by Steve Berry
The warning with the hanging effigy, the bullets, and the string was an old Order ploy. It rattled Thomas enough that he fled the state without finding much of anything. They’d wanted him to follow the leads from the 1909 expedition to see if a gold cache could be located. But Terry Morse seemed to still take his job seriously. So professionals had been hired, told to use loyalty to its maximum effect, convincing Morse they were of the Order. Seemed like a smart play, and he was hoping that he’d soon receive a phone call that the Witch’s Stone had been found. Right now his problem was the mousy little annoyance standing before him.
And those three words he’d just heard.
“Lost Confederate treasure.”
“What is it you think you know?” he asked Thomas.
“I’ve been studying all of this in great detail. The Smithsonian archives have a lot of information on this subject. Millions of dollars in gold and silver disappeared after the Civil War. Nobody has any idea how much.” Thomas displayed the three pieces he’d given him. “Much of it like these coins. A strange way to pay someone, wouldn’t you say?”
“I thought you might appreciate the historical aspects.”
Thomas chuckled. “I do. More than you realize. From what I’ve already read, it looks as though the Smithsonian itself figures prominently in finding the treasure you’re after. They did a lot of work on this back in 1909, then again in the 1970s.”
“Really? Concerning what?”
“Oh, I get it. This is a test. To see how much I really know. Okay. I have five words for you. Knights. Of. The. Golden. Circle.”
“And just how much do you know about that?”
“Enough to write a book. Which I plan to do. It’s going to sell a lot of copies.”
Diane should have known better than to trust this opportunist. But if all went well tonight, they would not have any further need of Martin Thomas. All they required from him at the moment was a little covert access to the buildings. The plan had been to pay him off, then cut him off. According to her, he would be an easy matter to handle.
Now this.
“You have been busy,” he said.
“I’ve spent many hours reading. It’s quite a story.”
He’d heard enough.
“All right. I’ll cut you in.”
* * *
Stephanie listened in amazement. Martin Thomas hadn’t reported the visit tonight because he didn’t want anyone to know. He was making his own deal and, for some inexplicable reason, thought he could sneak in unnoticed, except by the night security detail who wouldn’t pay him much attention. Surely staff worked all the time after hours. It was nothing unusual, and Rick had told her that they were allowed to bring people into the building.
She wondered about Thomas’ declaration on writing a book about lost Confederate treasure. And what was the Knights of the Golden Circle?
“I tell you what,” the other man said. “Let’s get to the Castle, do what I have to do, then come back. I need to take a look at something else, back over here, before I leave. After that, we’ll discuss your share.”
She debated whether to act now since a deal like that never, ever worked out well for the recipient.
“Why are we going to the Castle?” Thomas asked. “And what is it you need to see here?”
“I’ll explain as we walk.”
Apparently Thomas did not know either objective and, if she moved now, neither would Rick.
So she stayed put.
“The hatch is there,” Thomas said. “I’ve never been down it before.”
Footsteps scuffled across the dirty concrete. Then she heard the squeak of hinges and the clang of banging metal.
“What’s happening?” Rick asked in her ear.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “They seem to be leaving.”
“There’s no way out, except past you. All of the other exit doors are sealed for the construction.”
She stood still and listened, hearing only silence.
Finally, she risked a look.
The space beyond was maybe fifty feet square. Two of the interior walls were half built with exposed conduits and wires, the ceiling bare concrete from the floor above. The room nestled against the museum’s exterior wall, facing the Mall side, a line of transom windows dark to the night. The only light came from two incandescent fixtures. Near the exterior she spotted the source of the noise earlier.
An open iron door in the floor.
She crept closer.
No one was in sight.
She spotted a metal ladder that stretched down a few feet into the ground. Insulated pipes, ducts, and wires were visible, as was light at the bottom from another opening into the earth.
“They crawled down to a tunnel,” she whispered to Rick.
“It leads across, under the Mall, to the Castle,” he said in her ear. “It’s mainly for heating and cooling pipes that go back and forth. It’s hardly an exit, but it can be walked.”
There seemed to be no choice. “I’m going after them.”
“That tunnel is full of creatures. We go in there only if we have to. Besides, we can be there on the other end, when they come out.”
“I thought you wanted to know what they were after.”
“I do.”
Her psyche screamed that this was a job for one of her agents. But there were none around. And Thomas was leading that man to something. Time to do what she always told her own people to do.
Suck it up and get the job done.
She tucked the gun away and eased herself down the ladder.
* * *
Grant admired the tunnel. He knew all of its particulars. 730 feet long, 4 feet wide, 5.5 feet high. Built in 1909, its concrete interior had been sloped and troweled to a smooth surface. Waterproofing had not seemed a priority, the walls and floor pregnant with age and damp, the confines tight. Definitely not for claustrophobics, but he’d never been prone to such weakness. Lights shone every twenty feet. Without them you probably would not be able to see your finger touch your nose, and there’d be a real threat from rats. He’d heard the stories as a kid of how the maintenance people would go on hunts, and he’d even once ventured a little way in from the Castle entrance, where they were now headed. That was the one good thing about growing up as the child of a Smithsonian curator.
Lots of cool perks.
Of course, Martin Thomas knew none of this. To this reference librarian he was simply a friend of Diane Sherwood’s who paid in gold. How many coins so far? At least ten, not counting the expense money for the trip to Arkansas. He wondered how Diane would react to Thomas’ blackmail attempt. Knowing her, she probably would say to give him what he wanted. There was plenty for all. But just the thought of such a sellout turned his stomach. He’d found this payday on his own and had no intention of allowing a newcomer to dilute the prize.
“How did you know about the tunnel?” Thomas asked him, leading the way. “That’s not something many know exist.”
“My father once worked here.”
“You’ve never mentioned that. But that explains why you know so much about the Smithsonian.”
He estimated they were at least three hundred feet into the passage. Plenty of privacy.
No more talk.
He withdrew his gun.
And fired.
* * *
Stephanie worked her way through the tunnel, not all that pleased with its confines or smell. Definitely things were dead down here. The air bordered on acrid hot, and sweat was forming across her brow. A tangle of wires and pipes made the journey back and forth between the Castle and the natural history museum. She was careful not to touch any of them.
A loud bang rattled her ears.
She stopped.
A bend in the path ahead kept the two men out of sight. The route was lit with bulbs enclosed in metal cages, more thick pipes and wires disappearing into the distance.
“Can you hear me?” she whispered into the lapel mike, using one
hand to cup her mouth and keep her voice down.
No reply.
Which she’d expected, being sealed underground within concrete.
Her ears rang from the loud noise. She checked her gun and continued moving, not sure what to expect. How far was it across the Mall? Several hundred feet, at least.
She came to the bend and peered around. A hundred feet away lay a body. She rushed forward and found Martin Thomas lying facedown. Blood oozed from a hole in the back of his head. No need to check for a pulse. He was dead.
Dammit.
She’d pressed too far, believing Thomas’ best insurance was the fact that the other man needed him.
But apparently that was not the case.
In the distance she heard a metal bolt release, followed by a clank.
Like a gate closing.
Then the lights extinguished and absolute darkness engulfed her. For an instant she panicked, then grabbed hold of herself, not moving. She could feel Thomas’ body beside her, but could not see him. Nor could she see any of the pipes or wires, especially the bulky and sharp-collared brackets she’d noticed that held things together every few feet. Then there were the local residents, who surely loved the dark. Her mind started clicking off options. She could use her phone for light, but that might reveal her presence to the shooter, who could still be lurking. All of the mechanical equipment for the tunnel had been confined to one side, so she could feel her way back to natural history, using the clear side as a guide.
The lights came back on.
She blinked away the burning as her pupils adjusted.
A noise disturbed the silence.
Echoes made it hard to know from which direction.
Ahead? Or behind?
She pointed the Beretta, readying herself.
Someone was coming her way.
But from where?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cassiopeia watched the three men as they assumed positions around the room. Not with any purpose or plan, just here and there, none of them all that attentive. Which told her these guys were amateurs. Hired help. But they’d managed to use Terry Morse to lure her and Cotton into their clutches, so she had to give them credit for effort.
“You know these people?” Lea asked her grandfather.
“They’re knights.”
Cassiopeia heard the pride.
“No, they’re not,” Cotton said, who’d apparently come to the same “hired help” conclusion.
One of the men signaled to a compatriot to snap a few cell phone photos of the stone. The one giving the orders was squat, heavily built, with a squashed nose, gap-toothed mouth and a thick mat of black hair.
“That what you came for?” Cotton asked.
“Absolutely. But you two kind of changed things.”
Nothing about this seemed okay. And the fact that Lea was in the middle concerned her even more. Terry Morse had not a clue who or what he was dealing with.
The man finished taking his pictures. She concluded that getting their hands on all the cell phones in the room might be the quickest route to where this led.
“I did what you wanted,” Morse said. “I got ’em here.”
“Yes, you did,” Black Hair said. “Good work. So tell me, why are you two here?”
Cotton shrugged. “Never visited this part of the country, so we thought a trip would be fun.”
The leader chuckled. “We got ourselves a comedian.”
“I’ll be doing two shows a night at the lodge where we’re staying. I can get you tickets.”
“I heard you talking in the house,” Black Hair said. “What are two federal agents doing here?”
Cotton smiled. “We’re with the Census Bureau, just gathering some information.”
Black Hair lunged to his right, grabbed Lea, and jammed his gun into the side of her neck. Shock flooded the young girl’s eyes.
“Get your damn hands off my granddaughter,” Morse yelled.
“Shut up, old man.”
Morse leaped forward. “Who the hell you callin’ old.”
But one of the other men cut him off, slamming the butt of his pistol into Morse’s left temple, sending him to the floor, groaning.
Lea gasped.
Cotton held up his hands in mock surrender. “No need for that. We can work this through.”
“Then answer my question.”
The gun on Lea remained unchanged.
Cassiopeia decided to go with the truth. “Like you heard, we’re federal agents, here investigating on behalf of the U.S. government. And you’re in a lot of trouble.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question.”
Morse tried to stand, his head clearly woozy, but the man beside him returned him to the floor with a shove. The bees maintained a steady hum, not all that concerned with their presence.
Cassiopeia could imagine what had happened. These men appeared, provided the supposed handshake, used the right words, then talked of the Order and the past. She hardly knew Terry Morse, who seemed like a decent person, the one constant in his life the duty his father had passed down. Sure, it bordered on ridiculous, but it was still something tangible that provided him a sense of belonging. At times, she’d wrestled with her own past, trying to decide exactly where she belonged, and those demons had proven formidable. Luckily, she’d had Cotton there to help. Morse seemed to be on his own, except for Lea.
“I’m not going to ask again,” Black Hair said. “Why are you here?”
The gun remained tight to Lea’s neck. She stared into the girl’s eyes and surprisingly saw more resolve than fear.
Lea had guts.
Like her granddaddy.
“We came for that stone, too,” Cotton said, pointing.
A lie, but it seemed like a plausible explanation. In fact, she firmly believed that it was the right answer to the question.
“Who sent you?”
“The Smithsonian.”
She watched them all carefully, then caught Cotton’s gaze, a current of complicity passing between them, his green eyes crinkling assent. It was as if they could read each other’s minds and she knew what he wanted done. An old trick, for sure, but one that nearly always worked. So she blurted out, “I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Black Hair swung around and faced her, keeping hold of Lea.
“I’ll tell you what you want to know,” she said to him.
She stood near one of the hives, a three-foot-tall rectangle slotted with openings. The boxes were made of thin wood and would not survive much jostling.
“I’m no hero,” she said. “Just a paid employee. I can tell you all about why we’re here.”
“I like your attitude,” Black Hair said, and he shoved Lea away, aiming the gun directly at Cassiopeia. “Let’s hear it.”
“I talk better without a gun aimed at me.”
Not a hint of concern laced her voice, which the fool listening to her should have noticed.
But he didn’t.
Cotton used the moment of distraction to inch his way closer to the tables.
The gun slowly lowered.
Cotton’s leg swung up, the sole of his right boot slamming into one of the hives. She took his cue and thrust both of her elbows backward, sending two more of the fragile boxes to the floor. The paper-thin wood shattered, the tops on all three flying off, the honey frames spewing across the floor. The bees, crushed together and stunned for a moment, crawled about in a great furry brown blob, then took to the air.
The humming grew louder.
As did the insects’ agitation.
She knew a little about bees. They’d swarm and aggravate, though they wouldn’t sting unless threatened. But the three men didn’t help matters by vainly swatting at the marauders with their guns.
The first sting came on the intruder to her left, who shrieked in pain. She stiff-armed him hard against the wall, his head slapping the thick wood with a thump. He slumped, feet skidding on the earthen floor, hands clawing fo
r support, fingers caught on the edge of one of the hive tables. Instead of supporting, the table tipped over, more boxes crashing open, releasing a new cloud of bees. She noticed that Lea had immediately hit the floor, lying prone beside her grandfather.
She still wanted that cell phone the one guy had used to snap pictures and darted that way, bees everywhere. She knew once they decided to attack they would not discriminate between friend and foe. The three men staggered for the door, slapping their faces, necks, ears, and scalps.
“Get down,” Lea yelled. “Lie still.”
Cassiopeia dropped to the floor, beside the Morses.
Two of the men fled.
Cotton cut off Black Hair before he could escape. The hand with the gun swung around. Black Hair feinted right, then swung from the left, delivering only a glancing blow, lunging through the bees. Cotton brought his right elbow up with a sharp thrust to the throat. He then wrenched the gun arm down and over his hip, using his weight, twisting and flipping the man in a somersault to the floor.
The gun jarred free.
But Black Hair was quick, rolling through his fall, then rebounding to his feet and bursting out the door.
The bees, now fully stimulated, seemed to have decided that everyone was a threat. A few began to land and she brushed them away. Lea and Morse started crawling to the door.
She followed.
Cotton retrieved the gun and moved for the exit, too.
Shots rang out.
Bullets came through the open doorway, thudding into the walls beyond.
“Stay down,” Cotton yelled.
The bees were becoming an ever-denser shadow. She swiped a few away as carefully as possible, trying not to make matters worse. Cotton belly-crawled to the doorway. She heard the drone of a car engine, then the scrunch of tires on loose dirt.
“They’re gone,” Cotton said. “Let’s get out of here.”
And they did, rushing away toward the house.
“That didn’t go well,” she said to Cotton. “Should we go after them?”
He shook his head. “They’re not our problem.”