by Steve Berry
“I can’t imagine the security is anything elaborate,” she said to him. “From all I read about the exhibit, nothing contained within it is particularly precious or valuable. Just a few historic artifacts. My guess is there will be some private security guards, maybe an off-duty policemen, but that’s about it.”
“You speak as if you’ve done things like this before.”
“I told you that I have some specialized skills.”
“May I ask why you developed these?”
She could not tell him the truth, so she said, “Mainly to protect my business interests. Then it was to protect my reconstruction project. We’ve had theft and vandalism. I learned that to handle things myself was best.”
She hated herself for telling more lies. When would they stop? Impossible to say. Especially with the leap she was about to make.
They found the hotel where Josepe had booked three rooms and said their goodbyes.
“Be careful,” he told her.
“I always am.”
LUKE STARED ACROSS THE CAR’S INTERIOR. HE’D JUST SPENT the past four hours with Cotton Malone and learned that the ex-agent’s mood had not changed since Denmark.
He’d been waiting at the regional airfield north of Des Moines and watched as an F-15E Strike Eagle dropped from the midday sky and powered to a stop on the field’s short runway. He’d never flown in a fighter and envied those allowed the privilege. He knew from Stephanie that Malone was a trained fighter pilot who’d abandoned that career to become a Navy lawyer. She hadn’t explained why he made the transition, but he assumed there’d been a good reason, since he doubted Malone did anything he didn’t want to. They’d eaten lunch, then scoped out Salisbury House, learning all they could about its layout.
“She’s pullin’ out,” he said as he watched Cassiopeia Vitt leave a downtown hotel and ease back into traffic, minus Josepe Salazar and the two others.
He and Malone had been waiting at the Des Moines airport, near the terminal that accommodated private aircraft.
“She’s headed in the right direction,” he said to Malone.
“Just don’t let her make you. She’s good at paying attention.”
Usually he’d have some snappy comeback, but he decided to not aggravate the old-timer. Instead he asked, “What do we do if she goes to where we think she’s goin’?”
“You’ll deal with her. She’s never seen you. So you can blend right in.”
“And you?”
“I’ll watch your back and try to anticipate her. I have some experience with the way she thinks.”
“Stephanie says we’re to get that watch, no matter what.”
“I know. She told me, too.”
He liked the element of not knowing that came from developing a plan as you went along. There was a thrill about it, especially when everything went right. Like at Montpelier. Katie Bishop was now ensconced at the White House, Uncle Danny telling her that she wouldn’t be heading back to Virginia. Instead, her employer would be told that she was needed in Washington for a few days, her job secure. Katie had seemed thrilled, and Stephanie had asked her to explore the Madison journal in detail.
He kept a quarter mile back from Cassiopeia’s vehicle, plenty of cars in between. The road west out of central downtown was a busy boulevard, no way anyone would ever notice a tail.
She was still headed in the right direction.
“It’s going to get more difficult once we get back into that neighborhood near Salisbury House.”
They’d already made the trip, prior to Salazar landing. No danger had existed of missing anybody since the U.S. military was tracking the Learjet across the United States. Stephanie had called in the troops, as this was a top priority.
Ahead, Cassiopeia made a left turn exactly where she should.
“Give her space,” Malone said, his voice remaining deadpan.
He’d already intended to do just that.
SALAZAR ENTERED HIS ROOM AND CLOSED THE DOOR. HE immediately fell to his knees and prayed for the angel to appear. To his immense relief, the apparition hovered above the bed, the same gentle gaze he’d come to expect smiling down at him.
“It is as you commanded. I’ve trusted her.”
“She will not disappoint you.”
“Help her be successful. I want no harm to come her way.”
“She is to be of your body. To become your wife. Together you will start a family that will grow and emerge in the fullness of heaven. Know that to be true.”
He was grateful for the angel’s vision. It calmed him. He’d wanted to go with Cassiopeia, but knew that her caution was wise. He could not risk exposure. For now, Cassiopeia’s skill and independence were assets. But once this threat passed and the promise of Zion fulfilled, there would be changes. Leading and supporting a family was a father’s duty. Mothers raised children. That was the way it had been in his parents’ family, and it would be the same in his own. For both parents to be devoted to something outside the home was a detriment to children, and he wanted good children. At least one from Cassiopeia, more from other wives. His and Cassiopeia’s ages would be a factor, so any other unions would have to be with younger women. He firmly believed that a mother at home improved children’s school performance, enhanced their attitude toward life, stimulated a healthier work ethic later in life, and forged stronger morals.
He wanted that for his children.
He’d been patient finding a new wife.
So he intended to do it right.
“Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother were married. As parents they bore the spirit children, which meant that all of the people who ever lived are literally the children of God, brothers and sisters to one another. Soon you will add to their number.”
He liked hearing that.
But for now, he bowed his head and prayed for Cassiopeia’s success.
FIFTY-FOUR
LUKE ENTERED SALISBURY HOUSE THROUGH ITS NORTH DOOR, following a group of excited visitors. Malone had dropped him at the end of the drive and he’d walked the rest of the way. They could not afford to have their car parked in some restricted lot, subject to a valet. Instead Malone kept it a few streets over, past the house’s rear garden, through the trees. They’d chosen a suitable locale earlier.
He checked his watch: 7:25 P.M.
Darkness had arrived, a tame crowd of maybe a hundred milling about through the ground floor and onto a lit back terrace. The front doors opened into what appeared to be a grand hall, where half-timbered beams held the ceiling high overhead and an enormous medieval-style fireplace anchored the opposite wall. Above him, a railing crowded with visitors protected an exposed second-floor balcony that overlooked the hall.
Malone had described Cassiopeia Vitt and Stephanie had emailed a photograph. He saw no one matching her description admiring the glass cases of Lincoln artifacts displayed in the Great Hall. The only security was a uniformed city policeman, no side-arm, standing near the fireplace, surely here to earn a few bucks from an easy off-duty gig.
Sorry to mess up your night, he thought.
He wandered from the hall down a short flight of stairs and entered what a placard called the Common Room. More halogen-light-displayed exhibits were here, as were more people.
One of the patrons caught his eye.
Long dark hair, with a hint of curl. Killer body. Gorgeous face. Like a model, but he could tell that she was in shape. She wore a clingy silk pantsuit that clung to all of her curves.
He liked what he saw.
No wonder Malone was freaked out.
Cassiopeia Vitt was hot.
CASSIOPEIA ADMIRED A MAGNIFICENT STEINWAY GRAND PIANO. On the walls of the Common Room she’d already noticed a Van Dyck portrait dated to 1624 and an elaborate crest of the Armand Cosmetics Company, which had been founded at the turn of the 20th century by the house’s original owner. The center of the long room was dotted with lit glass cases, each displaying some object dealing with Lincoln. There was an iron wed
ge used to split wood, various clothing, books, writings, even the top hat worn the night he was assassinated. The idea seemed to present an intimate portrait of Lincoln’s life and legacy. The case that drew her attention stood third from the end and contained a silver pocket watch. The information card inside confirmed that this was her prize.
She’d already taken a look at the ground-floor rooms.
Lighting was ambient, intentionally low so as to highlight the brightly lit displays. That would help. She’d only seen two security men, both wearing local police uniforms. Neither appeared especially interested, nor a threat. Maybe a hundred people were present, scattered about, making for plenty of distractions.
She ambled from the Common Room back to the Great Hall, admiring the three-quarter-scale suit of armor that sat near stairs leading up to a balcony. She’d only need a minute or so to acquire the watch. The glass in the case was not thick. Breaking it would be an easy matter that would not damage the watch. Besides, according to Josepe, what they were after lay within the timepiece.
She admired the house’s interior style and design. Her trained eye noticed English oak, Elizabethan cupboards, Chinese vases, and the paintings, each old and unique. But she also felt the sense that this had been someone’s home. People had lived here. In some ways it reminded her of her own childhood home, though Tudor adornments gave way there to Spanish and Arab influences. Her parents had also decorated it with things that meant something to them. It remained that way to this day, as, like Josepe and his mother’s parlor, she’d not changed much.
She wandered outside to the terrace.
A lovely rear garden stretched to a tree line about forty meters away. Her gaze drifted up to the roofline, and she saw where electrical cables entered the main house. She followed the wires to an outbuilding among the trees. She’d expected that to be the case. Through decades of modifications and upgrades, eventually everything became centralized. It happened with her château in France and at her parents’ home. Here, the location was a cottage with a gabled tile roof.
All she had to do was get inside.
Unnoticed.
LUKE KEPT BACK, AMONG THE VISITORS, EVEN CHATTING WITH a few as if he belonged there. But he kept one eye on Cassiopeia Vitt, who was clearly scoping things out. He’d lingered inside while she explored the terrace, then drifted out into the garden.
She was noticing something.
He reentered the house and twisted on the radio in his pocket. He’d brought with him from D.C. communications equipment, which came with a lapel mike and ear fob, Malone wearing its counterpart.
“You there?” he whispered.
“No, I left,” Malone said in his ear.
“She’s casing the joint.”
“Let me guess. She’s outside, checking the roof.”
“You do know your girl.”
“Get ready, ’cause things are about to go dark.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
MALONE STOOD IN THE SHADOWS OF THE TREES BEHIND Salisbury House. He’d parked their car a hundred yards away on a side street that paralleled the estate’s rear property line. The lack of fencing had made it easy to hike back to a place from which he could spy the house’s illuminated terrace and the people milling about, enjoying the cool night. Soft lights burned in the ground-floor windows. He’d watched as Cassiopeia exited and casually strolled the gardens. She’d have to improvise, and the best way to gain an advantage was to take away the other side’s ability to see.
Just for a few minutes.
Which was all she’d need.
He, too, had spotted the electrical wires on the roof, their path leading to an outbuilding. If he was right, that was where she’d head.
The trick was to figure out how far to allow this to go.
He needed her to steal the watch, but he could not allow her to escape. He studied the woman he loved. She looked great, as usual, strolling confidently. They’d saved each other’s hides more times than he could count. He trusted her. Depended on her. And he’d thought she felt the same toward him.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
Interesting how his life had turned 180 degrees over the course of two days.
For what?
And why?
No answer would come until he and Cassiopeia could sit down and talk. But what was about to happen would surely stick a spur in that.
She would not be glad to see him.
But see him she would.
FIFTY-FIVE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
8:50 P.M.
ROWAN APPROACHED BLAIR HOUSE. SINCE THE TIME OF Franklin Roosevelt the property had been owned by the United States, used exclusively by presidential guests. Now the government also owed the three adjacent town houses, and many foreign dignitaries had stayed within the 70,000 square feet of elegance. Truman had lived here while the White House had been extensively renovated, walking each day across the street to his office. Just outside the front door, on November 1, 1950, an attempt to assassinate Truman had been foiled by a Secret Service agent, who lost his life in the process. A bronze plaque adorned the iron fence in that agent’s honor, and Rowan had taken a moment to pay his respects to the hero.
The call had come to his Senate office two hours ago. The president of the United States wanted to see him. How quickly could he be there? One of his aides had found him and passed along the message. He realized that there was no way to dodge such a summons, so he’d agreed on 9:00 P.M.
Interesting, though, the choice of location.
Not the White House.
Instead, the guesthouse. Off premises. As if Daniels was saying that he was not welcome. But maybe he was reading too much into things. Danny Daniels had never been regarded as a great thinker. Some feared him, others ridiculed him, most just left him alone. But he was popular. His approval ratings remained surprisingly high for a man in the twilight of a political career. Daniels had won both presidential elections with solid majorities. If truth be known the opposition was just glad to see him go, content to allow the old man to simply fade away. Unfortunately, Rowan did not have the same option. His presence had been commanded.
He was shown inside and through a maze of rooms into a space with yellow-striped walls, anchored by a portrait of Abraham Lincoln, which hung above a mantel adorned with red Bohemian crystal lamps. He knew the room. This was where officials were ushered before calling on foreign leaders staying at Blair House. A few years ago he’d waited here while paying his respects to the queen of England.
He was left alone inside.
Apparently the president was showing him who was in charge. Which was fine. He could indulge such pettiness, at least for a while longer. Once the state of Deseret came into being, with him as its secular head, presidents would wait on him. No longer would Saints be ignored, repudiated, or ridiculed. His new nation would be a shining example to the world of how religion, politics, and sound management could mesh into one.
The door opened and Danny Daniels offered him a fiery gaze.
“It’s time you and I speak,” the president said, his voice low.
No hand was offered to shake.
No seat offered.
Instead they stood, Daniels a foot taller, dressed in an open-collared, long-sleeved shirt, no jacket, and dress trousers. Rowan had worn his customary suit.
Daniels closed the door. “You’re a traitor.”
He was ready with his response. “Quite the contrary. I’m a patriot. You, sir, and all the presidents who came before you, back to that man himself”—he pointed at Lincoln’s portrait—“are the traitors.”
“How would you know that?”
Time for truth.
“Within the church we have long known that there was more to the Constitution of the United States than what Lincoln wanted us to know.”
“Lincoln trusted the Mormons, as Brigham Young trusted Lincoln.”
He nodded. “And look what it got us. When the w
ar was over, the threat past, Congress passed the Edmunds-Tucker bill that criminalized polygamy and this government prosecuted hundreds of church members. What happened to all that trust?”
“Polygamy was contrary to our society,” the president said. “Even your own leaders finally realized that.”
“No, we were forced to realize that, as such was the price of our statehood. At that time all believed statehood was the route to safety and prosperity. That is no longer the case.”
Thinking about what happened so long ago disgusted him. The 1887 Edmunds-Tucker Act had literally dissolved the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Never before or since had the Congress directed such venom toward a singular religious organization. The bill provided not only for the end of the church, but a confiscation of all its property. And the devil-ridden Supreme Court of the United States in 1890 validated those acts as constitutional.
“What are you after?” Daniels asked.
“I only want what’s best for the people of Utah. I personally could not care less about the federal government. It has outlived its usefulness.”
“I’ll remind you of that when your borders are attacked.”
He chuckled. “I doubt anyone, besides you, would ever want to invade Deseret.”
“Is that the name you’ve decided on?”
“It means something to us. It’s what the land should have been called in the first place. But this government insisted on Utah.”
All part of the despicable concessions demanded and provided. The day still disgusted him. September 25, 1890. When a declaration was issued by the then-prophet accepting obedience to all federal law and announcing the end of plural marriage. Six years later, statehood was granted. Property was slowly returned, including the Salt Lake temple. But the church had taken a beating. Heavily in debt and divided over both theology and finances, it would take decades to recover.