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She slammed on the brakes and skidded the car to a stop.
MALONE STOOD HIS GROUND.
Luke dropped himself off the hood and yanked open the driver’s door, his weapon pointed at Cassiopeia.
She did not move.
The cabin light revealed her face, another mask of stone, like in Salzburg, her gaze locked on him. Luke reached in and switched off the ignition.
“Get the hell out,” Luke yelled.
She ignored him.
Malone walked toward her, his steps slow and steady. He came close and spotted the small purse on the passenger seat. Black. Chanel. Adorned with iconic charms that had served, in years past, as symbols of the brand. He’d bought it in Paris, a Christmas present last year, for the woman who quite literally had everything.
He stepped to the passenger door, opened it, and retrieved the purse. Inside lay the watch, which he removed, tossing the handbag back inside. He was as pissed with her as she was with him and, like her, said nothing.
He motioned that they should leave.
“You sure?” Luke asked.
“Leave her be.”
Luke shrugged, then tossed the keys into her lap.
Still, not a speck of reaction from her. Instead she slammed the door shut, fired up the engine, and spun the car around 180 degrees before speeding away.
“That wasn’t good,” Luke said.
He watched as the vehicle faded into the night.
“No,” he whispered. “It wasn’t.”
FIFTY-NINE
MARYLAND
ROWAN SAT INSIDE THE TEMPLE.
Ever since childhood, he’d felt safe within a temple’s walls. Then it had been the temple in Salt Lake. Since coming to Washington, he’d made this temple his home. Here, behind thick masonry and locked doors, Saints could practice as they pleased. No one but Saints who’d achieved temple recommend could enter. Only during the weeks prior to its consecration were a temple’s doors opened to gentiles. In 1974 nearly a million had walked through this magnificent structure in the Maryland countryside. Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News & World Report had all published stories on it. Open houses had been the norm since the early days, a way to counter the wild rumors and misconceptions about what lay inside. But once a temple was consecrated it became the exclusive realm of Saints.
He’d fled Blair House and taken a cab straight here, his second visit of the day. Earlier, outside in the morning chill, he’d planned with his congressional colleagues what was to happen next.
Now he was unsure of everything.
Charles R. Snow himself had entered the fray.
An extraordinary occurrence, one he’d never anticipated. Actually, he’d been counting on Snow’s death. Once he was ordained as prophet, which was a given, he’d have the entire church at his disposal. Instead Snow had released him, demanding a resignation. That was unprecedented. Apostles kept their jobs until death. He’d currently served the longest, rising through the hierarchy, now one heartbeat away from becoming prophet.
And not just any prophet.
The first since Brigham Young who would lead both the church and the government. And the first to do such with the status of an independent, viable nation.
Deseret.
True, a vote of the electorate and a court fight lay ahead, but he was confident both could be won.
Now the dream seemed in dire jeopardy.
Both Daniels and Snow knew everything. Had Stephanie Nelle sold him out? Was she a spy? Her appearance had been most fortuitous.
Paranoia was setting in.
Just as it had after the Civil War and before the turn of the 20th century, when Saints were prosecuted and jailed under the anti-polygamy Edmunds-Tucker Act. When the church itself was declared illegal. When one turned on the other. Spies were everywhere. The Time of Troubles, it had come to be called. Which only ended when the church caved and conformed.
He was alone, inside one of the celestial rooms.
He had to think.
His cell phone vibrated.
Usually the devices were not allowed inside the temple. But this was far from usual. He checked the display.
Salazar.
“What happened?” he asked, after answering.
“The watch is gone. The government now has it.”
He closed his eyes. The evening was turning into a disaster. Nothing had gone right.
“Head to Salt Lake,” he ordered. “I’ll be there in the morning.”
“They knew we were here,” Salazar said.
Of course they did. Why wouldn’t they?
“We’ll talk in Salt Lake.”
He ended the call.
CASSIOPEIA SAT IN JOSEPE’S HOTEL SUITE AND WATCHED AS HE spoke on the phone.
The call ended.
“Elder Rowan sounded defeated,” he said, his voice not much above a whisper. “I have to say, I echo his feeling. We’ve been at this for several years. But only in the past few months has the goal come into sight. It’s been a long hard struggle to get this far.”
“I’m sorry I lost the watch.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I should have anticipated problems and been ready to act. I could have sent my associates with you.”
“They would have been in the way. I’m the one who didn’t see it coming.”
Josepe let out a long exhale. “How about this? No more talk of defeatism tonight. Let’s have dinner somewhere.”
She was not in the mood, role or no role.
“I’m pretty jet-lagged. Would you mind if I just went to sleep?”
STEPHANIE HAD SET UP A MAKESHIFT HEADQUARTERS INSIDE her room at the Mandarin Oriental, her laptop connected to the Magellan Billet’s secured server, her phone on ready. She’d brought with her Katie Bishop, who was in an adjacent room combing through Madison’s secret notes, harvesting every piece of relevant information that she could. The young woman was bright and articulate and had apparently taken a shine to Luke Daniels. On the cab ride over from the White House there’d been lots of questions on that subject.
And now they had the watch.
Luke and Cotton had been successful.
She stared at her screen and the video feed from Luke’s laptop in Des Moines. Katie had consulted the appropriate websites and talked with a curator at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History, who’d explained how the first Lincoln watch had been opened.
Really simple.
The back screwed off, right-to-left, counterclockwise, exposing its inn
er workings. The only trick would be to loosen the threads from corrosion, since they hadn’t seen any action in a long time. A few gentle taps in the right places was what worked the first time.
Which had all been passed on to Iowa.
MALONE LIFTED THE WATCH FROM THE DESKTOP. HE AND LUKE had obtained a room in a downtown hotel away from where Salazar was staying, a video link established to Stephanie in DC.
He admired the timepiece, which was in excellent condition.
“Let’s try and not destroy it,” Stephanie said from the screen.
He smirked her way. “Is that directed at me?”
“You do have a tendency to harm things.”
“At least it’s not a World Heritage Site.”
From past experience, those seemed his favorite targets.
The encounter with Cassiopeia weighed heavy on his mind. They had a problem, and no amount of talking was going to make for an easy fix. He’d done exactly what she asked him not to do, and there’d be consequences.
He handed the timepiece to Luke. “You do the honors.”
Luke gripped the watch and tried to loosen the back plate. Stephanie’s instructions had said it could be difficult, and it was.
Three more attempts produced no results.
“It won’t turn,” Luke said.
They tried a few gentle taps to its side, as recommended, but still nothing. He recalled years ago that he’d liked a particular brand of citrus salad, oranges and grapefruit, peeled, packed in water, and sold inside a plastic screw-top container. The lid was always tough to get off the first time. Finally one day he discovered the secret: Don’t grip it so hard. In his frustration he tended to squeeze the plastic so tight that it would not unscrew. So he gently grasped the watch’s edges, holding just tight enough that his fingers wouldn’t slip.
He turned, feeling resistance from the tiny threads.
Another try and movement.
Slight.
But enough.
He regripped, kept his touch light, and freed the back plate.
