The Lost Order

by Steve Berry

  “He’s a knight and a sentinel,” Lea said. “Those are people who watch over the treasure. They keep folks away and protect it.”

  “For how long?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “Generations. It’s a family duty.” The young girl said the words with pride. “They say the woods here are filled with gold.”

  “Belonging to the Golden Circle?” Cotton asked.

  “That’s right,” Morse said. “They hid it and left markers in the trees, on the ground, all over. You followed ’em today. Did real good, too. People like to say it’s outlaw money. But it ain’t. It’s Confederate.”

  His own grandfather told him that the knights had been real good at hiding things in plain sight.

  Today he proved that observation true.

  Past the windows, a warm and seasonal twilight was thickening into night. His watch read 7:40 P.M. It had been a long day, one that had unfolded much differently than he’d imagined this morning. The idea had been to investigate the site, check out the markers, then ask around to see what the locals knew. Two days on the ground, tops, then back to DC.

  “What did you mean when you said the knights just wanted us to think they were gone?” he asked Morse.

  “Some men came to see me, about a month ago. They gave me the handshake.”

  The older man extended his right hand, which Cotton shook. Morse’s grip was firm, but only with two fingers and the thumb. The third and little finger stayed free and Cotton locked his two fingers with Morses.’

  A familiar feel.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked his grandfather.

  They were in the attic, the dusty air cool from a Georgia autumn morning.

  “You’re old enough to understand now,” his grandfather said.

  “I’m only eleven.”

  The old man chuckled. “But real smart. So I wanted you to see this stuff.”

  Usually the attic was off limits. He and his mother had lived back at her father’s house for over a year now, ever since his own father disappeared, presumed dead, on a naval mission. They knew little to nothing about what happened, only that his submarine had sunk with all hands lost. His mother had taken the loss hard, eventually finding refuge in running the day-to-day operations of the onion farm. He’d done what he always did and kept the pain to himself, but he and his papa spent a lot of time together.

  Today they’d come up into the attic.

  He stood grasping the older man in a strange handshake, two of his grandfather’s fingers locked with his own.

  “You feel that? That was the Order’s grip. One member would do that to another, in public. Then ask, ‘Are you on it?’ The correct reply was ‘I am on it.’ That meant they were both knights.”

  His grandfather had told him stories about the Knights of the Golden Circle and how his great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather had been members. He’d even gone to the library and tried to find some books on the subject but had come up empty. He’d asked his history teacher, who knew nothing.

  Which made him wonder if the whole thing was even true.

  “They had a castle, right here in Toombs County,” his grandfather said. “That’s what they called their local chapters. Castles. My father served as an officer, as did his father before him. They were devils, those knights.”

  His mind returned to the lit room around him, and he released Morse’s grip.

  The older man watched him with curious eyes. “You know what I’m sayin’ is real, don’t you?”

  He wasn’t going to admit anything. “What did the men want who came to see you?”

  “It was right after I scared off the last guy who was snoopin’ around the map tree. And he wasn’t no treasure hunter. Not sure what he was, but he didn’t care for the woods. He was easy to spook. I just hung a dummy and off he went.”

  Exactly as had been reported by Martin Thomas.

  “But he did bury a plow point in the ground and used a compass to locate it,” Morse said. “That told me he knew things. Just like you today. I watched you. Somebody taught you, didn’t they?”

  He was beginning to see that this old man was far smarter than he wanted people to think.

  “The men who came to see me knew I was a sentinel,” Morse said. “They also knew what I was protectin.’ But I told ’em nothin.’ Didn’t trust a word they said.”

  “Even though they were knights?”

  “I’m not sure what they were. So I kept quiet.”

  “Here’s the thing,” he said to Morse. “You don’t have a choice with us. So are you going to tell me what they wanted?”

  “Better than that. I can show you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TENNESSEE

  8:00 P.M

  Danny sat in his battered recliner, huddled among his favorite things, a lamp burning to his right, the notebook open in his lap. He’d carefully read every page. He was inside his second-floor bedroom with the door closed. The governor was down for the night. They’d had dinner together, pizza delivered from a local eatery. It had been fun catching up. He hadn’t had many visitors the past four months. Only Alex and a literary agent, pestering him about starting to write his memoirs. Apparently it was some sort of mandatory duty that all ex-presidents had to write a book. His story seemed to be a hot commodity, as three publishers had already offered seven figures for the manuscript. A ghostwriter had to be hired and dictation started, but the simple thought of doing that turned his stomach. It almost seemed like an admission that his life was over, time now to write everything down before he died. He didn’t need the money and he certainly did not want the aggravation that would come from remembering every detail of his life.

  Reading the notebook, though, had piqued his curiosity.

  Alex had clearly been up to something.

  For a second time he scanned through the handwritten pages, at paragraphs here and there, committing the sentences to memory.

  The U.S. Senate met in secret from 1789 to 1795. No public sessions and no one paid it any mind. It was deemed a political black hole from which no career would emerge. It had no affect on any legislation. Did little to nothing. Conversely, the House held its sessions in public and dominated Congress. Everything was done there, the Senate all but forgotten. Henry Clay called the Senate’s atmosphere a “solemn stillness.”

  1806. Aaron Burr, as vice president, convinced the Senate that its rule allowing members to vote an end to debate was unnecessary. His colleagues agreed and, henceforth, senators carried the right of unlimited monologue, not stoppable by the other members. They had no idea what they had stumbled upon.

  1820s. Things started to change. House had grown to 181 members, while Senate stayed small at 48. House members elected by the people. Senators came from state legislatures. Different rules governed each body. The House limited members on time and length of debate. Not so in the Senate. Debate actually encouraged there. No limit on how long a senator could talk. Again, they still had no idea of the potential.

  1830s. Southern senators discovered that Senate rules allowed them to refuse to yield the floor once they began to speak. Combine that with no way for other senators to stop the debate, and no time limit on how long a senator could talk, senators realized they could hold the floor forever. Filibuster was born. Webster, Calhoun, Clay, and others used it to paralyze the Senate and stall or kill any legislation they did not like.

  The notes were listed under a header that read REBUTTAL REMARKS, as if the author had been preparing either for a speech or for a paper. He was familiar with Alex’s handwriting and he’d immediately noticed that the journal was not penned by his friend.

  He riffled through the pages.

  Many dealt with observations about obscure Senate rules, things nearly no one would care about.

  But they should.

  Procedural rules determined how and when laws were passed. Smart representatives gained a tactical advantage by studying those in detail. During his three terms in the Senate Danny
had learned every nuance of the 1500-page procedural manual.

  Since 1789 nearly 2000 men and women had served in the U.S. Senate. Those folks could be divided into two broad classes—workhorses and show horses. One got things done, the other took the credit or assigned blame. Of late, that dichotomy had been brought into sharp focus, as the Senate seemed overrun by show horses.

  Everyone clamored for the limelight.

  Television and newspapers had been consumed for the past four months with the Senate’s refusal to confirm President Fox’s cabinet appointments. First one Senator, then another, had blocked a floor vote, effectively stopping the will of the other 99. True, cloture now allowed 60 votes to end a filibuster, a safeguard implemented in the early 20th century, but getting three-fifths of the Senate to agree on anything was next to impossible. Especially when it came to ending debate. It was like a courtesy. If one Senator wanted to filibuster, the others simply allowed it since next time they could be the one in the hot seat.

  He scanned more of the notes.

  Article I, Section 5, Clause 2 of Constitution provides that the House and Senate are the sole judge of their procedural rules. The Supreme Court has held that House rules are adopted by each new Congress, every two years. Senate rules, though, stay in effect until otherwise changed. In 1892, United States v. Ballin, the Supreme Court said that there must be only a reasonable relation between an established rule and the result sought to be attained. That’s pretty wide open, meaning that the power of Congress to make procedural rules is unlimited. It is continuous, absolute, and beyond challenge by any other body or court.

  He looked up from the notebook.

  What in the world?

  Taisely had told him that all of this had come from Diane’s brother, Kenneth Layne. The pages seemed some sort of a research summary on the subject of Senate and House rules, containing references and notes from various court opinions. Other parts dealt with Article V, which provided the means and method of how the Constitution could be amended—another rather obscure subject, but one that had apparently consumed Kenneth Layne’s attention. What was Layne up to? And why had Alex soured on it, as Taisley had said?

  The last few pages of the notebook were particularly intriguing.

  Jefferson Davis and Alexander Stephens hated each other. Though they served as president and vice president of the Confederate States, their philosophies differed. Davis favored war. Stephens preferred constitutional change. Stephens never wanted war, but stayed loyal to Georgia and supported his state when it seceded. But where initially Davis had thought legal change impossible, by April 1865 he came to believe it may be the only course left since war had failed.

  Stephens served in the House of Representatives from 1843 to 1859. Just as the Senate was growing in stature, the filibuster was coming of age. By the 1850s little could be done in Congress without placating every member of the Senate. One senator was enough as an enemy. Fed up, Representative Alexander Stephens from Georgia devised a way to strip the Senate of its power, but could never gain enough momentum to have the idea implemented. Then war intervened. From 1873 to 1882 Stephens once again served in the House of Representatives. By then the Senate had become the dominant chamber in Congress. Changing anything was out of the question.

  He had no idea what to make of the observations. What had Alexander Stephens devised to corral the Senate? He’d never heard of that observation before.

  Only about three-quarters of the notebook’s pages were written upon. On the final page appeared a name.

  Knights of the Golden Circle.

  Which he knew about, vaguely, from old stories.

  Then a written statement.

  I consider a nation with a king, as a man who takes a lion as a guard dog. If he knocks out his teeth, he renders the lion useless. While if he leaves the lion his teeth, the lion eats him.

  A notation indicated that the quote was attributable to James Smithson, the man who left the initial seed money that ultimately created the Smithsonian Institution. Alex had served as a Smithsonian regent, so he’d be familiar with Smithson. But the single word written at the bottom of the page was what really drew Danny’s attention.

  Exactly.

  The ink for all three entries was in a different color, written by a different hand.

  Alex’s, which he recognized.

  As if a point was being made.

  He had a bad feeling.

  And unfortunately there was only one play left on the board.

  Diane.

  Sure, she’d be pissed at what he’d done, but she’d get over it. That was one thing about being an ex-president. People cut you a lot of slack. He recalled something one of his old political nemeses liked to say. Observe, remember, compare, read, confer, listen, and question.

  He’d already worked the first six.

  Time now to question.

  He sat a few moments, sucking in the waft of old comforts around him. The silence pressed on his ears, palpable as the pressure from an explosion. Rain peppered the window, sounding like mice scurrying on the floor. He glanced over, the curtains not drawn. Pauline had hated to be in a lighted room, at night, with the windows unshaded. But he’d never seemed to mind. How would Diane react to the fact that her husband may have loved another woman? That he planned to divorce her? He’d keep those tidbits to himself for as long as possible. Though he may not have cared for Diane through the years, there seemed no reason to hurt her outright.

  With the notebook in hand he stood, found his car keys, then headed downstairs. Outside, the governor’s security team kept watch on the front porch.

  “I’ll be back,” he said.

  “It’s awful late. Do you need an escort?” the man asked.

  That was the last thing he required.

  “Nope. I got it.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Cotton followed Morse outside. Cassiopeia and Lea came, too. He was learning things, like with his own grandfather, in tiny doses. From ages ten to sixteen he’d been enthralled by stories. His mother’s family had all been Confederates, proud Georgians who’d stood with their state when it abandoned the Union. Clearly a different time and place. But no Adams had ever owned slaves. Instead, they’d worked the land as a family. Thankfully, there’d been a lot of them in and around Vidalia, Georgia. No onions then, though. Those didn’t start until the 1930s. Corn and cotton had been big business then.

  They all stopped on the porch.

  “I been doin’ this a long time,” Morse said. “Sentinels were once stationed all over Arkansas. We each had a slice of land to look after. My pa showed me the map tree that you found. I was younger than Lea when he explained about it. It’s my main marker. That’s why it’s there. Like a boundary line. I keep a watch over the woods for fifty miles in every direction from it. Not all the time. Just when people come snooping.”

  “And how do you know where things are buried?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “I don’t. But the markers lead the way. I was told only a few exact locations by my pa. But those are paycheck holes.”

  God bless his grandfather. Cotton knew what that meant. Of the caches that were buried, some were made known to those who guarded over them. Small amounts of gold and silver hidden as periodic payment for their services.

  “We’d get instructions sent to us where to dig. Then we’d go and get us a little gold for ourselves,” Morse said.

  “You ever dig one up?” he asked.

  The old man shook his head. “Never got the opportunity. No instructions ever came to me. But that jar you found today was mighty small. I’d say it was a paycheck hole, meant for my pa.”

  “So you’ve worked for free?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “I guess so. I watch for people who get interested in certain spots, then I work to change their interest.”

  The knot on his forehead still hurt from that persuasion. “Has there been a lot of interest?”

  “That’s the funny thing. Nothin’ for a long time.
A while back there were some books put out on the subject that brought in treasure hunters. Mostly amateurs. They came lookin’ for the trees, diggin’ for markers. But I scared ’em off. Then, a month ago, the one fellow came, then the group of fellows, then you. Been busy lately.”

  “There was a Smithsonian expedition here back in 1909. Did your father or grandfather ever mention it?”

  Morse threw him a curious look. “That one was a big deal. My pa told me about it. Fellow died, I believe. Huntin’ accident. That kind of stuff happened around here sometimes.”

  “Your pa ever kill anybody who got too close?”

  Morse clearly did not like the question. “My uncle did. Two in fact. Shot ’em and buried ’em up in the hills.”

  “Which is murder.”

  “I guess it is, but what the crap does it matter anymore? My uncle and all the sentinels from back then are dead.”

  “It matters, Mr. Morse,” Cassiopeia said. “Because it was murder.”

  “You ever kill anybody?” the older man asked her.

  “I have.”

  “I bet you have, too,” Morse said to Cotton.

  He nodded.

  “I would imagine you had a reason. They did, too. That gold didn’t belong to those people searchin’ for it.”

  Cotton decided that this debate would lead nowhere so he changed tack. “You never learned to read the markers in the woods?”

  Morse shook his head. “Never had to. Not my job. You seem to know a lot about us. You sure you ain’t a knight?”

  He actually could have been. His grandfather had told him a lot about the Order and how they hid their loot. So-called hoot owl trees, like he’d seen earlier, either purposefully bent or unusual looking, mainly three or more in a straight line, there to tag the site from a distance. Or trees planted in rows, sometimes with one missing, that spot most likely where a hoard lay buried. Other trees were trimmed in unnatural patterns, like the goalposts today, or into T’s or cross-shaped, molded for years from saplings. A few had knobs knitted into their trunks, or gauges down the bark. To make sure magnetism survived as long as possible, large ferrous objects like stoves, wash pots, milk cans, strongboxes, and plows were buried. More markers included diamond-shaped clusters of stones, holes drilled into rocks, and cryptic carvings, each an indicator of direction and distance, referring either to compass headings, topographic features, or a linear geometric grid.