Malone. The interior was claustrophobic, the car nearly full. A few more people trickled inside, then the doors shut and the steep descent began. He kept his attention out the forward windows for the entire minute of the journey.
At ground level, they exited and found the street.
Malone passed them and kept walking.
His two Danites were waiting where he’d directed them to be earlier.
“I thought we’d take a stroll through the streets of old town,” he said to Cassiopeia. “Before heading back to the hotel. It’s a lovely night.”
“I’d like that.”
“Let me speak a moment with my associates. I had asked them to be here so they might take charge of my purchase. Of course, I don’t have one now.”
He left her and walked to his men. With his back to Cassiopeia he stared at them both and said, “I assume you saw Malone?”
They nodded.
“Seize him. Call me when you have him. And retrieve that wooden box he’s holding.”
THIRTY-THREE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
1:00 P.M.
LUKE HAD NOT BEEN HOME IN SEVERAL WEEKS. HE LEASED AN apartment near Georgetown in an ivy-veined brick building brimming with tenants in their seventies. He liked the quiet and appreciated the fact that everyone seemed to mind their own business. He spent only a few days here each month, between assignments, on the downtime Stephanie Nelle required all her Magellan Billet agents to take.
He’d been born and raised in a small Tennessee town where his father and uncle were both known, particularly his uncle, who served in various local political offices, then as governor before becoming president. His father died when he was seventeen. Cancer. Fatal eighteen days after diagnosis. What a shock. He and his three brothers had been there for every moment of those final days. His mother took the loss hard. They’d been married a long time. Her husband was everything to her, and then, suddenly, he was gone.
That’s why he called her every Sunday.
Never missed.
Even when on assignment.
It might be late at night her time when he had the chance, but he called. His father always said that the smartest thing he ever did was marry her, proclaiming that even the blind-eyed biscuit thrower occasionally hits the target.
Both his parents were devoutly religious—Southern Baptists—so they’d named their sons to correspond with the books of the New Testament. His two older brothers were Matthew and Mark. His younger, John. He was the third in line and acquired the name Luke.
He would never forget his last conversation with his father.
“I’m going to die later today or tomorrow. I’m done. I can feel it. But I have to say this to you. I want you to make something of your life. Okay? Something good. You choose what works. Doesn’t matter. But, whatever it is, make the most of it.”
He could still feel the gentle grip of his father’s sweaty palm as they shook hands for the last time. All of the sons had been close to their father. And he’d known exactly what his dad had meant. School had never interested him, his grades barely passing. College was not in his future. So he’d enlisted right out of high school and was accepted for Army Ranger training. Sixty-one of the hardest days of his life. Not for the weak or fainthearted—that’s what it said right in the Ranger handbook. Kind of an understatement, considering the failure rate was way over 50 percent. But he’d made it, earning his lieutenant bars. Eventually he’d been deployed to some of the hottest spots on the planet, wounded twice, and received multiple commendations.
His father would have been proud.
Then he was chosen to work for the Magellan Billet, where he’d been involved in more high-stakes action.
He was now thirty years old, and the loss of his dad still hurt. What was the saying? Real men don’t cry. Bullshit. Real men bawl their eyes out, as he and his brothers had thirteen years ago when they watched the man they idolized take his last breath.
A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts.
He’d been sitting in the quiet for half an hour, shaking off jet lag, trying to re-acclimate himself to Eastern Daylight Time. He opened the door to find Stephanie Nelle. He was not aware that she knew where he lived.
“We have to talk,” she said. “May I come in?”
She stepped inside and he caught her taking in the décor.
“Not what I expected,” she said.
He prided himself on the warm look, most of which came with the unit but some of which he’d selected. Masculine, but not overly so. Wood furniture. Muted fabrics. Lots of greenery, all fake but looking real. Contrary to what people thought, he liked order.
“You were expecting a college dorm room?”
“I’m not sure. But this is lovely.”
“I like it here—the few days a month I get to enjoy it.”
She stood, arms at her sides. “You and Cotton part okay?”
“He nearly killed me. He shot Kirk right over my shoulder.”
“I doubt you were in any danger. Cotton knows how to handle a weapon.”
“Maybe so. But I was glad to be rid of the old-timer. He has a piss-poor attitude.”
“That old-timer was awarded every commendation we have, every one of which he refused.”
“Was. That’s the key word. He walked away. His time is done. And let me tell you, he didn’t like watching his girl kiss Salazar one bit. It messed him up, though he tried to hide it. But on that I can’t blame him. I did what you said, though. I aggravated him. Tried to keep him interested. Then I fed him the information about the Founding Fathers and the Constitution. Unfortunately, he didn’t take the bait and hang around.”
“He’s in Salzburg.”
That surprised him. “And you’re thinking that’s a good thing?”
“Cotton’s a pro. He’ll handle things right.”
“If you say so. I say his head isn’t screwed on for this one.”
“I just came from your uncle.”
“And how is dear Danny? I don’t think I’ve heard from him since my dad died.”
“He’s concerned.” She paused. “And I’m about to be fired.”
“Really now? What did you do?”
“Seems I’m a thief. A situation fabricated for the benefit of Thaddeus Rowan. It’s time for you to know some additional information, so listen up.”
STEPHANIE LIKED LUKE, THOUGH HE WAS A WILD SPIRIT. SHE envied that freedom. How liberating it must be to have so much life ahead of you. She’d been there once, intent on making the most of every opportunity. Some she maximized, others eluded her. She’d sat at the dining room table in the vice president’s mansion for over an hour and listened as Danny Daniels told her more of what was going on.
Thaddeus Rowan was planning a secession.
He wanted to dissolve the Union and end the United States of America.
Ordinarily, that would be treated as nonsense, but Rowan had a specific plan with specific objectives, all of which—thanks to James Madison, Abraham Lincoln, and Brigham Young—might be achievabl
e. She could not, and would not, reveal all that she knew to Luke, but she told him enough so that he could do his job.
“You’re going to Montpelier and into that ice pit,” she said. “I want to know what, if anything, is there.”
Luke stepped over to his Magellan Billet–issued laptop and she watched as he pecked at the keyboard. His fingertips then maneuvered the cursor and a couple of clicks led to Montpelier.org.
“That pit was dug in the early 1800s,” he said. “Twenty-three feet deep, brick-lined. Madison built the temple over it around 1810. How could there be anything secret down there? It’s surely been picked over for years.”
“Maybe not. I also checked. There’s not a single photograph of what the inside looks like posted anywhere on the Web. Kind of strange, wouldn’t you say? We don’t have a clue what’s down there.”
“How do you suggest I get in?”
“Break and enter.”
“Can’t we just ask to see it?”
She shook her head. “We can’t involve anyone. It’s just you and me. Not even Atlanta knows what we’re doing. Get in, find out if Madison left anything, and get out. But don’t. Get. Caught.”
“I can handle that.”
“I knew you could. I’ll be available by cell. Let me know the minute you’re done.”
“How did you know Malone would go to Salzburg?”
“Because he cares for Cassiopeia. He wasn’t going to allow her to fly blind, now that he knows she’s there and Salazar killed our man. He’s probably even a little jealous, which is good for him. He’ll give Salazar just what the bastard deserves.”
“Salazar needs taking down.”
“I agree. And we’ll get our shot. But not just yet.”
“Does my loving uncle know I’m working this?”
She nodded. “He approves.”
Luke chuckled. “I bet he does. He’d sooner bust my chops than look at me.”