by Steve Berry
His eye caught a red-and-black-plaid shirt, inside a glass case, hanging from the wall. He stepped around the young woman’s desk and approached the display. A card at the bottom right explained.
IN HIS FIRST CAMPAIGN FOR THE SENATE, ALEX SHERWOOD WALKED ACROSS THE STATE OF TENNESSEE. EVERY DAY OF HIS 1,000-MILE TREK HE WORE A TRADITIONAL RED-AND-BLACK-PLAID LEVI’S SHIRT. THEY WERE MANUFACTURED IN TENNESSEE AND PURCHASED FROM FRIEDMAN’S DEPARTMENT STORE ON HILLSBORO ROAD IN NASHVILLE.
He recalled when he and Alex first conceived that idea as the perfect way to connect with voters.
And it worked.
Alex won with a huge vote.
He heard people approaching from behind him and turned to see more of the staff.
“Mr. President,” one of them said. “I’m sorry, I mean, Senator Daniels.”
He smiled and started the process of winning these folks over.
“I know what you mean. It’s confusing as hell to me, too. But we’ll both adjust.”
* * *
Grant flung himself off the bed and scooped up his trousers. Diane had already risen and was out in the other room. She’d wanted a full report, but he’d wanted other things, which a part of her had seemed to want, too. So they’d both been distracted for a little while. Now it was time to get down to business. He hoped their passionate interlude would cushion the bad news. He walked out of the bedroom, pulling on his pants but leaving his shirt off.
“You don’t find it weird, you and me, here?” he asked her. “I mean it doesn’t matter to me, but it should to you.”
“Why? It’s not a shrine. And I assure you, nothing ever happened here between me and my husband. So I’m not filled with any touching memories. Now tell me, what happened last night?”
“When I went to get the key, Thomas tried blackmail. He figured out what we’re after and wanted a cut. If not, he was planning on writing a book. I decided his dying was better.”
“Excuse me?”
“I shot him.” Might as well give it to her straight.
“Inside the Smithsonian?”
“Technically, it was under it. But not to worry, nobody saw me.”
He omitted the confrontation in the Castle, the Justice Department lady, and the fact that he’d shot her, too. No sense begging for trouble. And besides, he was reasonably sure nothing could be traced back to him.
“You do realize that I was connected to Thomas,” she said. “What happens if someone starts asking questions?”
Which was a possibility. One he’d deal with, if and when it arose. As much as he liked Diane, both in and out of the sack, he liked the prospects of billions of dollars in lost gold more. “Your connection to him was innocent, right?”
“Of course, and he may not have told a soul about it.”
But he knew that was not the case. The Justice Department lady had been right there, all over him, and afterward had gone straight to Thomas’ apartment. That meant she was informed. But hopefully she was now dead. And if Richard Stamm, or anyone else, could connect Diane, Thomas, and himself, why had they not already tried to contact Diane? She certainly would be easy to find. Which made him think that he’d been right all along. Thomas had kept the details of that relationship to himself.
He decided to move on to another subject. “The Trail Stone was exactly where it was supposed to be inside the natural history museum. My father’s memory was right on that one.” He reached into his pants pocket and found the ceremonial key. “And we have this, too. Combined with the Witch’s Stone from Arkansas my men found, we’re nearly there. I have photos of all the stones we’ve found so far. You need to work on deciphering them.”
Her value came from being able to understand the Order’s cryptic language. To find the gold, he would need that expertise.
“Things are about to happen in Congress,” she told him. “Vance is moving ahead.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t concern us. But I’m sure your brother’s panties are all in a wad with excitement. He wants to change the country. You and I? We just want to be rich.”
Greed was truly one of the simplest of motives. And it wasn’t like he was taking something that belonged to other living people. This treasure had been hidden for a long time. The people who stole it were all dead, their cause long forgotten. Sure, Kenneth Layne and the Speaker of the House planned to resurrect some of the old ideas, but who cared.
“It’s happening,” she whispered.
That it was. They’d definitely made progress.
He stepped over to a wall mirror.
Though no one may have seen his face, his curly hair could be a problem. And the port wine stain. He’d never given it much thought, there since birth, not all that noticeable to him.
But to others?
“I’ll email you photos of the stones,” he said, studying himself in the mirror. “You work on them. I have to go out.”
He headed for the bedroom to find his shirt.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I need a haircut.”
* * *
Danny met each of the fourteen people who worked out of Alex’s main office, including its chief of staff. Every senator had a DC headquarters, then satellite offices scattered throughout their respective states, usually one in each congressional district. All total, across ten separate offices, Alex employed 34 people, which was about average. But if you multiply those costs by 100, it added up to a serious line item in the federal budget. Something else Everett Dirksen once said came to mind. A billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you’re talking about real money.
He stood in Alex’s inner sanctum, a bright, warm space decorated with more Tennessee memorabilia, the walls filled with dozens of framed photos, a visual reminder of a storied political career. There were presidents, senators, kings, queens, movie stars, singers. You name it, Alex had shaken their hand. Danny understood the importance of displaying those connections. The images sent a subtle, but clear, message that the man who occupied this office could get things done. So trust him. Vote for him. Once, long ago, when he’d been the senior senator from Tennessee, another suite of offices, on another floor in another building, had been littered with images of him. Interesting how presidents had no need for such pandering. It was so different in the White House. Your stock rose and fell by the hour and no amount of braggadocio photographs helped. Of course, everything here would have to eventually go to Diane. But something about that really bothered him. She’d had Alex’s apartment searched. Then she’d met privately with Lucius Vance and some other man, smooching on Vance afterward. Giving these precious memories to her seemed wrong. So for now, everything would stay right where it was.
“Nobody loses their job,” he said to the chief of staff, standing beside him.
She was a competent Capitol Hill veteran. Alex had never had anything but good words to say about her.
“If anyone feels they can’t work for me, they’re welcome to leave with a good recommendation and my blessing. But I don’t want any of ’em to go. It’s their call. This is hard enough without making things harder.”
“I speak for everyone,” she said, “when I say we’re here for you, ready to go to work.”
He already liked this woman.
It seemed his lot to be surrounded by strong women. His longtime White House secretary had been a bulldog, Pauline no slouch. One-third of his cabinet had been female. And there was Stephanie, the toughest of them all, fighting for her life.
“Good to hear. I need you to do something for me, right now.”
He saw he had her attention.
“Nice and quiet, find Lucius Vance.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Cotton waited for more answers from the chief justice, deciding to let Weston set the tone. This man was on a mission. After something. What? He wasn’t sure. The one thing that rang clear, though, was that he was not hearing everything. Experience had taught him that the ears were always more attentive tha
n the mouth, so he kept quiet and listened.
“We had quite a civil war going on at this institution, back in 1973,” Weston told him. “Davis Layne was interested in finding the Order’s lost gold. Frank Breckinridge thought it best that the Smithsonian stay out of it. He argued that we made enough mistakes during, and after, the Civil War, so we should just leave it alone. That gold wasn’t ours. His position is the one that ultimately prevailed.”
“And Diane Sherwood?”
“She surely knows about what happened with her father back then. That’s probably how she was able to steer Martin Thomas to the restricted archives, which are mainly her father’s papers. And it’s safe to assume that she would be sympathetic to him. She’s apparently trying to finish what her father started and find the gold.”
“Which Martin Thomas complicated by trying to make his own deal with our curly-haired killer.”
“I told him about Thomas’ duplicity,” Stamm said.
“It appears we trusted Mr. Thomas far too much,” Weston noted.
Cotton’s mind was racing. “I still have Cassiopeia Vitt on the ground, in Arkansas. I assume you’d like the Witch’s Stone returned here?”
“Definitely,” Weston said.
That should not be a problem.
He again examined the Trail Stone, and decided to pose a question of his own. “How does the ceremonial key fit in? It has to be quite important.”
And he caught the twinkle in Weston’s eye.
“Actually, I was hoping you might have the answer to that question.”
* * *
Cassiopeia hid in the trees, near Terry Morse’s truck. Morning had arrived, the sun cresting the forested hills to the east. Morse and Lea had left in the car that had brought Morse to the mine. She’d stayed, waiting for whoever planned to come back for the gold and the two acolytes. Her patience was rewarded about two and a half hours after Morse and Lea left when a Toyota pickup rumbled down the road toward the mine.
She hadn’t disturbed Morse’s truck, as it was there when the men left earlier and needed to be there when they returned. Only the driver filled the truck cab, so three of the four men from earlier were accounted for. She’d also managed to grab a quick peek at the face, and it wasn’t Proctor.
The driver disappeared toward the mine and she settled in, chafing with impatience, eyes gritty with fatigue. A dry breeze tapped loose soil against the truck’s flank. The driver would have to find out what happened to his compatriots, then help the one guy out of the mine. What to do with the other body might be a problem. Leave it in the pit? Most likely. Would he load the gold onto the truck? Probably not, considering the situation. So thirty minutes, tops.
Sure enough, less than an hour later she heard the thrum of an approaching vehicle and saw the Toyota swing around a curve in the road, blurred by the swirl of accompanying dust.
Two people sat inside.
And no black tarp in the truck bed as it rushed by.
The time was approaching 9:00 A.M.
She emerged from the woods and hopped into Morse’s truck.
* * *
Cotton wasn’t sure how to take what the chief justice had said. “Why do you think I know anything about that key?”
“Angus Adams is your ancestor. I was hoping there were family stories.”
“There were. But not about the Knights of the Golden Circle or any skeleton key.”
That wasn’t exactly true, but two could play the quiet game.
“We know that Adams moved west after the war,” Weston said. “We think it was intentional. Both the Confederate and the Union claimed ownership over the Southwest. Early in the war the Confederacy waged an ambitious New Mexico campaign, trying to open up unrestricted access to California.”
Which he knew from reading.
“That covert reconnoiter Adams did back during the 1854 Smithsonian expedition, at Jefferson Davis and the Order’s request, was utilized by the Confederacy to wage that war,” Weston said.
That, he did not know.
“His journal provided a wealth of geographic information and local knowledge. Unfortunately, Confederate influence in the New Mexico territory ended after the Battle of Glorieta Pass, in 1862. In 1865 Adams went west. But not before he visited the Smithsonian on January 24. The day of the great fire.”
He listened as Weston told him how Adams smuggled himself into the capital that day to make a delivery.
“Jefferson Davis feared that once Richmond fell, the Union army would destroy all the Confederate records. Nothing would survive the war, and he did not want the history of the South written by the victors. So he ordered the most important documents hidden. He wanted them to go to the Smithsonian, believing that was the best place to preserve them. Davis and Joseph Henry were close friends. He would have trusted Henry to do the right thing. But those records never made it here and have never surfaced.”
“Is that also what you’re after?”
“We’re not actually after anything,” Weston made clear. “Diane Sherwood started this by using Martin Thomas to access our restricted archives. We’re merely investigating that breach.”
“You keep telling yourself that and you might actually start to believe it.”
“Might I tell you a story?” Weston asked, seemingly ignoring his insult.
“Why not.”
He listened as Weston explained what happened the day of the great fire. Adams had come to bring the key to Joseph Henry and retrieve his 1854 field journal, which the Smithsonian still possessed. But the fire intervened, along with a Union officer, who’d been sent to thwart Adams’ mission.
“Adams managed to escape with both the key and the journal,” Weston said. “There were questions afterward, but Joseph Henry’s close relationship with Lincoln prevented anything of ever coming of it.” Weston paused, as if gathering himself. “Then, in 1877, Adams visited the Smithsonian again and met with Henry for the last time. The photo you just saw was taken while he was here. On that day he returned his field journal to our collections on loan for seventy-five years, then it was to be returned to his family. We have a record of the journal coming in that day, but not one of it ever leaving. We thought perhaps it might have been returned unrecorded, and survived in your family.”
“Rick mentioned this earlier. But nothing like that was at my family’s home in Georgia. And my grandfather never mentioned anything about a journal. He spoke of Adams, but nothing on that subject.”
And unfortunately, his grandfather had been gone a long time, his grand-uncles likewise dead.
“Let’s return to that civil war we had here at the Smithsonian,” Weston said. “In 1973 Frank Breckinridge lodged a formal ethics complaint against Davis Layne, one the secretary at the time had to investigate. Breckinridge claimed Layne had breached our internal rules for personal gain. The investigation proved inconclusive, but Layne and Breckinridge emerged from the battle bitter enemies.”
“Relations between the Castle and the American history museum were still frosty a decade later,” Stamm said, “when I became curator. It took a lot of work to ease those tensions, though both men were long gone.”
“You told me Layne is dead. What about Frank Breckinridge?”
“He lives not far from here,” Weston said.
He got the message.
The chief justice wanted him to go there.
“I need an address.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Cassiopeia stayed back and followed the Toyota pickup using a loose tail. Its driver seemed unconcerned. Just a casual pace, right at the speed limit, not drawing any attention. Proctor had surely wanted to handle all of this under the cover of darkness, but her appearance at the mine had clearly thrown off his schedule.
They were headed back toward town, on the same state highway that eventually led to the lodge. She’d told Terry Morse to take Lea and stay out of sight until she returned. Her best route to Proctor was the two guys in the truck ahead of her, and
she intended to play this lead out. Her cell phone remained without reception. At the first opportunity, she would call Cotton, tell him about what was happening, and find out about Stephanie.
A sign indicated that they were entering town, the speed limit gradually reduced. A river ran right through the middle of the business district, the quaint row buildings fronting the wide street all of brick and wood. Mainly cafés, gift shops, a grocer, and sporting goods, clustered together like meat on a skewer. Everything seemed to cater to tourism and outdoor recreational activities. Bed-and-breakfast inns dominated. The Toyota was parked on the street in an angled space before one of them.
The driver hopped from the pickup and headed off down the sidewalk, leaving the injured man inside. Bushy trees lined the sidewalks, and bright geraniums filled sill boxes. People were already out for the day, the town buzzing with life. The driver headed straight for a diner, this one occupying the ground floor of a three-story brick building. A plate-glass window announced SOUTHERN BITS & BITES.
She parked down the street from the bed-and-breakfast, stuffed the gun she’d retrieved in the mine into her jean pocket, and draped her shirttail for concealment. She then made her way down the sidewalk, opposite the diner, using parked cars for cover. She passed the diner and kept going, before crossing the street, then backtracking toward it. A peek through that plate-glass window would be good, but the front door was half glass, too. Approaching, she risked a quick look and spotted the driver, sitting at a booth, another man across from him with his back to her.
But she recognized the head and hair.
Proctor.
Apparently having breakfast.
She was deciding what to do when the driver slid from the booth and headed toward the door. She retreated to the shop next door and watched from a recessed doorway as the man emerged, turned, and headed back to where the Toyota waited.
She eased out of the shop and hustled to the diner’s door, entering, then walking straight for the booth, slipping the gun from her back pocket as she eased onto the bench seat opposite Proctor, who glanced up from his food, no look of surprise on his face.