The Lost Order--A Novel

by Steve Berry

  “That’s the thing, Danny,” Paul said. “We had nothing to do with involving Alex, his death, or what Vance is planning. Nothing at all. Which is why we’re talking to you right now.”

  * * *

  Diane had fled the apartment just after Daniels departed. She no longer wanted to be anywhere near the place. Too many ghosts, too many visitors. She still hadn’t heard from Grant, which was bothering her, and she decided that a hotel would be better.

  Everything seemed to be unraveling. Where just a few hours ago things had been progressing, now the situation dangled perilously. Vance was panicked, but not to the point of being paralyzed. That was the thing about strong men. Adversity acted more as stimulant than impediment. He’d assured her that all would happen in the morning when the Rules Committee voted, then the full House would vote the next day. Regarding the treasure, they now had three of the five stones. Hopefully Grant was securing the Heart Stone so they could start the final search for the vault. But who’d broken into the apartment and stolen the key? She’d tried twice to call Grant, but both attempts had gone straight to voice mail.

  She sat in her hotel room in the quiet and tried to force her mind onto new thoughts. But worry, anger, and despair had settled in.

  Depressing her.

  Her phone chiming startled her. She grabbed the unit, hoping it was Grant. Instead, she saw it was her brother.

  “What is it, Kenneth?” she said, answering.

  “Mrs. Sherwood, it’s important we speak.”

  An unknown voice.

  Male.

  “Where is Kenneth?”

  “He’s here, with us.”

  Not a threat, but fear still prickled her spine.

  “Who are you?”

  “What you pretend to be.”

  It took her a moment to grasp the significance.

  “What do you want?”

  “For you to bring me every image and note you have relative to the stones.”

  “How do you know about those?”

  “As I said, we are what you pretend to be.”

  Was that possible? Her father had assured her the Order was gone, and had been for a long time.

  “The knights don’t exist.”

  “Unfortunately for both you and your brother, that’s not true.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Grant watched as Richard Stamm and the man from Fossil Hall opened Smithson’s tomb. He’d worked his way, unnoticed, down from the north tower and into a gallery on the opposite side of the north vestibule that faced the crypt’s entrance.

  While he’d maneuvered himself into position, his father had used the spiral staircase to descend to the basement, the idea being to shut off the lights and provide them with a few moments of surprise. A text between them, from his phone, which had been returned, served as their communications link. He’d also noticed two calls from Diane, but ignored them. He’d been surprised to learn that his father owned a cell phone, but a lot about the past few hours had been shocking. His father certainly knew every inch of the Castle, including its wiring, so once he signaled that the Heart Stone had been found the building had gone dark.

  He used the moment to rush ahead through the vestibule and into the crypt. The Heart Stone lay on the floor. His father had told him that there would be only a few seconds before emergency lights switched on, which would glow a dull red, but would offer more than enough illumination to betray his presence.

  So he moved fast.

  He knocked both men, who’d been crouched down, aside, and grabbed the Heart Stone.

  * * *

  Cotton tumbled to the floor as if blocked by a lineman. He was having trouble seeing, as everything was out of focus from the jarring switch from light to dark. But somebody had definitely appeared. Now that someone seemed to be heading away.

  He rolled over and hopped to his feet.

  “You okay?” he asked Stamm.

  “I’m fine.”

  Red lights switched on in the vestibule, near the exit doors.

  “The emergency lighting,” Stamm said.

  He ran from the crypt just in time to see a shadow turn into the Great Hall, cradling something.

  The Heart Stone.

  He found his gun.

  Aimed.

  And fired.

  * * *

  Grant felt exhilarated. He’d managed to steal the stone, which was small and light, and was now making his escape. He was back in the Great Hall where he’d eluded the Justice Department woman. A few more feet and he’d be away.

  A loud bang echoed off the walls.

  A bullet pinged past him, ricocheting off one of the stone columns.

  He found safety behind another column.

  “You’re not getting out of here,” a voice called out.

  * * *

  Cotton had the guy trapped.

  Even in the dim reddish light, he could see that there was nowhere to run where he could not take him down. He had no idea if his target was armed, but he had to assume so.

  Stamm came up close from behind.

  “Everything locked tight?” he asked Stamm.

  “Absolutely. No fire escapes this time.”

  They were standing against a partial wall, the Great Hall exposed through archways.

  The double doors that led to Schermer Hall suddenly swung open.

  “Captain Adams,” a voice yelled. “So good of you to join us.”

  Frank Breckinridge.

  Still playing the part.

  And the old man aimed a gun and fired three rounds. They were exposed in that direction and Cotton reacted by taking Stamm and himself down to the floor, a half wall above them now offering protection.

  Bullets zinged by overhead.

  * * *

  Grant used the moment of his father’s entrance to rush from his hiding place, through the double doors, his father following and closing the doors behind them.

  “We have to hurry,” his father said.

  They hustled ahead.

  * * *

  Cotton sprang to his feet and saw that the two intruders had fled the Great Hall. Stamm should stay here, but he needed the curator’s local knowledge. So Stamm led the way, down a narrow, closed corridor, then into the vaulted exhibition space of Schermer Hall. He stepped over to the doorway that led to the fire escape and tested it.

  Still locked.

  And no alarm had sounded.

  That meant they’d used the concealed spiral staircase.

  Stamm pointed at a wooden arched doorway, marked for employees only, and produced a key from a thick ring.

  “The old man had a key?” he asked.

  Stamm nodded. “Apparently.”

  They descended the spiral staircase since Stamm had already told him that, unless they could fly, there was no other escape from the upper reaches.

  Back in the basement they entered Stamm’s office.

  And heard movement.

  * * *

  Grant saw that his father was not nearly as spry as the old man wanted others to think. Their descent of the staircase had been slower than they could afford, their escape into the Castle’s basement corridors slowed even more by the old man’s lack of breath. Unfortunately, this mission was definitely a two-man operation.

  He knew they were headed toward the Ripley Center, which lay beneath the quadrangle and gardens above, even lower than the basement where they now stood. It had been dug into the ground and built in the 1980s to house art galleries, offices, and conference space. The public accessed it from ground level through a copper-domed kiosk just outside the Castle, but there were also several emergency exits leading up.

  They followed a long hall, through a set of double doors, to an elevator and staircase that led down into the center. He’d always found it odd how the top floor was labeled 1 and the bottom 3.

  Nobody had, as yet, come in pursuit.

  His father remained winded.

  They rode the elevator down to the confere
nce level and exited. Towering ceilings and backlit glass cast the appearance of a building high above ground.

  “This way,” his father said.

  * * *

  Cotton stood at the door that led from Rick Stamm’s office into the Castle basement. They hadn’t pursued the intruders any farther.

  “You were right,” Stamm said.

  Once he realized that Breckinridge had wanted them to open the tomb, and then discovered that their killer was the old man’s son, they’d called the security office and arranged a review of television surveillance of the two Castle entrances. It had not taken long for father and son to be spotted, having entered separately but then meeting in Schermer Hall, gaining access to the spiral staircase. Stamm had surmised that they might hide in the north tower’s upper reaches, and that was exactly what had happened. The plan involved sacrificing the Heart Stone, but the critical element had been to secure plenty of digital images.

  And they had.

  He’d called Magellan Billet headquarters from the Breckinridge house. Two more agents had already been dispatched to DC to investigate Stephanie’s shooting. He asked that they be diverted to his control. Though he was no longer on the payroll, just occasional contract help, the staff in Atlanta were eager for his input, so his request had been granted and he’d told the two agents what he wanted them to do.

  “The cameras are back on,” Stamm said.

  He walked over to the desk and watched as the two Breckinridges made their way through, then up and out of the Ripley Center into the gardens above.

  “Good call on your part,” he said to Stamm. “You were right on how they’d leave.”

  “I know my buildings. Just like Breckinridge.”

  But the escape had to be convincing.

  So he’d arranged for a little show.

  * * *

  Grant followed his father out of the pavilion at ground level into the gardens between the Castle and Independence Avenue. People milled about, enjoying the illuminated spring flowers, the Renwick Gates to his right still swung open for the night.

  “My man,” his father said, “should be beyond the gate, waiting for us in the car.”

  He still carried the Heart Stone, being careful since, unlike the more substantial one from Fossil Hall, this felt fragile. They slowed their pace and tried not to look rushed, conscious of people and cameras. But no one paid them any attention.

  They kept moving toward the gate.

  Independence Avenue loomed on the other side, the busy boulevard paralleling the Mall all the way up toward Capitol Hill.

  His father passed through the gate.

  “Stop,” a voice yelled from behind.

  A quick glance back showed a uniformed security guard. He knew none of them carried weapons but this one did hold a portable radio. He had a hundred-foot lead and used it to his advantage by darting through the Renwick Gates.

  “Stop. Now,” the voice said.

  Their car from earlier was waiting at the curb, illegally parked, flashers on.

  Thank God.

  His father was already climbing into the rear seat.

  He ran and jumped in behind him, yanking the door shut.

  The car sped away.

  * * *

  Cotton watched what was happening out on Independence Avenue. Stamm’s computer feed to the exterior garden cameras showed it all, including one of the Magellan Billet agents dressed as Smithsonian security trying to stop the two Breckinridges. This was his first good look at the younger man, whom he assumed was the son, and he noted two things. The son matched the new description Danny Daniels had provided, and the face was indeed the same from Fossil Hall.

  “They’re gone” came the word over Stamm’s portable radio.

  “Good job,” Cotton said into the unit.

  The idea had not been to stop them, rather to spur them on.

  “What now?” Stamm asked.

  “We watch.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Danny wasn’t sure what to make of any of this. He knew nothing about the modulated voice across the dark diner and had no reason to either trust or believe him. But Frizzell was a different matter. He’d known this man for years and had never doubted his word.

  “Paul,” he said, his voice low and calm. “You’re going to have to make yourself clear. This is all a bit out there, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do, Danny. But you were correct in the car. I’m a knight of the Golden Circle. The gentleman across the room is the current commander of our Order.”

  “Who has to remain hidden?”

  “We’ve stayed in the shadows a long time,” the voice said. “We find it safer. This is an extraordinary gesture coming here tonight, speaking with you.”

  “Ain’t I the honored one. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not impressed.”

  “Danny,” Paul said. “After we spoke earlier, I made a call. I was asked by my colleagues if you were a man that could be trusted. I said, absolutely.”

  He got it. His friend was vouching for him, so lay off the sarcasm.

  “The Order was important during the Civil War,” Paul said. “And yes, it advocated slavery and used violence. Both horrible. But that was the belief and way of that time. After the war, it went underground. The radicals faded. A new set of men took control with more moderate ideas and practical thinking.”

  He recalled Kenneth Layne’s notebook. “Like Alexander Stephens?”

  His friend nodded.

  “He was a member until he died in 1883,” the modulated voice across the room said. “Stephens was brilliant. If people had listened to him in the 1850s, I doubt the Civil War would ever have occurred. The change the South sought would have come through legal ways. Unfortunately, his brand of revolution was rejected.”

  “Like calling a second constitutional convention?”

  “Exactly,” Paul said.

  “And the idea, before 1860, had been to move for a new convention,” the voice said. “Where the Constitution would have been clarified. Disputes settled. And if those changes had been accepted by the states, 500,000 dead Americans would not have happened. Unfortunately, more brash thinking prevailed.”

  Which brought to mind what Rhett Butler had said about the South in Gone with the Wind. A line Danny had always liked. All we’ve got is cotton and slaves and arrogance.

  “After the war, during Reconstruction,” the voice said, “any type of constitutional change advantageous to the South would have been impossible. The southern states did not govern themselves. Instead, the North ran roughshod over them with the military in charge. But in the 1870s, when Reconstruction ended and the South regained control over itself, it decided that states’ rights were more important than changing the Constitution. Of course, the North was no bastion of progressivism, either. It had its Black Codes and segregation. Ultimately, the Supreme Court made things easy when it ruled that ‘separate but equal’ was constitutional. A stupid decision, but it nonetheless became the law of the land. So the South was satisfied.”

  “You know what happened next,” Paul said. “During the 20th century millions of people migrated from north to south, shifting the balance of power in Congress and the electoral votes for president. The South literally rose again. Today winning that region is absolutely critical in every presidential election. And while that happened, the Order sat back and watched. Our membership dwindled from tens of thousands in the 1850s, to thousands after the war, to now about 550. We are not fanatics, Danny, or terrorists, or radicals. We abhor slavery and segregation. We’re also not romantics wanting a return to some antebellum past. We are simple patriots who disagree with some of this nation’s fundamental points, intent on changing them through legal means.”

  And he got it. “Not the way Lucius Vance intends.”

  “Exactly,” the voice said. “Diane Sherwood taught him things only those within the Order knew. Her father taught her. He was not of us, but he knew a lot about us. That was partl
y our fault, as we cultivated him as a resource to gain access to the Smithsonian’s archives. Sadly, we realized too late that Davis Layne was only after our wealth.”

  He recalled all that Malone had told him. “Are you involved with what’s happening at the Smithsonian right now?”

  “We are aware of the situation,” the voice said. “It’s another reason we’re having this talk.”

  “Danny,” Paul said, “what Vance plans is madness. Having the House vote only on bills that originate in the House is an idea whose day has passed. That would concentrate too much power in the Speaker of the House. But that change is going to be recommended. The Rules Committee will endorse the concept tomorrow. And I’ve already heard the talk in the House. They’re willing to try anything. And they’re not blind to the fact that Vance will wield enormous power, but he’s one of them and they’re more than willing to trust him rather than the Senate or the president.”

  “Vance will be emperor of the hill. You won’t be able to take a crap in the bathroom without his okay.”

  “Which is the last thing any of us want,” the voice said.

  “Not a fan?”

  “Hardly.”

  His eyes were now fully adjusted to the dark. Only threads of ambient light sneaked past the front window blinds. The man behind the voice sat about twenty feet away in one of the booths among deep shadows, nothing at all discernible about him. He’d casually surveyed the diner’s interior and found light switches near the front door, only a few feet away. He really wanted to get a look at the current commander of the Knights of the Golden Circle. Nothing in the accent, timbre, diction, or syntax of the synthetic voice shed any light on identity.

  “Tell me, Mr. President,” the voice said. “Are you familiar with the Confederate constitution?”

  He needed to buy some time, so he lied and said, “Can’t say that I am.”

  “Interesting, coming from a man who served as governor of Tennessee.”

  “It’s not something that really comes up much anymore.”

  His tone conveyed, Except from nuts like you.

  “You really should study it. It’s an amazing piece of work. All the more remarkable given it was drafted in just a matter of weeks. Right in the preamble it invokes in no uncertain terms the favor and guidance of Almighty God. Quite a powerful statement. No doubt about where its drafters stood. And there are many other significant differences between it and the original. May I point out a few?”