by Steve Berry
They had to find the vault.
He had to find the vault.
The rest of his life seemed predicated on that success. He’d met Diane two years ago after she tracked his father down. Her father and his had worked at the Smithsonian at the same time, first as friends, later as enemies. Twenty years in age separated him and Diane, he being the younger. His father had been more lucid then, talking of his days at the Castle, reminiscing about her father and their feud. They’d struck up a conversation after her first visit to the house, having dinner that same night. A month later they were lovers. She was an amazing woman, different from any he’d ever known.
The image of the stone on the screen continued to glare at him.
He noticed the wording.
Spanish?
Seemed so. Foreign languages were not his thing. And the images? Random. Seemingly unrelated. But he knew better.
The Order’s success had lain in its cleverness. An ability to create traps, diversions, and false trails. Hiding in plain sight became an art form. His father long ago had told him that hidden away in the continental United States was a place loaded with immense wealth, all accumulated by the Knights of the Golden Circle. Over the past few years there’d been renewed interest in the Order. Several books had been published about its supposed treasure. One by a fellow in Arkansas had been way too close for comfort. Like himself and Diane, that man had learned secrets from his family, then managed to piece together even more, deciphering the signs in the woods and finding a few of the remaining caches. But he’d noticed no mention of the vault in that book, which meant that man’s ancestors, who most likely had acted as sentinels, were not privy to the stones.
Now one had been located.
Four remained.
He found Thomas’ security swipe card in his pocket. His ticket back in. He’d have to go, no matter the risk.
Something Martin Thomas said kept ringing in his brain. About writing a book. Which would include the vault. That could be a problem. Thankfully, he’d kept his head about him and also relieved the corpse of a ring of keys, one of which surely opened Thomas’ apartment.
Good.
He needed to do some cleanup.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Stephanie listened to what Chief Justice Weston was telling her, fascinated by the subject matter.
“In 1846 President James Polk decided that the fastest way to increase the size of the United States was to have a war with Mexico. Which wasn’t all that hard to manufacture—Mexico had been begging for a fight ever since it lost Texas in the 1830s. So Polk provoked a conflict and, after two years of fighting, defeated Mexico. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo gave the United States what would later become Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, Nevada, and California.
“In 1854 the Smithsonian Institution sent a team to the newly acquired American Southwest for mapping and geological research, one of our first scientific expeditions. At the time Jefferson Davis served as secretary of war under President Franklin Pierce. Davis was secretly approached by a newly formed group called the Knights of the Golden Circle.”
“Thomas mentioned them earlier.”
“And he would know, as that’s what he’s been looking into. The Order had a specific interest in Mexico and the Caribbean, wanting to acquire them to form a new southern empire. It talked of political reform and changing the country by creating new states, altering the balance of power in Congress. It spoke of a new constitutional convention and amendments to secure southern rights. Jefferson Davis thought the whole idea intriguing. The Order thought the Smithsonian expedition would provide an excellent opportunity to covertly reconnoiter the newly acquired lands, which they hoped to organize into slave states.”
“Sounds grandiose.”
“It was. While serving in the U.S. Senate in the late 1840s, Jefferson Davis also served as a Smithsonian regent. That’s when he and our secretary, Joseph Henry, became close. In 1854, as secretary of war for Franklin Pierce, Davis used that connection to have a man added to the Smithsonian expedition. Eventually that man reconnoitered the entire Southwest region, gathering vital geographic, geological, and political information, recording everything within a journal that was delivered back to Davis. The young man sent with the expedition was named Angus Adams, who worked at the Smithsonian. Seven years later, Adams quit his job and joined the Confederate army, becoming a renowned spy. He even acquired a moniker.” Weston paused. “Cotton.”
“He’s related to Malone?”
“His great-great-grandfather.”
“And you know all of this, how?”
“I did extensive genealogical research on Malone,” said Rick Stamm, who’d returned about halfway through Weston’s recitation.
Which raised a host of questions, but she decided to ask, “Whatever happened to that journal?”
“Originally Angus Adams delivered it to the Castle on the day the building burned in January 1865, along with a key.”
She knew. “The same key that was stolen tonight.”
“Correct. But both objects vanished during the fire. The key was found in the late 1950s in the Castle attic, quite by accident. The journal is gone.”
“So much for this institution remaining above politics and staying neutral.”
“We do a good job of that now,” Weston said. “Not so much 160 years ago. The Civil War was a trying time for everyone. Loyalties were tested across families, governments, even here, within these supposed hallowed halls.”
“Where exactly is Cotton?” she asked.
“In Arkansas,” Weston said. “Checking out some information.”
“I’m assuming you plan to explain what and why.”
Weston smiled. “Absolutely. Right now, let’s focus on Diane Sherwood, as it was her interest in all this that drew our attention. What you don’t know is that back in the 1960s to the mid-1990s, her father, Davis Layne, served as head of the American history museum. He accumulated a respectable amount of research on the Knights of the Golden Circle. Mr. Malone spent a couple of days here reading that research and some other materials from our restricted archive. From a 1909 expedition to Arkansas and the 1854 expedition to the Southwest.”
“Any idea why Layne’s daughter is so intent on this now?” she asked.
“We truly don’t know.”
“I’m assuming there is a treasure. As Thomas mentioned. ‘Lost Confederate gold.’”
The chief justice nodded. “That there is, which this institution has long had an interest in acquiring.”
She looked at Rick. “Is there a link between our killer tonight and Mrs. Sherwood?”
“Only Martin could have made that connection, and he said nothing to us about it.”
“We all know there has to be a connection,” the chief justice said. “But we do need to proceed with caution. She is the widow of a regent. There is a chance that this could all begin and end with Martin Thomas. As you say, he was making a bargain on his own, without our knowledge. But we can’t forget that she did recruit Thomas to breach our restricted archives.”
“Why is any of this information restricted? It seems like ancient history.”
“The last thing we want is for this institution to become the haunt of treasure hunters.”
She decided to cut to the chase. “Not to mention, one, the scandal, and, two, that you’d like to keep that treasure for yourself?”
The chief justice shifted in his chair. “Ms. Nelle, it’s important that you appreciate the situation we find ourselves in. It takes over a billion dollars a year to keep the Smithsonian running, and everything here is free to the public. We’ve never charged a user or admission fee and never will. People think the federal government pays all of our bills. It doesn’t. Congress pays about 70% of the costs. We have to raise the other 30%, which amounts to several hundred million dollars each year, just to balance the budget. You can imagine how daunting a task that is. Those funds come from donors, all around the world, large and small,
mainly small. If that flow of money is disrupted in any way, this institution is doomed. So yes, we’d like to have those funds. And yes, we cannot afford a major scandal.”
“Let’s see where we are,” she said, “First, the Smithsonian played both ends against the middle during the Civil War. Then you have the wife of a dead regent, a woman who serves on one of your advisory boards, who may be an accessory to murder. Then there’s a reference librarian who got himself killed, a man who was allowed into harm’s way, all so that you can keep secret the fact that you have information leading to some lost Confederate treasure.”
“Are you always so surly to people who seek your help?” Weston asked.
“Only the ones who hold back on me, which you’re still doing. At least tell me about the ceremonial key that was stolen.”
Weston nodded at Rick, who said, “Nobody has a clue what it opens. Once, the locks on all of the Castle doors took skeleton keys just like it. A couple of those locks remain, but the key doesn’t open them. Like the placard in the display case said, Secretary Ripley decided to make it part of the installation ceremony. For a long time, while a secretary served, the original was displayed in his office. But that stopped about thirty years ago when it was placed in the display case. Now it’s used only at induction, then a copy is given to the secretary for him or her to keep.”
“How many copies exist?”
Rick did a count with his fingers. “Three for past secretaries, one for the current, and I have four in the safe in my office, to be used in the future.”
“All identical?”
Rick nodded. “I had them made myself.”
“So tell me, why did this guy want the original? He took an enormous chance coming in here to get it.”
Weston shrugged. “Unfortunately, that is something you’re going to have to learn for us.”
“Mr. Chief Justice, regardless of what the attorney general has said, this is a matter for law enforcement, not an intelligence agency. A murder has been committed. You should involve the police and the FBI and cooperate fully with them.”
“From a legal standpoint, the Castle is within the federal district. The locals have jurisdiction only if we cede it to them. And the FBI comes only if we call them. I prefer not to involve either. We have to keep this contained—for a little while longer.”
She could refuse to help, but that would just start another feud with her new bosses. The new attorney general was nothing short of a presidential lapdog, so she knew who’d lose that battle. She could not afford to fight about everything, so she decided to suck this one up.
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Conduct a thorough investigation. Help Rick find some answers and, above all, find Martin Thomas’ killer.”
“You do realize that other people are more qualified than me to handle this. Cotton being one.”
“I do,” Weston said. “And we’ll involve him, once he returns from Arkansas. For now, could you get things started?”
“Any suggestions?” she asked, since both men had been thinking about this a lot longer than she had.
“Begin with a search of Martin Thomas’ apartment,” the chief justice said. “Things are missing from our archives that are not in his office. We need them returned.”
“And how will I know what these things are?”
“I’ll go with you,” Rick said.
She should have known. “How do we get into his apartment?”
“I’m assuming you can pick a lock,” Weston said.
“I have some talent in that area.”
Rick smiled. “Once everything had finished here tonight, you and I were going to go over there with Martin and have a look anyway.”
“So you did suspect he was not being straight with you.”
“Not until I saw him with the guy in the Cullman Library, which is another reason I called you.”
“All right. Let’s see if there’s anything there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Cotton checked his watch. Tuesday was about to become Wednesday. What a day. It had started early this morning in a lovely room at a mountaintop lodge. Now it was ending in the heat and humidity of an Arkansas spring night, after he’d been twice assaulted, shot at, then chased by bees.
“What’s the vault?” he asked Terry Morse.
“It’s where they took all the gold and silver.”
He and Cassiopeia listened as Morse told them what happened starting in the latter part of the 19th century. Hundreds of caches were dug from the ground, their sentinels told to stand down. The Knights of the Golden Circle was fading into oblivion. A loyal core still existed, but their number was too small to be effective. The idea of a second secessionist movement seemed no more than a dream. So the decision was made to consolidate the Order’s wealth, where it could be more easily managed and retrieved, if the time ever came.
“Those were the days of the Klan,” Morse said. “Everybody focused on them and their cross burnin’s and lynchin’s. They were bad people. That wasn’t the knights. The KKK was somethin’ else entirely.”
His own grandfather had issued a similar disclaimer.
“My pa helped transport a lot of the gold from here to Kansas City, where it was given to other knights,” Morse said. “He told me they dug it slow and quiet. Took thirty years to get most of it, so nobody would notice.”
“I thought you said your father couldn’t read the signs in the woods,” Cassiopeia said.
“He couldn’t. But knights came who could.”
“Were there hoards buried all over the country?” Cotton asked.
“Best I know they’re scattered everywhere, but heavy in Arkansas, Tennessee, and Kentucky. The farther away from the carpetbaggers, the easier to hide.”
Which made sense. The fewer Federal troops around after the war, enforcing Reconstruction, the more freedom of movement an organization like the Knights of the Golden Circle could enjoy.
“You still haven’t told me about the vault,” Cotton said.
“’Cause I don’t know much. Only that it exists and that the stone out there with the bees helps lead the way to it. It’s called the Witch’s Stone because of the figure on the front and the hat.”
Cassiopeia produced her phone and Cotton saw again the image of the carved face.
“Where did the stone come from?” he asked Morse.
“That’s a tale my pa did tell me, as his grandpa told him.”
The wagon stopped on the dirt track, just beyond the split-rail fence. Trees lined the rutted route that led six miles east, back to town. A few days ago a tornado had cut a path across the road, dropping limbs, which had obviously been cleared, allowing the three-horse hitch to make its way into the Arkansas woods.
“That’s a fine-lookin’ council tree you got there,” the young driver called out.
The towering oak sitting off to one side of the front yard had been there when Morses first came nearly seventy years ago. Its trunk measured a good six feet in diameter, the height and breadth of its massive limbs signaling age and strength.
“It is that,” Grady Morse called out. “The Cherokees themselves sat beneath that tree with the governor of this territory, back in 1818, and bargained. That’s how we got all the woods north of the river.”
Council trees were common in Arkansas, shaded places where men gathered. Grady Morse was particularly proud of his. He studied his two visitors. The driver was a young, tough, healthy buck, the other man more like himself. Older, with pallid features, scarred and cratered, thin as a corpse, a white beard sprouting from a narrow jaw.
“I need to speak with you,” the older man said, the voice hard and sharp, resonant with authority.
Grady held his rifle, which was the prudent thing to do when strangers appeared. “About what?”
“Your duties, sir, as a sentinel.”
The older man climbed down from the wagon and stepped through the opening in the rail fence. As he approached, Grady n
oticed the watery eyes, red-rimmed, with dark crescents that cast a haunted look. One seemed sharp and watchful. The other not so much, more clouded with pain. Wrinkles on the neck and liver spots on the back of the hands betrayed an advanced age. The thinning gray hair was nearly a perfect match for the wool suit he wore.
“May I shake your hand?” his visitor asked.
They did, the grip tight, the palm moist, and he felt the familiar grasp of the third and little fingers with his own.
“Are you on it?” the man said.
“I’m on it.”
“They sat under the council tree for an hour and the old man told my great-grandpa about the Witch’s Stone,” Morse said. “He’d brought it with him in the wagon.”
“You never told me any of this,” Lea said to her grandfather.
“Wasn’t the time. You had to accept the duty, which I kinda figured you weren’t goin’ to. So I kept quiet.”
“Why are you telling these people?”
“’Cause I don’t want either of us to go to jail.”
“What happened?” Cotton asked. “With the stone.”
“The driver and the older man headed off into the woods. They came back two days later and told my great-grandpa that they hid it in the woods and left markers, like always.”
“You’re special,” the older man said to Grady. “You were chosen for this duty because of your family’s dedication to the cause.”
“I fought in the war and killed my share of Federals.”
“That’s what I was told. So we want you to guard the stone, as you’ve done our gold.”
Then the older man climbed atop the wagon beside the young driver.
“I do have one question,” Grady said.