by Steve Berry
“Unfortunately, it won’t stop with Utah. Which is your plan. Other states will follow. You’re right, our problems run deep. People are ready to flee. They think there’s something better. But I’m here to tell you there’s not. For all its faults this is the best damn political system man has ever conceived. It does work. But only as a unit of fifty states. I can’t allow you to destroy that.”
“Even if the founders themselves said it was okay?”
Snow sighed. “Thaddeus, our own founders said a lot of things, too. Some of it was wise, some nonsense. It’s our duty, our responsibility, to ignore the bad and keep the good. Times have changed. What may have worked in 1787 no longer works today.”
“That’s not for us to decide.” His voice rose. “It’s for the people to choose. They have a right to know everything.”
“If that’s the case,” Daniels said, “then why do we classify information? Why do we meet in secret to make national security decisions? Because it’s up to us, as the people’s representatives, to make smart decisions. They elect and trust us to get it right. And every few years they have chance to tell us how we’re doing. Senator, we’re asking you to stop this, both your president and your prophet are asking you to stop.”
His first thought was about what was happening in Iowa. Did the Lincoln watch hold the final piece of the puzzle? He also wondered about Stephanie Nelle and her complicity. She’d offered him vital information. But what had Snow just said about his own offered cooperation?
Enough rope to hang yourself.
“You sent Stephanie Nelle to me, didn’t you?” he asked Daniels.
“I sent no one. She’s a thief and a traitor. I’m going to fire her, then put her sorry ass in jail. That’s where you’re going, too, if you don’t stop.”
He faced Snow. “We have a right to live free, as we please, according to the prophets. We’ve earned that. Our founders envisioned that.”
“We are free, Thaddeus.”
“How can you say that? It’s our duty to fulfill the White Horse Prophecy.”
“That’s a fantasy. It always has been.”
“No, it’s not. We were told to stand by the Constitution of the United States as it was given by the inspiration of God. That means in its entirety. And that’s what I’m doing. The founders themselves said a state could leave, if it wanted to. I’m prepared to see if Utah wants that.”
Then something occurred to him.
“You lied to Nixon about the prophecy, didn’t you?”
Snow stared back.
“That’s exactly what you did,” he said again. “You told him it was fantasy.”
“We simply reiterated what the church has publicly said of that pronouncement,” Snow made clear.
“Which was a lie. You just said every prophet since Brigham Young was aware of the truth. What we held for the United States.”
“Which has nothing to do with that prophecy,” Snow said. “It has everything to do, though, with the future of this nation. We simply chose not to destroy this country. The Constitution would, indeed, hang by a thread if you’re allowed to proceed.”
“Where is it, Charles?” His body shook with intensity. “Where is that document hidden? Tell me.”
Snow shook his head. “That will not be passed from this prophet to the next. And I assure you, I’m the only one who knows.”
“Then you have betrayed your faith, and all that it stands for.”
“I’m prepared to answer to Heavenly Father. Are you?”
“Absolutely. I know Lincoln fought a war that never should have been fought. The South had a right to leave, and he knew that. He made a personal choice to wage that war. Hundreds of thousands died. What do you think the American people will say when that’s revealed?”
“That he chose the Union,” Daniels said. “He chose this country. I would have done the same.”
“Then you’re a traitor, too.”
“Lincoln decided that the United States was more important than the individual states,” Daniels said. “Granted, times have changed. The same pressures he faced we don’t. But we have pressures that are just as immediate. Worldwide concerns. It’s important that this nation survive.”
He leveled his gaze at the president of the United States. “It. Will. Fall.”
“I’m releasing you from your calling,” Snow said. “I want your resignation as an apostle.”
“And I want you out of the Senate,” the president said.
“You can both go to hell.”
Never before had he uttered such derogatory words. Swearing was contrary to all that he believed. But he was angry. And he had to hope that Salazar was successful. Everything now depended on that.
He turned for the door, but could not resist a parting shot.
“This Lincoln myth will end. The nation will see him for what he was. A man who fought a war for nothing, who hid away the truth for his own purposes. Unlike either of you, I trust the judgment of the people. They’ll decide if this Union is forever.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
MALONE KEPT WATCH ON THE DARK OUTLINE OF SALISBURY House. The electricity had been down about fifteen minutes, and he finally spotted flashlights streaking through the cottage where Cassiopeia had done her damage. A couple of minutes later the lights inside and out came back on. Surely it was clear now that someone had intentionally tripped the breaker. It would not be long before police would be everywhere.
“She’s coming your way, Pappy,” Luke said in his ear.
He fled his post and headed back through the trees to where he’d parked the rental car. It sat on the shoulder of a tree-lined street, the houses around all set back from the road a hundred-plus feet. One of those older neighborhoods built when people craved privacy and land was cheap.
There was no telling what had happened inside Salisbury House. Frat Boy had kept the details to himself. The fact that Cassiopeia now possessed the watch meant Luke had underestimated her.
Big mistake.
LUKE HASTENED HIS PACE, HIS GROIN STILL ACHING. HE OWED her one for that. He found the edge of the house and turned the corner. Trees, shrubs, and woods nestled close to the side wall. A rustling noise up ahead confirmed that Vitt was still on the move. The lights had returned inside, the ground-floor windows now illuminating this side of the building.
He pushed his way through the foliage.
Malone should be somewhere behind the rear garden, Vitt heading straight toward him.
CASSIOPEIA STAYED IN THE TREES AND PASSED THE EDGE OF THE rear garden. Her car was waiting fifty meters away on a street labeled Greenwood Drive. She had the watch. Josepe would be pleased. Maybe once she handed it over she could learn its significance. All Josepe had mentioned was that it might be the final piece of a much larger puzzle. Would she tell Stephanie Nelle?
Probably not.
Sirens could now be heard.
With the lights back on in Salisbury House, the theft would be evident.
Time to be far away, and fast.
“SHE SHOULD BE RIGHT ON YOU,” LUKE SAID INTO THE MIKE.
No reply.
“Malone.”
Still silent.
Where the heck was the old-timer?
He decided to take matters into his own hands. The pain had finally subsided, and his hard-trained muscles were ready, nerves alert.
So he sprang ahead.
CASSIOPEIA HEARD THRASHING RAPIDLY COMING HER WAY.
She increased her pace and came to the end of the rear garden, rushing ahead through the woods toward her parked vehicle. Someone was closing in. The car doors were unlocked, the keys in her purse along with the watch, which she held tightly.
The woods ended at the edge of the road.
She spotted her car and raced over, climbing inside, stuffing the key in the ignition and firing the engine. She shifted into drive, foot on the accelerator, and was about to speed away when something pounded the hood. Through the windshield she spotted a man sprawled out and
a face. Younger. Late twenties, early thirties.
“Going somewhere?” he asked her.
The man’s left arm came up from his side, the hand holding a semi-automatic, which he aimed straight at her.
She smiled and kept her eyes locked on his.
Then her right foot floored the accelerator.
LUKE HAD EXPECTED SOMETHING, WHICH WAS WHY HIS RIGHT hand was vised onto the hood’s lip at the base of the windshield, where the wipers were hidden.
The car lunged forward, tires spinning in the dirt and grass, then grabbing pavement.
She swung the wheel left, then right, trying to dislodge him.
He held tight.
She increased speed.
“Pappy,” he said. “I don’t know where you are, but I need you. I’m going to have to shoot this crazy bitch.”
Stephanie’s orders were clear.
Get the watch.
At any cost.
CASSIOPEIA DID NOT WANT TO SERIOUSLY INJURE THE MAN ON her hood, but she also needed him to go away. He surely worked for Stephanie Nelle. Who else would be here?
They were on a dark side street with no traffic, woods on both sides between an occasional driveway.
Ahead, something emerged from the trees.
Another vehicle.
Blocking both lanes, perpendicular to her path.
Its driver’s-side door opened and the outline of a man emerged.
One she knew.
Cotton.
She slammed on the brakes and skidded the car to a stop.
MALONE STOOD HIS GROUND.
Luke dropped himself off the hood and yanked open the driver’s door, his weapon pointed at Cassiopeia.
She did not move.
The cabin light revealed her face, another mask of stone, like in Salzburg, her gaze locked on him. Luke reached in and switched off the ignition.
“Get the hell out,” Luke yelled.
She ignored him.
Malone walked toward her, his steps slow and steady. He came close and spotted the small purse on the passenger seat. Black. Chanel. Adorned with iconic charms that had served, in years past, as symbols of the brand. He’d bought it in Paris, a Christmas present last year, for the woman who quite literally had everything.
He stepped to the passenger door, opened it, and retrieved the purse. Inside lay the watch, which he removed, tossing the handbag back inside. He was as pissed with her as she was with him and, like her, said nothing.
He motioned that they should leave.
“You sure?” Luke asked.
“Leave her be.”
Luke shrugged, then tossed the keys into her lap.
Still, not a speck of reaction from her. Instead she slammed the door shut, fired up the engine, and spun the car around 180 degrees before speeding away.
“That wasn’t good,” Luke said.
He watched as the vehicle faded into the night.
“No,” he whispered. “It wasn’t.”
FIFTY-NINE
MARYLAND
ROWAN SAT INSIDE THE TEMPLE.
Ever since childhood, he’d felt safe within a temple’s walls. Then it had been the temple in Salt Lake. Since coming to Washington, he’d made this temple his home. Here, behind thick masonry and locked doors, Saints could practice as they pleased. No one but Saints who’d achieved temple recommend could enter. Only during the weeks prior to its consecration were a temple’s doors opened to gentiles. In 1974 nearly a million had walked through this magnificent structure in the Maryland countryside. Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News & World Report had all published stories on it. Open houses had been the norm since the early days, a way to counter the wild rumors and misconceptions about what lay inside. But once a temple was consecrated it became the exclusive realm of Saints.
He’d fled Blair House and taken a cab straight here, his second visit of the day. Earlier, outside in the morning chill, he’d planned with his congressional colleagues what was to happen next.
Now he was unsure of everything.
Charles R. Snow himself had entered the fray.
An extraordinary occurrence, one he’d never anticipated. Actually, he’d been counting on Snow’s death. Once he was ordained as prophet, which was a given, he’d have the entire church at his disposal. Instead Snow had released him, demanding a resignation. That was unprecedented. Apostles kept their jobs until death. He’d currently served the longest, rising through the hierarchy, now one heartbeat away from becoming prophet.
And not just any prophet.
The first since Brigham Young who would lead both the church and the government. And the first to do such with the status of an independent, viable nation.
Deseret.
True, a vote of the electorate and a court fight lay ahead, but he was confident both could be won.
Now the dream seemed in dire jeopardy.
Both Daniels and Snow knew everything. Had Stephanie Nelle sold him out? Was she a spy? Her appearance had been most fortuitous.
Paranoia was setting in.
Just as it had after the Civil War and before the turn of the 20th century, when Saints were prosecuted and jailed under the anti-polygamy Edmunds-Tucker Act. When the church itself was declared illegal. When one turned on the other. Spies were everywhere. The Time of Troubles, it had come to be called. Which only ended when the church caved and conformed.
He was alone, inside one of the celestial rooms.
He had to think.
His cell phone vibrated.
Usually the devices were not allowed inside the temple. But this was far from usual. He checked the display.
Salazar.
“What happened?” he asked, after answering.
“The watch is gone. The government now has it.”
He closed his eyes. The evening was turning into a disaster. Nothing had gone right.
“Head to Salt Lake,” he ordered. “I’ll be there in the morning.”
“They knew we were here,” Salazar said.
Of course they did. Why wouldn’t they?
“We’ll talk in Salt Lake.”
He ended the call.
CASSIOPEIA SAT IN JOSEPE’S HOTEL SUITE AND WATCHED AS HE spoke on the phone.
The call ended.
“Elder Rowan sounded defeated,” he said, his voice not much above a whisper. “I have to say, I echo his feeling. We’ve been at this for several years. But only in the past few months has the goal come into sight. It’s been a long hard struggle to get this far.”
“I’m sorry I lost the watch.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I should have anticipated problems and been ready to act. I could have sent my associates with you.”
“They would have been in the way. I’m the one who didn’t see it coming.”
Josepe let out a long exhale. “How about this? No more talk of defeatism tonight. Let’s have dinner somewhere.”
She was not in the mood, role or no role.
“I’m pretty jet-lagged. Would you mind if I just went to sleep?”
STEPHANIE HAD SET UP A MAKESHIFT HEADQUARTERS INSIDE her room at the Mandarin Oriental, her laptop connected to the Magellan Billet’s secured server, her phone on ready. She’d brought with her Katie Bishop, who was in an adjacent room combing through Madison’s secret notes, harvesting every piece of relevant information that she could. The young woman was bright and articulate and had apparently taken a shine to Luke Daniels. On the cab ride over from the White House there’d been lots of questions on that subject.
And now they had the watch.
Luke and Cotton had been successful.
She stared at her screen and the video feed from Luke’s laptop in Des Moines. Katie had consulted the appropriate websites and talked with a curator at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History, who’d explained how the first Lincoln watch had been opened.
Really simple.
The back screwed off, right-to-left, counterclockwise, exposing its inn
er workings. The only trick would be to loosen the threads from corrosion, since they hadn’t seen any action in a long time. A few gentle taps in the right places was what worked the first time.
Which had all been passed on to Iowa.
MALONE LIFTED THE WATCH FROM THE DESKTOP. HE AND LUKE had obtained a room in a downtown hotel away from where Salazar was staying, a video link established to Stephanie in DC.
He admired the timepiece, which was in excellent condition.
“Let’s try and not destroy it,” Stephanie said from the screen.
He smirked her way. “Is that directed at me?”
“You do have a tendency to harm things.”
“At least it’s not a World Heritage Site.”
From past experience, those seemed his favorite targets.
The encounter with Cassiopeia weighed heavy on his mind. They had a problem, and no amount of talking was going to make for an easy fix. He’d done exactly what she asked him not to do, and there’d be consequences.
He handed the timepiece to Luke. “You do the honors.”
Luke gripped the watch and tried to loosen the back plate. Stephanie’s instructions had said it could be difficult, and it was.
Three more attempts produced no results.
“It won’t turn,” Luke said.
They tried a few gentle taps to its side, as recommended, but still nothing. He recalled years ago that he’d liked a particular brand of citrus salad, oranges and grapefruit, peeled, packed in water, and sold inside a plastic screw-top container. The lid was always tough to get off the first time. Finally one day he discovered the secret: Don’t grip it so hard. In his frustration he tended to squeeze the plastic so tight that it would not unscrew. So he gently grasped the watch’s edges, holding just tight enough that his fingers wouldn’t slip.
He turned, feeling resistance from the tiny threads.
Another try and movement.
Slight.
But enough.
He regripped, kept his touch light, and freed the back plate.