He laid the watch down, and Luke pointed the laptop’s camera at the exposed gears and springs. Stephanie had forwarded an image of the inside of Lincoln’s other watch when it had been opened at the Smithsonian, and he expected to see the same array of etchings on the inner structure.
But there was nothing.
He and Luke seemed to have the thought at the same time.
So he nodded to the younger man.
Luke flipped over the back plate.
ROWAN SAT IN THE SILENCE OF AN EMPTY SEALING ROOM. PEOPLE had come to the celestial room, and he was not in the mood for company, so he’d left. He wondered how many marriages had been performed here. He recalled his own, inside a sealing room at the Salt Lake temple. Bride and groom kneeling, facing each other over the altar, their families seated behind them on either side. Both held hands and pronounced a covenant to be faithful with each other, and to God, and to keep His commandments. To be sealed in Jesus’ name, by priesthood authority in a temple, was to be joined for all eternity—not just “till death do they part.” Here, as in most sealing rooms, mirrors placed on the walls allowed the couple to symbolically see themselves through their many reflections, together for all eternity.
And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven.
Matthew 16:19.
To believe that marriage was forever only strengthened the earthly bond between husband and wife. Divorce, though allowed by the church, was frowned upon. Commitment was taught and expected.
And nothing was wrong with that.
He’d been praying for the past half hour, unsure what to do. He could not believe Heavenly Father had taken him this far, only to deprive him of the moment of glory.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket again.
He checked the display.
An unknown number.
He decided to answer.
“You didn’t think I would actually trust you,” Stephanie Nelle said in his ear.
“You set me up.”
“Really? And how did I do that?”
“I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to you.”
“I want your committee’s interest in my department officially withdrawn. I want you off my back, Senator. I want you out of my life.”
“I frankly don’t care—”
“I have the watch.”
Had he heard right?
“I sent my people in to get it, and they did.”
“How did you know I wanted it?”
“I read what Lincoln left in that book, too. I made a copy of the page before you tore it out.”
A reprieve? Second opportunity? “Do we have a deal, Senator?”
No choice. “We do. I will have a letter drafted tomorrow. My committee will say that we have no need of anything from you.”
“That’s what I want. Except I want the letter drafted and signed within the next hour, the original delivered to me.”
“Done. Now I’m waiting.”
“Open your email. I sent some pictures along with the address of where to send the letter. If I don’t get it within the hour, your little scheme will come to an abrupt end. You understand?”
“I do.”
“Goodbye, Senator.”
He tapped the screen on his smartphone and found the email. Two images downloaded. The first was of an open pocket watch. The second was a close-up of the watch’s back plate, inner side, two words etched into the silver.
FALTA NADA.
Missing Nothing.
He thought of the map Lincoln had scrawled into the Book of Mormon, how every site had been labeled save for one.
And here was that omitted piece of information.
He smiled, stared up at Heavenly Father, and whispered, “Thank you.”
His prayers had been answered. Where a few moments ago he was stuck, literally at the end, now he was on the move again. Even better he didn’t need Charles Snow, Stephanie Nelle, Danny Daniels, Brigham Young, or any map Lincoln had left behind.
He knew exactly where his prize waited.
SIXTY
10:00 P.M.
STEPHANIE LEFT THE MANDARIN ORIENTAL AND RODE IN A taxi toward the White House. She’d done exactly as Danny Daniels had requested, funneling to Rowan the information acquired from the watch. To further bolster her credibility, an image of the watch’s exposed interior had also been sent. Rowan, to his credit, had signed the letter of withdrawal and delivered it to the hotel, as she’d insisted. By now Salazar and Cassiopeia would know what Rowan knew. She understood the wisdom in what the president had wanted done, but she did not like the implications. Nearly twenty years in the intelligence business had taught her when to recognize an endgame.
The cab deposited her near Blair House and she walked the remainder of the way, ushered inside by the Secret Service and led to a room with yellow walls and a portrait of Abraham Lincoln. Waiting were Daniels and Charles R. Snow, 17th Prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She’d already been told by Danny, on the phone, what had happened here a few hours ago with Rowan.
Both men appeared agitated.
“On December 20, 1860, less than two months after Abraham Lincoln was elected president, South Carolina seceded from the Union,” Daniels said. “The first state to ever do that. Over the next sixty days Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas did the same thing. Then, on April 12, 1861, Fort Sumter was attacked. Five days later Virginia, Arkansas, Tennessee, and North Carolina left the Union.”
She listened to his voice, returned again to the same quiet monotone from yesterday.
“Right here, in this room,” the president said, “a few days after Sumter was attacked, Francis Preston Blair sat down with Robert E. Lee. Lincoln wanted Lee to lead the Northern forces and asked Blair to see if it was possible. Lee being Lee, declined. How can I draw my sword upon Virginia, my native state?”
“That war challenged everyone’s loyalty,” Snow said. “Saints, too, had to make choices. Though we were far away, in the Salt Lake valley, the war found us.”
“Lincoln trusted you enough to send that document.”
“I’m not sure it was from trust. He had to quiet Brigham Young and secure the west for the North. He knew Young would never just take his word, so he sent something of enough value for Young to see he was serious.”
“But Young could have given it to the South,” she said. “And ended it all. From everything I’ve ever read, Mormons of that time hated the federal government.”
“That’s true. We felt it had abandoned us. But it’s equally true that we cherished the Constitution. We never saw it as our duty to destroy the nation.”
“You don’t believe the White Horse Prophecy, do you?” Daniels asked.
“If you had asked me a few days ago I would have said no. Now I’m not so sure. So much of it is becoming reality.”
The president looked tired. “Six hundred thousand people died in the Civil War. More than all of our other wars combined. That’s a lot of American bloodshed.”
And she heard what had not been uttered.
Probably for nothing.
“But we can’t blame Lincoln for what he did,” Daniels said. “He had a difficult decision, and he made it. We’re here thanks to that call. The world is a better place, thanks to that call. Exposing that document would have ended the nation right then. If that had happened, who knows what the world would be like today.” The president paused. “Still, he suppressed the will and words of the founders. He chose, on his own, by himself, to determine what was right for this country.”
And now she realized why she was here. “A choice you may have to make soon, too.”
Daniels’ eyes found hers. “If that document still exists, I’ll have the same decision. Madison’s notes are a problem, but they’re only notes. His reputation for altering and editing makes them suspect. Not near enough proof to dissolve the count
ry. But the document itself, signed and sealed, that would be a deal breaker. Who knows what the courts will do with it. That ball could bounce in any direction. And public opinion? It won’t be good.”
She faced Snow and decided to take advantage of this opportunity. “What is the significance of Falta Nada?”
“It’s a place, one Rowan will be familiar with.”
She caught something in Snow’s eyes. “You want him to go there?”
“It’s necessary that he go there. But it’s important that it be on his own initiative. He cannot sense he’s being led.”
“Do you know much about the man who first owned this house?” Daniels asked her, breaking the moment.
Actually, she did. Francis Preston Blair. Part of Andrew Jackson’s informal group of advisers, the so-called Kitchen Cabinet, publisher of an influential Washington newspaper. He eventually sold the newspaper and withdrew from politics, but returned to the forefront in 1861, becoming one of Lincoln’s trusted friends.
“Lincoln sent Blair to Richmond,” Daniels said, “as an unofficial envoy, to set up peace talks. Those talks happened, at Hampton Roads, in February 1865. Lincoln himself went, but when the South insisted on independence as a condition to peace they reached no agreement. The Union was non-negotiable, as far as Lincoln was concerned. Right to the end, he stuck to his guns.”
“You never finished your answer,” she said to Daniels.
His eyes focused tight. “I don’t want to be forced to make a decision as to what to do with that document. I don’t ever want to see it.”
“Then why tell Rowan what was inside the watch?”
“He and Salazar have to be stopped,” Snow said. “If I die, which could at be any time, Thaddeus Rowan will be the next prophet. That is our way. He is senior in line. Once he’s the prophet, he’ll answer to no one.”
“We tried to get him to quit,” Daniels said. “But you can guess what he said to that.”
Yes, she could.
“Right now”—Daniels held up his fingers—“we have ten people who know of this. Of those, we control all but three—Rowan, Salazar, and Cassiopeia. We’re not sure how much Cassiopeia Vitt knows, but I’m assuming it’s enough. I’m not worried about our people—or you, me, and the prophet here. We all know how to keep a secret, and none of our folks knows it all anyway. But those other three? They’re wild cards.”
She understood. “Even if we manage to get control of the document, Rowan, Salazar, and Cassiopeia can talk.”
Daniels nodded. “And one of them will become the next supreme head of a wealthy and influential religious organization. Rowan has a solid reputation and national credibility. Every indication is that Salazar will be at his side. That’s a dangerous man who we know has murdered one of our own.”
The implications were becoming clearer.
“Have you ever heard of the Mountain Meadows massacre?” Snow asked her.
She shook her head.
“A shameful chapter in our history. A wagon train from Arkansas, bound for California, passed through the Utah Territory in 1857. This was at the height of tensions between Saints and the federal government. An army was on the way to subdue us. We knew that. Fear was rampant. The wagons stopped in Salt Lake, then traveled south, pausing at a place called Mountain Meadow. For reasons that are still not known, local militiamen attacked the wagons and slaughtered 120 men, women, and children. Only 17 youngsters, below the age of seven, were spared.”
“Horrible,” she said.
“It is,” Snow said. “But it’s a sign of those turbulent times. I don’t defend what happened, but I understand how something like it could have happened. Paranoia had taken over. We’d traveled west to be safe, to be left alone, yet we were still being attacked by a government that should have protected us in the first place.”
Snow paused, as if gathering himself.
“It took seventeen years but, finally, in 1874, nine people were indicted for the murders. Only one man was eventually tried. John Lee. It took two trials, but an all-Saints jury finally convicted him and he was executed. To this day many believe Lee a scapegoat. Some say Brigham Young himself was involved. Others say that’s not possible. We’ll never know.”
“Because the truth was covered up?”
Snow nodded. “Time allowed everything to muddle. But Brigham Young, as prophet, made sure that the church survived. That is my task, too.”
“But at what cost? People died back then for that to happen.”
“And it seems we have come full circle.”
“Except,” Daniels said, “an entire nation has to survive this crisis.”
She got it. “You want Rowan and Salazar dead?”
Snow bristled at her directness, but it had to be asked.
“The United States of America does not assassinate people,” Daniels said. “Nor do we condone political murder. But—if the opportunity for Rowan to not survive presents itself from a third party, there’s nothing to say we have to interfere.”
She caught the message. Find an acceptable way.
“Now, Salazar?” the president said. “He’s an entirely different matter.”
And she agreed.
The United States of America did avenge its own.
“Elder Salazar,” Snow said, “worships an idol that I’m afraid never existed. Joseph Smith, our founder, had many good ideas, and he was both bold and brave. But men like Salazar refuse to acknowledge any flaws. They see only what they want to see. These Danites he’s organized are a dangerous group, just as they were during Smith’s time. They have no place in our church.”
“Did you know the Danites existed before I told you?” Daniels asked.
“I had heard a rumor. Which is why I’ve been watching Rowan and Salazar.”
She recalled what Edwin Davis had said. We were hoping that time had taken care of things. But we’ve received information indicating that this is not the case. And she realized something. “You kept us informed?”
Daniels nodded. “For over a year. By then we were already watching Rowan, too. So we shared information. Each of us knew things the other didn’t.”
“Now you two are the only ones who know it all?”
No reply came to her inquiry.
“The fact that Salazar killed one of your agents saddens me,” Snow finally said. “But it does not surprise me. Once, in the beginning, we believed in blood atonement. Killing was rationalized, even legitimized. We repudiated such barbarism long ago. Our church does not, in any way, condone murder, for any reason. My heart aches for that dead man.”
“This has to stop,” Daniels said, his voice stronger. “We’ve discovered secessionist movements scattered all around the country, and Rowan is stoking those fires. He has people ready and waiting to exploit what will happen in Utah. As we learned this morning, he has a majority of the Utah legislature, along with the governor, supporting him. It will be just like in 1860. South Carolina led the way, and other states quickly followed. We certainly cannot use violence of any form and, considering what we know about the founders, we may not legally be able to prevent it.”
A moment of strained silence filled the room. They each seemed to be considering the consequences of what had to be done.
“I want you to accompany the prophet back to Utah and find a way to stop Rowan and Salazar at Falta Nada.” The president paused. “Permanently.”
But there was something else.
She asked, “And Cassiopeia?”
Cotton had been provided a chance to handle her in Iowa and failed. Luke’s field report was not encouraging, either. Cassiopeia was far too close to the situation to be effective any longer.
She knew what had to be done.
“I’ll handle her, too.”
SIXTY-ONE
SALT LAKE CITY
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 11
10:00 A.M.
MALONE ADMIRED TEMPLE SQUARE. HE’D NEVER VISITED BEFORE, but he’d read about what had long ago been acco
mplished here. A bronze plaque attached to the high stone wall that rimmed its outer perimeter noted the origin.
FIXED BY ORSON PRATT ASSISTED BY HENRY G. SHERWOOD, AUGUST 3, 1847, WHEN BEGINNING THE ORIGINAL SURVEY OF “GREAT SALT LAKE CITY,” AROUND THE “MORMON” TEMPLE SITE DESIGNATED BY BRIGHAM YOUNG JULY 28, 1847.
THE CITY STREETS WERE NAMED AND NUMBERED FROM THIS POINT.
A concrete monument stood beneath the marker, upon which was chiseled BASE AND MERIDIAN. Here was the starting point from which everything around him—an entire city, home now to two hundred thousand people—had been built.
Hard not to be impressed.
He and Luke had flown out of Des Moines just after dawn in a Department of Justice plane sent by Stephanie. They’d been told that Salazar and Cassiopeia were likewise headed their way. Senator Thaddeus Rowan had left Washington, D.C., late last night, back now at his Utah residence.
Stephanie’s instructions were for them both to be here at 10:00 A.M. All would be explained, she’d said. The placard and monument stood adjacent to busy South Temple Street, just across from a downtown shopping complex and the Deseret Book Company. Both he and Luke were armed, carrying Magellan Billet–issued Berettas identical to the one back in Copenhagen beneath his bed. He’d called the bookstore earlier, after they’d landed, to see how things were going. Luckily he employed three ladies who treated the store as their own, so all was under control. He appreciated all that they did, and rewarded them by paying a high wage and sharing the profits. Considering the mayhem the bookstore had endured over the past few years, it was amazing they stuck around.
A black Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows emerged from traffic and stopped at the curb. The rear window lowered, and an older man’s face appeared.
“Mr. Malone. Mr. Daniels. I’m Charles Snow, here to retrieve you.”
The front passenger door opened and Stephanie emerged.
“Why am I not surprised you’re here?” Malone said.
“ ’Cause this isn’t your first rodeo.”
He stared at Luke. “I assume you knew.”