The Lost Order--A Novel

by Steve Berry

He decided indignation, and a slightly thicker southern accent, might work. “Sir, I resent your implications. I am an officer in the Confederate army and I do not lie to a fellow gentleman. I’ve been sent by the president of the Confederate States to retrieve my journal and the Heart Stone. You are ordered to give me their location.”

  Breckinridge remained silent.

  Then the old man reached for a pad and pen on a side table. Cotton watched as he scribbled, flipping back and forth between two pages, composing something. Finally he finished and tore off one of the sheets, handing it over.

  “Prove yourself, Captain. Decipher that.”

  * * *

  Grant listened to the odd exchange between his father and another man, the second voice familiar.

  His pursuer from Fossil Hall.

  He’d managed to slip into the kitchen and could hear the conversation. His father was back in the past and the visitor was playing along, actually making better progress than he’d ever been able to achieve. Why was the guy here? Most troubling was the fact that he knew about the Heart Stone.

  And had come here for a reason.

  * * *

  Cotton studied the sheet the old man had handed over. On it was written five sets of letters.

  TSIM ESEKA EVEL NEBN HTAE

  He nearly smiled.

  God bless his grandfather.

  As a child of twelve he’d learned about Confederate codes, none of which were overly complicated since they were created at a time when most people remained illiterate. Simple substitution matrixes were a norm. Today those would be broken in a matter of minutes. He and his grandfather used to toy with them, his eidetic memory making them easy to unravel. This one was not even a code. More a jumble, designed only to confuse any snooping eyes.

  “Can I borrow that pad?” he asked.

  Breckinridge ripped off the other sheet upon which he’d written and handed it over.

  First, he rewrote the letters, reversing the five groups.

  HTAE NEBN EVEL ESEKA TSIM

  A simple matter from there to combine the four sets into a single line.

  HTAENEBNEVELESEKATSIM

  Then reverse the line.

  MISTAKESELEVENBENEATH

  And he immediately noticed three words.

  He was right. Just a jumble.

  One more reverse and the message became clear.

  BENEATH ELEVEN MISTAKES.

  He wrote out his findings and handed the pad back.

  Breckinridge read, then nodded. “Good work. That’s where you’ll find the Heart Stone.”

  “What about my journal?”

  “One thing at a time, Captain. One thing at a time.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Danny had learned something interesting. After he’d rattled off the names of the people who’d been inside the Willard Room to his new chief of staff, she’d immediately seen a connection.

  “They’re all on the Rules Committee,” she’d told him. “Speaker of the House appointments.”

  Why had Vance needed to have lunch with his own people? It wasn’t necessary to kiss their asses. He recalled something Ian Fleming wrote in one of the Bond novels. Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action. Good advice from a novelist trained by British intelligence. That lunch happened for a purpose and every part of his mind screamed it was related to what Vance was planning. His visit to the Willard had certainly rattled the Speaker. There’s no way it could not have. So one snake was probably already slithering out from the burning bush. Surely Vance had found Diane on the phone and they’d had a heart-to-heart chat, both of them wondering how in the world he could have known what they’d said. Diane had certainly, by now, discovered the notebook was gone. Once she heard what Vance had to say, the prime suspect would be clear. And the second snake would be on the move.

  All in all not a bad start to his first day as a senator.

  But he had to know more.

  So he’d left his office in the Dirksen building and caught a cab toward the National Mall. It was a little odd puttering alone around DC, where before he could not even leave his office without a contingent of Secret Service agents following in his wake. His new second in command had proved her usefulness again by contacting the chief of staff for Texas congressman Paul Frizzell. He’d known Paul a long time, and though of different political parties, they’d always been close. He’d seen Paul in the Willard Room, perched at one of the tables, and caught the wink of one eye. Paul was a longtime veteran, on his fifth or sixth term. Seniority meant everything in the House, and Frizzell had managed to snag a plum assignment. Member of the Rules Committee. What had Ben Franklin said? Diligence is the mother of good luck. So true. And he’d caught a bit of good luck, too, with Frizzell being in the right place at the right time.

  The cab sped down Independence Avenue and eased to the curb in front of the National Air and Space Museum. He paid the driver, who seemed especially thrilled to have a former president in his backseat, and added a $10 tip, which the guy seemed to like even better. The hour was approaching 4:00 P.M., the spring day warm and sunny. Inside was crowded, people everywhere, which was nothing unusual, as this was one of the world’s most visited museums. If truth be told, it was his favorite among the Smithsonian’s stable. Space had always been an interest. He’d followed the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo missions closely and could still recall, as a teenager, sitting in front of the television the night Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon. During his time in the White House he’d been generous to NASA, funding the agency far better than any of his predecessors. He wondered how well it would fare with the Fox administration.

  He turned right and headed for the Space Race exhibit, trying to ignore the stares from some of the visitors. He entered the hall, where full-scale rockets from Germany, America, and Russia stood at attention. He knew them by name. V-2, Viking, Minuteman, Jupiter-C. Most impressive was the massive Skylab space station. At the far end, just before the entrance to the food court, stood a lunar module. Six of them had ferried astronauts to and from the moon. This one was a backup vehicle that, thanks to a lot of shortsightedness by politicians at the time, never got the chance to fly. Frizzell stood off to one side, admiring the display. He knew Paul was a space freak, too, which was why he’d chosen this spot to meet.

  He shook hands with his old friend.

  “Congratulations, Senator,” Paul said. “Good job snagging that appointment.”

  He decided to get right to the point. “Your lunch from a little while ago and my appointment are related to each other.”

  “I could see no love lost between you and the Speaker. But that’s nothing new.”

  “No, it’s not. But this is different. It involves Alex.”

  Paul and Alex Sherwood had been friends.

  “I hate what happened,” Paul said. “He was a good man and died far too early.”

  He led Paul into an adjacent gallery labeled MOVING BEYOND EARTH where more large-scale models and spacecraft replicas waited. Fewer people milled about in the dimly lit space, and they retreated to a far corner, near an exhibit of space suits.

  “There’s a lot about Alex’s death that doesn’t add up,” he said. “He goes for a stroll and falls off a cliff? That man walked those mountains all his life. I can’t go into details, but believe me there are real questions. Enough that the governor of Tennessee sent me here to get answers.”

  He was being his old self, straight shooting, pulling no punches.

  “What does this have to do with me?” his friend asked.

  “Vance is involved. I know he’s planning something big. What I don’t know is what. But I’m bettin’ you do.”

  He caught the immediate concern on Frizzell’s face. “If I did, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “That gathering back at the Willard. It had somethin’ to do with what I’m talkin’ about, didn’t it?”

  “Danny, you do realize the horrible position you’re placing me in.”


  That he did. No one from the majority party made it to the coveted Rules Committee unless they possessed two things. Longevity and an unquestioned loyalty to the Speaker of the House. The former was simply a matter of record. But the latter had to be proved, day in and day out. For Paul Frizzell to even think about challenging that sacrosanct principle amounted to political treason.

  “I get it, Paul,” he said. “I’m asking a lot. But we’ve known each other a long time and you’ve yet to walk away from this talk. I see it in your eyes. There’s somethin’ goin’ on.”

  Silence confirmed he was right.

  And his old friend seemed to be struggling with some painful but overwhelming conviction.

  So he kept pressing.

  “Let me tell you a story. A few years ago I went deer huntin’ with the president of Bulgaria. We paired off in twos for the day. That night, one of the Bulgarian hunters came back alone, staggering under the weight of an eight-point buck. A really solid kill. He was asked about his partner and replied that the guy broke his foot and was a couple of miles back up the trail. The president asked why he left the hunter and carried back the deer. The guy didn’t hesitate. He said no one would steal his partner. That’s you, Paul. No one is gonna steal you. We can weather this.”

  “Okay, Danny,” his friend whispered.

  And he listened to what Lucius Vance was planning.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Diane sat in the great room and considered her options. Alex had just left on his afternoon walk, their confrontation finished. Her brother had definitely placed them all in a difficult place. Alex could end everything they’d worked for. How could Kenneth have possibly thought he could be an ally? He’d known Alex as long as she had, and should have known his brother-in-law’s failings. Three years of work was about to be erased. There’d be no radical change in Congress, no lost gold found. But Alex would remain a senator. A respected gentleman of Tennessee. His political life would go on. He’d keep complaining about Washington, sympathize with others who voiced similar objections, then change nothing.

  And that galled her.

  She rose from the chair and headed out the glass doors. Down off the deck she pushed through the trees, finding the trail that led up into the foothills, its worn path bearing evidence of Alex’s many trips. Only occasionally had she ever made the journey. She negotiated the incline, her mind finally certain and unhesitating, careful with her steps on the loose rock. Dense trees rose all around, forming a canopy that allowed only shards of sunlight to pierce the foliage. A bitter, spicy scent of leaves filled her nostrils, the woods alive with noisy birds. Spring was coming to the mountains, the air finally ridding itself of winter’s chill. She liked this time of year, summer even more. Winter depressed her. A lot like her life, which seemed to be moving from cold to warm.

  She rounded a corner and caught sight of Alex.

  He saw her coming, gently rapping his pipe against the bark of a tree. “More, Diane? Did we not say enough back at the house?”

  She wondered how a man competent in matters of state seemed so ill informed about how to deal with his wife. “A poll a few weeks ago showed that 75 percent of the American public is dissatisfied with how the country is being run. And I don’t mean the people running it. The poll tested the institution of government itself. That’s an overwhelming negative majority not happy with the way things are. What we plan will offer those dissatisfied people an alternative.”

  “What you plan is a revolution. One that will elevate one man, the Speaker of the House, to lord emperor of this country. That’s something entirely different.”

  “Maybe it’s time to see if another way might work better?”

  “Vance tried to be president and his own party rejected him. He never made it past the Iowa caucuses. His district has, maybe, 200,000 people in it. This country has over three hundred million people. It was never intended that one congressman, from one district, should hold the kind of power you want to give him.”

  “Senators do. They wield it every day. Jealous?”

  He chuckled. “Hardly. I’m concerned. Yes, we have the filibuster and our precious procedural rules, which are misused all the time. But there’s a check on that. Sixty senators can shut it down with a cloture vote. The leadership can also refuse to give the floor to that senator. There are ways to stop him or her. What you propose comes with almost no checks and balances. It is unrestrained and will cause more problems than it solves.”

  The pressures of the coming tasks had been mounting on her for some time. She’d already let go of the past. The future was all that mattered anymore. Part of that was a realization that their long marriage had battered itself to a bruising standstill. They did little more than share space, the once cursory use of the other’s body fading to nothing. A lack of intimacy had led to a lack of respect. There was something to be said for lust. It had advantages. But it also made it easier to make poor choices.

  Bleak thoughts chased one another through her mind.

  One in particular lingered like a stranger, at the edges of her thoughts, doubtful of its welcome, but nonetheless there.

  They stood side by side on the rocky bluff.

  Alex took a moment and primed his pipe with tobacco, then lit it. When it drew to his satisfaction, he waved the match to extinction, then tossed it over the side to the river fifty yards below.

  “Warren Weston came to see me,” he said through puffs.

  That was news.

  “He told me you’ve been abusing your position on the Smithsonian Libraries Advisory Board. You’ve had one of the employees researching in some restricted archives, violating policies. Is that true?”

  She resented being questioned like a schoolgirl by the principal. “Every word.”

  “He wants you to resign.”

  “Too bad most of us never get what we want.”

  “He told me that if you don’t resign, he’ll act to remove you.”

  “And you agree with him?”

  He shook his head with an odd mixture of pleasure and reluctance, then seemed to avoid any complicity or embarrassment by moving away from her, still sucking at the pipe. He smoked only in private and always outside, usually on the deck. Since she had no intention of vacating her seat on the advisory board, she asked what she really wanted to know. “Who is she, Alex?”

  He turned to face her. “As long as we’re being honest?” He paused. “She’s a woman I met quite by chance, who turned out to be a wondrous thing.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you plan to divorce me?”

  “Not now. But when my time in Washington is over. Yes, our marriage should end.”

  Over the past two hours her cozy, ordered world had been upended by some ugly realities. First Kenneth’s notebook and Alex’s objections. Now another woman. The weight of those defeats settled onto her shoulders like a heavy cloak. Not to mention the personal rejection. Her thoughts and aspirations had been cast aside, as if his were somehow superior.

  And that galled her.

  That thought on the periphery took a step forward. She now hovered at the edge of a dark chasm, trying to decide whether to leap or stay.

  A familiar place of late.

  As when Kenneth had come and asked for her help. Or when two men offered themselves to her and she’d accepted both. Or when she’d maneuvered Alex to have her appointed to the advisory board. Each time she’d leaped.

  But this time was different.

  Everything was at stake.

  And she would swallow her indignation at his pretense no more. The solution here called for something far more radical than she was accustomed to delivering. Thankfully, on the walk up she’d wiped fear and doubt from her mind, ready to face him with a clear resolve. But first she wanted to know, “I assume I would have had no say in that divorce decision?”

  “I imagine you will welcome the move. Especially considering your admission of sleeping with
two men.”

  “Whom you have not asked about at all.”

  He puffed on the pipe. “Because I simply don’t care anymore.”

  “I agree,” she said. “Our marriage is over. So why not leave me in peace, and don’t interfere with what we are doing.”

  “Because that’s not possible. And you know it.”

  The hand holding the pipe stabbed the air for emphasis.

  Every opportunity had been offered, so she eased closer to the edge and glanced down at the white-flecked rush of water, the river full from spring rains. Rocks peeked out along its course, smoothed and tamed by the constant flow. She thought of her father and all his lost opportunities. And of her life the past decade, empty and unfulfilled. She’d learned to make do, stay silent, and settle, to be the dutiful political wife. But for the past three years she’d worked her own agenda. She thought of failure and what that would mean, which allowed her to do the one thing she hadn’t done in a long time.

  Cry.

  The last time was at her father’s funeral.

  So she added thoughts of his loss and began to sob, head down, a hand to her forehead.

  Alex moved toward her, wrapping an arm and drawing her close. She allowed the gesture, sinking her head onto his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Diane. I really am. I wish I could stay silent here. But I can’t.”

  “I’ve messed everything up,” she managed through her tears.

  His free hand gave her shoulder a reassuring pat, trying to offer comfort, but the patronizing gesture only enraged her. She slowly pulled back and embraced the rash thought that had now moved front and center.

  She lunged forward, slamming her shoulder into his chest, propelling his feet out from under him. His head snapped back and he staggered, trying to regain his balance. She stared into his eyes, the pupils darting like warning signals, the lips moving without words. He still held the pipe in one hand.

  Surprise filled his face.

  She’d shoved him over the cliff.

  The body dropped for several seconds, not a sound coming from his mouth. Her eyes scanned all around. She saw and heard no one. The land for miles in every direction was owned by Alex. He hit the water hard, the current lifting, then dumping him, dunk after dunk. The river seemed malevolent, like her, increasing in strength, dragging and lunging. Bones had to have broken in the fall and the water quickly claimed him, his body rushing away, helpless in the current, the roar constant with undiminished violence.