Lashley nodded. “Perhaps. And consider this: Napoleon was a pious emperor, as most emperors are,” Lashley said. “If the artifact was a cross, think what that would mean to him. The advantages were political, economic, spiritual … and highly personal to the emperor himself. The Silver Cross. You may have found the first piece in a puzzle that takes this from the realm of legend into history.”
“And changes our understanding of the Civil War,” Journey added.
Lashley looked at him, pursing his lips. “So it would seem. If the emissary had not died and had delivered this to Jefferson Davis, French troops may have come to the assistance of your General Lee. We could be sitting in the Confederate States of America at this very moment.” He paused. “Well, perhaps the two of you would. No doubt those of my race would have fared quite differently.”
Tolman was shaking her head. “This is … this is huge.”
“Ah,” Lashley said. “Our undergraduate piano major begins to see the light.”
Journey smiled.
“I’d like to take this,” Lashley said, putting his hands on the plastic sleeve.
Tolman grabbed it from him. “No, you’re not taking this anywhere. Evidence in a federal investigation.”
Lashley made the pursed-lips motion again, then slowly smiled. “One makes the attempt. What will you do with it? It is incomplete. It refers to further documentation. I presume that if you possessed such documentation, you would have it with you.”
“This is all I was given,” Tolman said.
“Who gave it to you?”
“I don’t know.”
Lashley raised his eyebrows.
Tolman ignored him and looked at Journey. “We should go,” she said.
Journey stood up. “Thank you, Graham. You’ve been a big help.”
“Wait,” Lashley said. “Is that all? This is rather abrupt.”
“It certainly is,” Tolman said. “And you’re not going to talk about this, Dr. Lashley. Not yet. You’ll have full access to the document if and when it is released, and you and Nick can work out all the academic stuff. Until then, as far as you’re concerned, this letter doesn’t exist.”
Lashley looked at Journey. “Nick, you can’t allow this. This is a huge historic discovery. You cannot be a party to concealing it.”
“I’m not concealing it. Be patient, Graham,” Journey said. “It’ll come around again.”
Lashley stood up and took a step toward Journey. “I’ll take it to the chair, then the dean, and the president if I have to. The president will want a find of this magnitude to be associated with South Central. You understand it’s nothing personal. But I can’t just pretend this doesn’t exist.”
“Now wait,” Tolman said, stepping between the two men. Others in Uncle Charley’s were looking at them. “There won’t be any need to go through all that. Dr. Lashley, you’ve been very helpful, and your assistance will be noticed by the people who matter. You’ll have your chance to publish this find, and I’m sure South Central College will be much better off for it. But not yet. You’re just going to have to wait. Let’s go, Nick.”
* * *
As soon as they were on the sidewalk and headed toward the SCC campus, Tolman said, “You were right about one thing: he’s an arrogant prick, all right.”
“I didn’t say that,” Journey said, and smiled. “I just said he was pompous. I think he saw his ticket to a book deal and speaking tour, right in front of him, then snatched away.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean shit to me,” Tolman said.
They crossed Taylor Drive onto campus, passing through the arching stone gates. “Meg,” Journey said, “something’s bothering me. You said this was personal. It’s not really a RIO case.”
“Now don’t you start with me. How does Napoleon III lusting after silver and having a puppet government in Mexico get a cellist from Philadelphia murdered a century and a half later? And you know what? Both of her brothers died since April of this year, and I don’t believe in coincidences.” She stopped and leaned against a tree.
“Good God, Meg, you’re shaking,” Journey said. He touched her shoulder, then turned her toward him and put his arms around her. He felt the tension in her body, but otherwise she was perfectly still.
They stood that way, completely silent, for two long minutes before Tolman pulled away. “All right,” she said. “All right, I’m just … I’m just wound up.” She rolled her neck around, and they started toward Journey’s office in Cullen Hall. “It’s been a long few days.”
Journey nodded, looking down at her.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Tolman said. “I’m okay.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t worry about me. Yes, this case is personal. But something isn’t right about it, whether it’s my friend or not. You can see that. I know you can.”
“Yes. I can.” He touched her shoulder again, steering her across the nearly empty college common.
“What? I thought your office was that way.”
“It is. New destination.”
Five minutes later, they were in the piano studio of the fine arts building. It was small, only half a dozen instruments, but Tolman stopped dead in the doorway. “You’re a saint,” she said.
“I know one of the piano faculty, and students usually aren’t in here until the afternoon,” Journey said. “Enjoy yourself. If anyone bothers you, have them call me. I have a committee meeting in half an hour, then I’ll be back.”
Tolman squeezed his arm, watched him go, then sat down at the keys.
* * *
Two hours later, Journey came into the studio again. He waited silently at the door, listening to Tolman playing a softly flowing piece he didn’t recognize. “Nice,” he said when she finished.
She jumped.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
She turned. “I get lost sometimes. I like the place where I am in the music. Beats the hell out of reality.”
Journey smiled, leaning against the doorway. “What was that piece?”
“It’s by Satie, the third Gymnopedie.”
“Gym-what?”
“Satie made up the word himself. He was French, very mystic. He was sort of the new age musician of his time.”
“It sounded mystical. I think Andrew might like it.”
Tolman was flushed, sweating. She wiped her brow. “A hundred degrees outside and I’m sweating in an air-conditioned studio.”
Her phone rang. She dug it out of her purse and spoke her name.
“Larry Poe calling from Wilmington, Meg.”
“Hello, Inspector. How’s it going on your end?”
“You don’t have to call me inspector,” Poe drawled. “Thought I’d let you know that another of the staff members at the Fort Fisher Museum recalled Dana Cable talking to a woman here.”
“She came in with someone?”
“No. Cable came in not long before closing and was looking at some of the exhibits on blockade runners when this other woman came in behind her and started talking to her. Cable looked startled, but they talked for a few minutes.”
“This woman? Tall, maybe midforties, brown hair about shoulder length?”
“That’s right,” Poe said. “Where did you—”
“She showed up at Dana’s burial. She gave me something.”
“What?”
“Later, Inspector. Get that description out.”
“The witness didn’t see her face. The description’s very general.”
“But she—” Tolman stopped, thinking about the little cemetery in Cassville, the blistering heat, the newly dug grave, the woman handing her the envelope. “You may find some enlightenment there.”
But she’d never turned to fully face Tolman. She’d stood in profile the whole time and had quickly turned and walked away.
A professional, Tolman thought. The woman had had some kind of training. Although at least two people had seen and t
alked to her—the Fort Fisher staffer and Tolman herself—neither of them could give much of a description other than forties, tall, brown hair—a description that fit millions of women.
“I’ll be damned,” Tolman said. “I’ll call you back soon, Inspector. Your people are doing good work there. Keep at it. Maybe someone else saw this woman.” But don’t bet on them being able to describe her, she thought. “In the meantime, can you send me Dana’s things?”
“Her things?”
“Don’t play dumb, Inspector, because you aren’t. You’re no hayseed country cop. You’ve now officially requested RIO’s assistance—”
“Have I?”
“Yes, you have.”
“That’s good to know,” Poe said. Tolman thought she detected a chuckle in his voice. “I like you, Meg. Quite a bit, actually.”
“And that’s likewise good to know,” Tolman said. “I need to take a look at Dana’s effects. You said she had a laptop?”
“She did.”
“I especially want that. Send it to my office in D.C.” She gave him the address.
“Do you ever wonder, Meg, why the feds are not well liked by local and state law enforcement?”
“No, Inspector, I don’t wonder that at all. It’s because we’re such officious jerks.”
“Just checking,” Poe said.
Tolman laughed, closed the phone, and stood up from the piano bench. “I need my computer,” she said. “It’s at your house.”
They crossed the common toward the parking lot, passing under towering elms. Tolman felt the thrill she always had when beginning a new case or learning a new piece of music. But it was tempered by something dark: the undercurrent of the death of a friend, a fellow musician, someone who had overcome the odds to earn her living performing and teaching music—something Tolman had not been able to do. And Dana Cable was a gentle soul, which was remarkable, in light of her family background.
Journey drove her to his house. “I hope you don’t need your kitchen table for the rest of today, Nick,” Tolman said, “because I need it for an office.” She turned to her computer and went to work.
CHAPTER
11
Gray first picked up the tail in Los Angeles. She had flown from Springfield to Memphis, then on to LAX. She always traveled this way, adding layers of destinations so that she could pick up any watchers. It added extra days to her travel time, but it was how she had survived.
She saw the man as she deplaned at LAX. He never approached her, always five or six other passengers between them. Classic surveillance behavior. But she caught him looking at her twice.
So The Associates were on her again. She’d noticed other followers at various times in recent months. The giveaway was the watcher himself. Zale tended to use ex-military, and they all looked like Special Forces: muscular upper bodies, military haircut, dark clothes. Gray was sure all these men were excellent operationally, but they had a lot to learn about the finesse and nuance of the business. They didn’t know how to make themselves forgettable.
Gray checked into a hotel at the airport in LA, prepared to spend the night. She would deal with her new friend tomorrow. She knew he would still be with her, and tomorrow she would see just how good he was.
In her room, she opened a bottle of water and took out her laptop. She read the e-mail from her man Barrientos, who was with Meg Tolman in Carpenter Center, Oklahoma. She did a search on the address he’d sent her and found that the house belonged to a man named Nick Allen Journey. In half an hour, she had the beginnings of a dossier on him.
Meg Tolman was good. In less than a day after Gray gave her the letter in Cassville, Tolman had made contact with a Civil War historian. Very, very good, she thought.
Gray wrote a quick e-mail to Barrientos and told him to stay with Meg Tolman. Then she wrote a note to one of her other people—a subcontractor who was not part of the project she managed for The Associates—and asked him to find out everything he could about Nick Allen Journey. She would have a more complete picture of him by morning.
Gray lay down on the hotel bed. It was too late to call home—her husband and son would already be in bed. She smiled at the thought of seeing them again, but the smile faded quickly. She would probably have to go out again soon. Tomorrow would be telling. Whether Zale’s painfully obvious Special Forces man was still with her at the end of tomorrow would dictate whether she could relax with her family for a few days, or if she would have to leave them quickly. Gray would have to think about what to tell her husband and son. Perhaps a crisis with a troublesome client.
Not too far from the truth, is it? Gray thought, and drifted off to sleep.
* * *
The watcher was still with her in the morning. She spotted him in the American terminal at LAX, then she stepped out of line at the last minute and instead bought a ticket to Chicago on United. The move wouldn’t divert him for long—but now, each was aware of the other, and Gray wanted him to be clear that she knew he was there.
She saw him get on the plane behind her—she was in first class, he in coach—then didn’t see him at O’Hare. She waited, giving him time to catch up as she hailed a cab to take her to Union Station. Now Gray wasn’t trying to lose him. She would deal with him on her own terms.
At Union Station, she watched some television, noting the media’s obsession with “Left vs. Right in Middle America,” as they were calling the protest/counterprotest rallies that were planned for a few days hence, not far from where Gray sat. Leaders of both movements were interviewed. One railed about tax rates and the destruction of American values; the other prattled on about corporate welfare and government bailouts. After half an hour, Gray caught Amtrak’s Hiawatha train for Milwaukee. From there, a bus to Manitowoc. She didn’t see Zale’s man, but he was there. He’d proven to be more than capable of keeping up with her. Gray killed some time in the Wisconsin Maritime Museum in Manitowoc, on the banks of Lake Michigan, then had dinner and went to a movie, some romantic comedy she had no real interest in seeing. But she needed the time. She called home and told her husband she’d be there in the morning.
In a coffee shop, she opened her laptop and read what her asset had put together on the professor from Oklahoma, Nick Journey. There were several payments to Journey from RIO. So he’s on Tolman’s payroll, Gray thought. Interesting. Most interesting.
She read on, stopping when she came to the family section, which detailed how his entire family had died in a car crash in California when young Nick was seven. His father, Bruce Journey, was a laborer at the naval base in San Diego, his mother, JoAnn, a homemaker and part-time florist. Brothers: Mark, age nine, and Danny, age twelve. All were pronounced dead at the crash site. Nick was thrown clear of the family’s station wagon and survived, only to be shuttled from one relative to another, finally settling with an aunt in Florida. As Gray read about the destruction of the Journey family, something seemed vaguely familiar about it, as if she’d read it before, in another context, but she couldn’t recall where.
She kept reading: Journey’s divorce from Amelia Boettcher, his full custody of Andrew, and the boy’s condition: profound, nonverbal autism. Gray found that she actually became emotional when she read about what a devoted father Nick Journey was. She thought of her own son, the same age as Andrew Journey, of how intelligent and talented Joseph was: chess champion, hockey player, and proficient violinist.
Gray’s eyes blurred. She remembered another dossier she’d read not long ago, about another young boy who played competitive chess. That note—one throwaway line in the midst of twenty-plus pages of data—had shaken her core, had changed her focus, had led her to make new decisions. Decisions that had put her in North Carolina, and then in Cassville, Missouri.
She looked at the screen of her laptop again. Stay out of this, Professor Journey, Gray thought. Stay home and teach history and take care of that boy. Keep away from all this.
But she knew he wouldn’t. Reading the dossier, she knew that Nick J
ourney, Ph.D., wouldn’t walk away. He would juggle being a father and a professor and a “consultant” to RIO. And if he’d read the letter from Napoleon—surely Tolman had shown it to him by now—he couldn’t let it go. No historian would.
It made her admire the man, but it also made her a little sad. In her business, Gray never knew what situations would arise, and how they would have to be handled. She had to be ready for whatever came.
* * *
Shortly after midnight, Gray took a Manitowoc taxi to the waterfront and bought a ticket for the 12:55 crossing of the S.S. Badger, one of the best-known ferries on Lake Michigan. It made the sixty-mile, four-hour crossing to Ludington, Michigan, several times a day between May and October. At over four hundred feet, the Badger did double duty: it served as a car ferry, taking all manner of vehicles—even semi-trucks whose drivers didn’t want to go all the way around the lake and fight through Chicago traffic to get to Michigan—and also something of a tourist attraction.
Gray had a car waiting in Ludington, and she would drive the final leg home. She frequently took the ship in season, and she’d never been followed onto it until now. At 12:55 the coal-fired ship—Gray could see the dark outlines of huge mounds of coal piled in the yard alongside its mooring—pulled away from shore. The late-night sailing typically had few riders, often a handful of truckers. No more than a dozen people boarded with Gray. They walked behind a chain to the left side of the cargo hold, where the vehicles would be secured for the crossing. Gray counted four tractor-trailer rigs and three cars.
As she put her foot on the first step up to the passenger decks, Gray turned casually. In the lights from the parking lot behind her, she saw Zale’s man. Right where he should be. Gray had to give Zale credit—this one was better than most of the others he’d had tailing her over the last year. None of them had been able to stay with her this long. He had held on to the surveillance halfway across the country and back again.
Gray smiled. He was good, but she was willing to bet he’d never been aboard this ship before. The advantage was hers.
* * *
His name was Polk, and he had his orders.
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