The Lost Order--A Novel Page 17

  “I do have one question,” Grady said.

  “I was wondering when you’d get around to that. I applaud you for your patience. That, and your discretion are reasons you were chosen for this great duty. You wish to know my name. Right?”

  Grady nodded.

  “I am Jefferson Davis, formerly the president of the Confederate States of America, now an unpardoned rebel, still loyal to our great cause.”

  “That was 1877,” Morse said.

  “Jefferson Davis himself brought that stone here?”

  “As God is my witness.”

  And Cotton believed him.

  It was no different from the stories his own grandfather had told him about what happened in middle Georgia after the war, things only a few were privileged to know. Back then men could actually keep a secret, harboring a duty to both principle and cause.

  “Jeff Davis was a knight, high up in the Order,” Morse said. “May have been the head man himself. I don’t know. But there were five stones. That’s what he told my great-grandpa. We had one. But we weren’t told a thing about the other four.”

  “So how did it get out of the ground and into your bee hut?” Cotton asked.

  Morse chuckled. “My great-grandpa cheated. He followed ’em into the woods and watched for two days. He knew exactly where they buried it. And he told my pa.”

  “So who dug it up?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “I did. About forty years ago. We’d had some interest then. Folks had come around again. One time my scarin’ barely worked and I thought I was goin’ to have to hurt somebody. Luckily, I didn’t need to, and they went away. After that, I decided it would be safer under the hives.”

  He stared at the image on Cassiopeia’s phone. The hooded figure on the left, wearing a flowing robe with a cross emblazoned on the sleeve, had the look of a Klansman. The long, pointed hat with a band across it, though, seemed to indicate something different. And the backward grip on the cross. Odd. He again read the fractured Spanish at the upper right. This path is dangerous. I go to 18 places. Seek the map. Seek the heart. He looked closely at the flurry of symbols and numbers floating next to the robed figure. A curved line, followed by a ringed O. A rectangle with a cross. Another curved line, another ringed O, all leading to a heart with a 4 inscribed inside. Then 8–N–P. It all ran together, linked, arcing from the cross above to the letters below, as if signifying a path.

  Or a message.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Stephanie noted the time. After midnight. She’d left the National Museum of Natural History with Rick, the two of them taking Rick’s car to an apartment complex north of town where Martin Thomas had lived. There, they climbed two flights of stairs to a door marked 2F.

  “Martin lived here alone,” Rick said. “He’s divorced, with three kids.” He shook his head. “Which might explain his greed. I still can’t believe this has happened.”

  She could sympathize. Many times she’d ordered her own people into harm’s way, and the vast majority of them had emerged unscathed. But there’d been plenty of instances when the opposite had happened, and each one of those mishaps still kept her up at night.

  They’d found a couple of pieces of wire at the natural history museum. Over the years she’d acquired a few of the skills her agents knew intimately, lock picking being one. She’d attended a class at Quantico, where her people trained alongside other intelligence officers. She grasped the knob and worked her makeshift picks. It took a little longer than she expected, but finally the tumblers released.

  She opened the door and pushed it inward.

  Rick found a light switch and flicked it on. Another thing she’d learned. If at all possible, never enter a room without first switching on a light. Only idiots prowled around in the dark. Inside was a picture of order. A quick reconnoiter showed a den, a kitchen, two small bedrooms, and two baths. More than enough space for a man living alone. What they sought seemed waiting for them in the den, which was cluttered with books scattered across the furniture and with bulky, dark-green folders, faded with age and fastened with string. A laptop computer sat atop a fold-out table.

  “These folders are from our archives,” Rick said. “They have our stamp.”

  “Is this what’s missing?”

  He nodded. “It looks like it. I’ll need a minute.”

  She studied the documents as he did. Some of the papers were brown with age, while others were fresh white copies. A quick scan showed them to be field notes, reports, correspondence, and newspaper clippings, lots of single-spaced typescript and well-thumbed edges.

  “These are the 1909 materials,” he said. “We definitely need these returned.”

  “You allowed him to take them.”

  Rick nodded. “It seemed like the best way to find out what Mrs. Sherwood was after. Martin knew how to care for them.”

  The books dealt with the Civil War and bore a stamp for the Smithsonian’s American history museum library. Three travel guides for Arkansas carried a discount Barnes & Noble sticker.

  “Has to be for the trip he took out there,” Rick said, lifting the guides.

  Across the room, on a side table abutting the wall, stood framed pictures of Thomas and three children of varying ages, the oldest a teenager. Soon they would learn that their father was dead. She recalled the pain her own son had experienced when they learned of her late husband’s suicide. That agony she did not wish on her worst enemy.

  “We can’t keep his death secret for long,” she said. “It’s not fair to the family, and the longer it goes the more questions it will raise.”

  “We’ll put it out that Martin is working on something special, indisposed, that sort of thing. Then, in a day or so, we can reveal the truth. Hopefully by then we’ll have caught the guy who killed him. I know you’re aggravated with the chief justice. But he has his reasons, and I’m sure they’re good ones. Can we give it twenty-four hours?”

  She smiled. “You do remember that you’re the curator of the Castle, not James Bond.”

  “I’ve reminded myself of the same thing—several times lately.”

  She noticed maps of western Arkansas and the southwest United States, along with a copy of an old newspaper article, tucked inside a plastic sleeve.

  From the Los Angeles Herald Examiner.

  Dated June 1, 1973.

  Headlined in big letters.

  DEAN’S “BURIED GOLD” STORY ISN’T NEW

  Everything seems to be turning up these days in the Watergate hearings. Last week, fired White House counsel John Dean III raised the matter of buried treasure.

  Dean testified that former attorney general John Mitchell told H. R. Haldeman, former White House chief of staff, at a luncheon Dean attended that “criminal lawyer F. Lee Bailey has a client who has an enormous amount of gold in his possession and would like to make arrangements with the government whereby the gold could be turned over without the client being prosecuted for holding gold.” Dean termed Haldeman “nonresponsive.”

  According to Dean, Bailey’s client proposed to deliver hundreds of gold bars to the Treasury Department, the treasure allegedly part of “an old Aztec cache” hidden in the American Southwest. Federal law prohibits U.S. private citizens from possessing gold.

  Davis Layne, head of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History, questions the claim.

  “In the first place,” Layne told the Herald-Examiner, “it would not be pure gold because the bars would contain some zinc, copper, and other trace minerals. But the treasure could still be worth many billions, thanks to gold at $42 an ounce. And it’s not Aztec.”

  Layne explained that the treasure belonged to the Knights of the Golden Circle, a Confederate spy organization, which existed from before the Civil War to around 1916 and amassed somewhere around $100 billion in treasure, burying it in depositories and caches all across the South and West. The hoard was intended to finance a second civil war, which never came.

  She looked up. “I
s this for real?”

  Rick nodded. “Absolutely. Layne is the one who fed that story to the media. That actually happened with Dean, Haldeman, and F. Lee Bailey.”

  She gestured with the article inside the plastic. “This relates to what’s happening here?”

  “Definitely.”

  She finished reading the article.

  In a reply to attorney Bailey, the Treasury Department reportedly said it must be informed of the gold’s location and the circumstances of its discovery before it can pursue the case. Layne, as a historian, sympathized with Bailey and his clients.

  “So they have to reveal where the treasure is before the government will even discuss any turnover? I think Bailey was trying to do the right thing, and I think Haldeman was wrong in giving him short shrift. It set a dangerous precedent. Now anybody who finds gold will do their best to smuggle it out of the U.S. because they know their government is hard-nosed and intractable. It will become the Boston Tea Party in reverse.”

  She searched her memory for more facts.

  Roosevelt did in fact ban the private holding of gold. Executive Order 6102. May 1933. Congress ratified that action in 1934 with the Gold Reserve Act. All of that changed, though, in 1974 when Congress again legalized the private holding of gold.

  Long after the article she was holding had been written.

  “Finding gold before 1974 would have been foolish,” she said. “There was nothing legal that could have been done with it. But after Gerald Ford made gold possession okay again, that’s another matter.”

  Her friend stayed silent and she saw the frustration in his eyes. They’d known each other a long time. “Rick, sooner or later you’re going to have to trust me and talk.”

  “Tell you what. Let’s gather all this up and head back to the Castle. We can talk there in private. There’s some additional material you’ll need to see.”

  It sounded like the veil of secrecy might be lifting.

  Or at least she hoped that was the case.

  “Give me an armful,” she said, “and I’ll take the first load out to the car.”

  * * *

  Grant sat in his car and watched Martin Thomas’ residence. Once he’d decided what to do, he’d headed straight back to his apartment, found his car, then driven here. He’d arrived just as the woman from the Castle and Rick Stamm arrived. They’d been inside the apartment for the past twenty minutes.

  Containment was becoming a problem.

  He had to do something.

  But what?

  The lights for 2F still burned.

  He waited, and a few moments later the Justice Department woman appeared, carrying a stack of folders. Materials he’d surely need. Rick Stamm he knew—he’d worked the same job his father had once held. They’d never met, but he’d routinely consulted Stamm’s book The Castle, an excellent guide to the building’s history and geography. What was he doing here with this woman?

  A mild panic overcame him, like when he was a kid and his mother caught him doing something he shouldn’t.

  He hated that helpless feeling.

  There was still the question of whether he was openly linked with Diane, who was linked to Martin Thomas. That remained to be seen, but something told him Thomas had kept their relationship private—and that shakedown back at the museum was real. Perhaps the people at the Smithsonian had secretly targeted Thomas?

  The woman followed one of the concrete walks that led toward the car that had brought her. He was parked deeper in the maze of buildings in one of the spaces provided for residents. No way they knew he was there.

  He reached beneath his jacket and found his gun.

  As with Thomas.

  This had to be handled.

  Now.

  * * *

  Stephanie heard a car start. Odd considering the late hour. The engine revved and she whirled to see a small sedan emerge from one of the parking spaces. The car came straight for her and she noticed that the passenger-side window was down. Only one silhouette could be seen, the driver, and she caught the dark outline of his right arm coming up, holding a gun.

  Fifty feet away.

  She dropped the folders and reached for her own weapon.

  Twenty feet.

  Her right hand gripped the gun.

  Ten feet.

  She withdrew the Beretta, but never got the chance to fire. The car overtook her. Two rounds spit out the open window and slammed into her chest. The car kept going, wheeling to the exit. She tried to read the license plate but her eyes refused to focus.

  Her world began to blur.

  Blood poured from two wounds.

  Her left hand reached down to stem the flow. She tipped stiffly to one side, every muscle involuntarily relaxing.

  She collapsed.

  Red brake lights of the car glared angrily in the distance, then disappeared around a corner.

  Sounds of the gunning engine receded.

  She fought to stay alert.

  But a terrible darkness blinded her eyes.

  Then swallowed her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  WESTERN ARKANSAS

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 26

  2:06 A.M.

  Cotton lay in bed and listened to Terry Morse’s snoring. He and Cassiopeia were back at the lodge, having brought both the old man and Lea with them. They’d secured a second room, their original for Lea and Cassiopeia, the new one for him and Morse. Thankfully, this one came with two queen beds. Everyone was tired, particularly Morse, who’d drifted right off. What to do with these two posed a problem, but Morse had told him that they could head upstate to family in the morning where they’d be more than safe. And he doubted the men from tonight would return anyway. He’d sensed that a picture of the stone would be enough for their needs. If not, then they would have made a greater effort to fight the bees and take it with them. The stone itself rested safely beneath his bed, wrapped in towels.

  He’d enjoyed a long shower, welcomed after yesterday. Some food would have been good, too, but it was entirely too late for room service. Though stylish, the lodge wasn’t the Four Seasons. The cool sheets felt good, but sleep was proving elusive, thanks to the sound of the freight train in the bed next to him.

  All that happened had brought back a lot of childhood memories.

  As an adult he’d finally learned the truth about the Knights of the Golden Circle. Contrary to any romantic notions, both before, during, and after the Civil War it had been a subversive organization that openly supported slavery and engaged in murder, sabotage, and terror. Enough accounts had been written by men who’d been part of various local castles to know that violence had been an integral part of its modus operandi. And not only against outsiders, but against its own members, too. Today, with no hesitation, it would be labeled a dangerous terrorist organization.

  It was what happened after 1865 that remained murky. From his reading he recalled that the Order lingered for about a decade, taking on new names. Eventually, more militant branches became the Ku Klux Klan, but the main line seemed to have disappeared from history.

  Now he wasn’t so sure.

  If Morse was to be believed, starting in the 1870s the Order’s wealth had been systematically collected and taken to a place known as the vault. But that wealth could also have been accumulated simply to line the pockets of a precious few, men in the know who played off other men’s loyalty to get rich. That would not have been a hard thing to accomplish back then. Little government, weak law enforcement, no oversight. The Gilded Age. A time when immense fortunes were amassed off greed and ruthlessness. No one would have noticed another few multimillionaires rising from nothing.

  He lay in bed with his clothes on, trying to let sleep steal up on him. Unfortunately, he’d passed that point and his body had clicked into overdrive with no off switch. During his time at the Magellan Billet he’d lived for weeks off less than three hours of sleep a night.

  That part of the job he did not miss.

  His ce
ll phone vibrated.

  He’d switched off the ringer once Morse had fallen asleep. His thoughts dissolved into a haze as he groped for the phone.

  The display indicated an unfamiliar number.

  He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, answering with a feeling of terrible anticipation.

  “It’s Rick Stamm. I have some bad news.”

  * * *

  Cassiopeia woke.

  Somebody was knocking on the door.

  She rolled off the bed and gripped the gun from the nightstand. Lea was sound asleep. One glance out the peephole and she saw Cotton in the hall. She found the key card, left the gun, then stepped outside. The look on his face told her something had happened.

  “Stephanie’s been shot.”

  Shock swept through her. “How bad?”

  “Not good. She’s in surgery. Two slugs in the chest. Rick Stamm just called.”

  She gently touched his shoulder. “Any idea if she’s going to be okay?”

  “He said she was ambushed. She was barely alive when the ambulance got there. Martin Thomas is dead, too.”

  She’d had her differences with Stephanie, both of them strong-willed women with equally strong opinions. Never, though, would she wish any harm on her.

  “I’m going back tonight,” he said. “I want you to stay here and see where this leads. We need to know more about that stone.”

  “I’ve been trying to gain Lea’s confidence. I think she could use a friend.”

  “Work on that. I’ll let you know what’s happening as soon as I know something.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. He was hurting, that was obvious, but he’d never admit it. He and Stephanie went back a long way. They were more than employer and employee. They were close friends, and Cotton had precious few of those.

  Like her, he was a loner.

  “I took a few bullets during my time,” he said. “But that was part of the job. Not her. She’s front office.”

  “An office she never stays in.”

  “I know. She’s been taking more and more chances of late. But you can only cheat fate for so long.”

  She kissed him in a long, lingering embrace.