The Lost Order

by Steve Berry

  “Do you notice something?” he asked Stamm.

  The curator studied the images. “That boy’s neck is discolored.”

  “Like a port wine stain.”

  He knew what he had to do. “Keep watch out front and tell me if anyone comes. I’ve got some searching to do.”

  He’d already noticed the lack of any family pictures. Usually a seasoned homestead like this would be littered with memories. So he decided to see if he could find any stored away.

  He started checking the closets and hit pay dirt in the upstairs hallway, where he found a cardboard box filled with framed images tossed inside with no particular care. Most were of Breckinridge and his wife, but there were several that showed a boy, then a teenager, and finally a young man. Where visible, the neck was definitely discolored. Also in the closet he discovered another cardboard box that contained photo albums. He paged through, checking for anything on the son. Then he saw three high school annuals. He grabbed the most recent one, dated 1999, which would have placed the son at or near eighteen, considering his age in the Smithsonian picture downstairs. He found the senior class and went to the B’s.

  And saw Grant Breckinridge.

  Short hair, neck discolored, the same face—though younger—that he’d seen inside Fossil Hall.

  He ripped out the page and headed downstairs.

  “The son’s our killer,” he told Stamm, showing him what he’d found. “And that old man isn’t crazy.”

  He saw the concern in Stamm’s eyes.

  His gaze raked the parlor, his radar now on high alert. The same rolltop desk from earlier sat open, full of empty pigeonholes. An old-fashioned gramophone stood in one corner. He’d noticed it during his first visit. A plugless lead trailed from the bottom, its turntable long rusted to immobility. It seemed not worth keeping. So why had Breckinridge? He walked over, crouched down to the cabinet door, and tested it. Locked. He tried to pry it, but a steel bolt had been added for reinforcement.

  Which was odd.

  His cell phone vibrated.

  He hoped to God it was Cassiopeia. He hadn’t heard from her, and his two calls had gone unanswered. But the display indicated it was Danny Daniels.

  “Get me a knife from the kitchen,” he said to Stamm.

  He answered the call.

  “Your killer has changed his looks,” Daniels said.

  And he listened to a new description.

  “We also know his identity,” he told Daniels, explaining what he knew.

  “Let’s get the no-good bastard.”

  “I’m on it,” he said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  And he clicked off the phone.

  Stamm returned with a butcher blade. Cotton attacked the old wood, digging out chunks and splinters until the lock fell away and the door swung open. A pile of obsolete records in torn paper sleeves lay inside, which certainly did not need the protection of a steel bolt. He slid them out, then noticed a size disparity between the inside and out. The inner shelf did not extend as far as it should. He tested the rear wall, tapping lightly, then tracing his fingers until he found metal.

  Which he pushed.

  “You’re observant,” Stamm said.

  “Comes from years of people trying to kill you.”

  A panel released, revealing a concealed compartment.

  He saw a book.

  Stamm reached in and removed it, cradling it in his open palms as if it were a piece of glass. Cotton understood the affection. This one seemed in excellent condition, its blue leather bindings nearly perfect, the edges gilded.

  “Open it,” he said.

  Stamm carefully hinged up the front cover to reveal a beautifully handwritten title page in an Edwardian script.

  Notes & Observations

  From An Expedition to the Newly Acquired

  American Southwest

  May 1854 to March 1856

  As Authorized By The Board of Regents

  of the

  Smithsonian Institution

  Submitted by Angus Adams

  The Servant of Faith

  “It’s Adams’ journal,” Stamm said.

  His spine tingled as he realized that his namesake ancestor had both created and held the book.

  “Our records indicated that it should have been returned to your family in 1952. Now we know what happened. Breckinridge took it.”

  Your journal is safe. I hid it away.

  “He told me when I was here that he hid it, but I didn’t pay the comment much attention. I just thought it was more of his delusions. Why is this journal so important?”

  “I truly don’t know.”

  “But Weston might?”

  Stamm did not reply. He pointed to the last four words on the page. “The Servant of Faith. That’s straight from the Horse Stone. And did you notice the front cover?”

  Embossed into the leather at the top and bottom right were a 4 and an 8. He checked. On the back cover, at the top and bottom left were N and P. “Those numbers and letters are from the Witch’s Stone.”

  “That’s more than a coincidence,” Stamm said.

  “You think? We passed coincidence a long time ago. Everything happening here is deliberate.”

  “So how do we handle this?” Stamm asked.

  “We don’t. Not now. First we have to get inside that tomb.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Grant was back inside the Castle, this time with his father. They’d slipped in a little before five thirty with the final few visitors of the day drifting around the ground-floor exhibits, easing their way into Schermer Hall, the same place from which he’d made his earlier escape.

  “It’s different,” his father had said. “They’ve painted and remodeled.”

  “You haven’t been back since the day you retired?”

  “Never saw the need.”

  The presence of cameras was different, too.

  And Schermer Hall had its share.

  He still carried Martin Thomas’ swipe card, but using it again would not be smart. The experience in Fossil Hall had taught him that people were watching. Which made him question why he and his father were even here, but his father had said they had no choice.

  Inside Schermer Hall, twenty-five years ago, was where his father’s retirement ceremony had been held. That day it had been packed with well-wishers. Today the crowd was all tourists. Along the north wall, in a corner, stood the same arched doorway that had been there then. A sign affixed to its exterior warned DO NOT ENTER STAFF ONLY. Only a doorknob with a simple lock protected it. And he’d been surprised to see that his father held a key.

  “That lock has been there since World War II,” his father had said. “Things like that don’t change often in this place. The Smithsonian is both a student of and a slave to history.”

  “Why did you keep the key?”

  “In case I had to return one day.”

  Cameras watched the hall, but were all focused toward the center and the public display areas. None watched the corners. So they’d waited for the right moment, as people were streaming out toward the exits, then casually opened the door and entered. Which put them back at the spiral staircase that rose from the basement to the upper floors, the staircase he’d used last night to gain access to the rotunda. They climbed past the second floor and found refuge in one of the north tower rooms, where boarders had lived for free in the early days, young men who worked in the Castle cataloging exhibits and assisting the scientists.

  There they’d settled down and waited for the building to clear.

  “During the Civil War, Joseph Henry was arrested and taken to face Lincoln,” his father said. “The most learned man in the government’s employ, head of the Smithsonian Institution, accused as a spy.”

  He hadn’t known that.

  “The officer who made the arrest had been warning his superiors for months that Henry was a rebel. Now he had proof, having personally witnessed signals being flashed to the Confederate army from right
here, in the north tower, the night before. So the officer brought Henry before Lincoln. The president pointed a finger and said, ‘Now you’re caught. What have you to say, Professor Henry? Why should a sentence of death not be immediately pronounced on you.’ But all Henry did was smile. Lincoln then turned to the officer and explained that he, Henry, and two others had climbed the north tower the night before and flashed signals toward the hills around the city as an experiment. Case closed.”

  He’d wondered about the story.

  “That officer was wrong in more ways than one,” his father said. “Joseph Henry was not one of us.”

  “You keep saying us. How many knights are there?”

  “Enough to get the job done.”

  The time was approaching 9:20 P.M. Little sound filtered up to the tower room, so it was hard to know if the downstairs had emptied. At some point he’d have to descend and check. Through a window, outside, he saw that the Mall still buzzed with people enjoying a pleasant spring night.

  “You fancy yourself bold,” his father said. “All right. Listen carefully, Grant. Sometime tonight they are going to open Smithson’s tomb. When they do you’ll be there, and it’s imperative you do exactly as I say.”

  * * *

  Cotton reentered Smithson’s crypt.

  They’d returned from Breckinridge’s house and found the tools needed in the basement workshops. The Castle was empty, the ground-floor cameras switched off for a couple of hours, per Stamm’s order, with no security guards anywhere around. Some sensitive renovations had been the excuse given, a task the curator himself would be overseeing.

  He and Stamm knelt down at one side of the tomb.

  “The red marble panel here at the bottom was spot-glued into place,” Stamm said. “Enough to keep it there, but not enough to make it hard to remove, if the need ever arose. I’ve read all of Breckinridge’s notes and reports on what happened.”

  The red marble that measured about twenty-four inches high and a little less than a yard long. Two joints ran vertically down the side. Cotton assumed it was all façade to a plain concrete base. Stamm nestled a chisel to one of the joints, tapping the end with a rubber mallet, then repeating the process downward until the mortar cracked. He then mimicked the process along the other joint. A lip separated the lower base from another level of red marble, revealing the gray marble of the decorative upper tomb. Stamm freed a narrow strip of red marble near the lip, making it easy to work the chisel into the gap between the panel and the base. Cotton kept his hands to the outside, ready to catch the panel once all of the adhesive loosened.

  And it did.

  He allowed the panel to hinge downward, settling on the floor. It had come away clean, an easy matter to reattach later. Beyond was an inner niche that extended the length of the concrete base. Narrow, maybe eighteen inches wide and the same tall. He also saw the end of a small mahogany coffin adorned with silver handles.

  “It’s only bones inside,” Stamm said. “So it didn’t have to be large.”

  “And if you were going to hide something, you wouldn’t put it on this end,” he said.

  Which meant the coffin had to be removed.

  He reached in and gripped the silver handle. The heavy box slid out with some resistance. He recalled Breckinridge’s report, which noted that Smithson’s remains had first been placed inside a copper box, which had then been sealed within the wooden container. As the coffin emerged, more silver handles became exposed. Stamm positioned himself on one side. Cotton squirmed over to the other and together they freed the coffin and laid it on the floor.

  “Seems Smithson can’t rest in peace,” Stamm said. “This is the fourth time his bones have been moved.”

  Cotton bent down on his knees and stared into the empty niche. At the far end he saw an object. He reached in and carefully slid it toward him, revealing a heart-shaped stone, about a foot long and an inch or so thick.

  He carefully brought it out.

  The side facing him contained a series of squiggly lines, but the one in the center, with five evenly spaced dots, jumped out.

  Like the line on the Trail Stone.

  Only this time there was an end point, with an arrow and an inverted U that symbolized a mine. He carefully turned the stone over and saw that its backside showed a diagonal column of six small rectangles. He assumed that when the stone was inserted, front side on top, into the heart-shaped recess on the Trail Stone, which waited over in the American history museum, most of a coded map would be revealed.

  Stamm followed the plan they’d discussed earlier and quickly snapped a series of images with a 35mm camera he’d brought up from his office, then a few with his phone.

  “Let’s get this tomb sealed back—”

  The lights extinguished.

  And the building plunged into darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Danny rode in the rear seat of the Town Car, Frizzell sitting beside him. A driver and another man, neither of whom had said a word, sat in the front. He knew their type. Acolytes. Doing what they were told. But he wondered who they were here to watch over. He also took note that whoever had wanted to speak with him had been smart enough to send Frizzell, as he would not have climbed into the car with just anyone.

  “What have you gotten yourself into?” he asked his friend in a low voice.

  “It’s more what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  They sat in silence as the car found I-66, then sped west into Virginia. Traffic was done for the day, the going clear.

  “Good thing I don’t have Secret Service protection,” he said, trying to loosen things up. “This little trip would have been a lot more difficult.”

  “Not necessarily,” Paul said.

  He saw that his old friend was serious, more so than he’d ever seen him before.

  “This reaches that deep?”

  No reply.

  “You’re in this with Vance? You agree with what he wants to do?”

  “I agree with his aims, but not with either him or his method.”

  A strange reply. Then he recalled what Cotton had told him about the Knights of the Golden Circle.

  He extended his hand. “Are you on it?”

  Frizzell appraised him with a hard stare, then accepted the offer and said, “I am on it.”

  And two of their fingers locked in an odd feeling.

  Paul released his grip. “I know you’re not of the Order. But it’s good to know that you appreciate what’s involved here.”

  “Maybe not. Are we talking treason?”

  “Never.”

  * * *

  Past Fairfax, the car left the interstate at a darkened exit with no rest or gas facilities. Danny wanted to know what this was all about, but he also was concerned about Stephanie. This trip was delaying his return to the hospital. Still, he knew what she’d say.

  Forget me and do your job.

  They drove for a mile down a black highway before turning into an empty parking lot at a closed diner. They stopped and the two men in front quickly exited and opened the doors for both him and Paul.

  “I haven’t had that courtesy in a while,” he said, stepping from the car into the warm night.

  “In here,” Paul said, motioning toward the building.

  They approached the front door, which was unlocked, and stepped inside. Immediately, he caught the waft of old grease and bleach. Not a light was on, everything sheathed in darkness.

  “Come in, Mr. President,” a voice said from across the room.

  Electronic. Modified.

  His hackles rose. “Is that necessary?”

  “I wish none of it were,” the disguised voice said. “And I apologize for the precautions, but it was time we spoke face-to-face.”

  “Which we’re not doing.”

  “Unfortunately, this is the best I can offer.”

  He’d already figured some of it out. “How long have you been watching Alex Sherwood’s apartment?”

  “Fo
r a time. Starting shortly before his death. When we learned of his involvement.”

  He ran the possibilities through his mind and only one conclusion made sense. “Diane Sherwood is a problem for you.”

  “An understatement, but accurate.”

  “You always so paranoid?” he asked.

  “I’m cautious, as Lucius Vance and Diane Sherwood should have been.”

  Clearly, neither one of them was connected with this man, but another link made more sense. His new chief of staff had provided him with more information on Diane’s brother, Kenneth Layne. He headed the Committee to Save America, headquartered near the Capitol in an area of town not noted for cheap rent. She’d also obtained a photograph of Layne, which he’d immediately recognized as the third man at the Sherwood home gathering last night.

  “So Vance or Diane told Kenneth Layne about how much I know. Layne told you. Then, when I made contact with Paul, for a cautious guy like yourself, you had lots of questions.”

  “Not exactly. But reasonably close,” the voice said.

  This guy was beginning to grate on his nerves, so he decided to cut to the chase. “My guess is you’re financing Kenneth Layne’s Committee to Save America. Somebody has to be. God knows Layne doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”

  “Which is our right, as citizens of this nation, with freedom of speech and assembly.”

  “I never said it wasn’t.” He faced Paul. “You’re involved with this nonsense?”

  “Danny, we’re real close to the thirty-four states needed to force Congress to call a second constitutional convention.”

  That was news to him. “Careful what you wish for.” He turned back to the voice across the room. “Layne gave Alex Sherwood a notebook to read, which detailed what he was up to with both his committee and Lucius Vance. I’m betting that was against Order policy, which is what sparked your interest. Am I getting reasonably closer?”

  No reply.

  “And when Alex Sherwood wanted no part of any of it, the next thing you know he falls off a cliff.” He was reaching, but why not? These guys definitely had a motive for murder.