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Proof positive of human inventiveness.
He hovered the magnetometer just above the ground. The other hand held the GPS locator and he kept on a straight line to the southeast, sweeping the metal detector back and forth. Sixty feet later the instrument buzzed. He laid everything down and found a collapsible shovel in his backpack. Carefully, on his knees, he worked the ground above the find, the soft loamy soil coming away in moist clumps. Six inches down he located a heavily oxidized iron plow point. He knew not to disturb it. Instead, he must learn from it.
He cleared away the dirt and noted the direction the plow pointed.
Southwest.
He marveled that the object was even here. Information within the 1909 field notes had revealed how horseshoes, mule shoes, picks, ax-heads, and, sure enough, plow points had been buried about four to six inches deep. Enough to remain hidden, but not enough to be undetected by a compass needle. Pass a compass over buried iron and the needle will react, much as a paper clip when near a magnet will start to act like a magnet. Martin Thomas had tested the theory while here a month ago with a new plow point and had recorded that it worked. Not nearly as good as a magnetometer, but definitely its great-great-grandfather. Only time had not been factored into the equation. Oxidation degraded magnetic abilities, so it was doubtful a compass would be of any use today. Thank goodness for modern technology.
Expectancy clutched his chest.
This was exciting.
His grandfather would have loved it.
But it was also serious, as a man had died here long ago and Martin Thomas had been terrorized just recently.
So he stayed alert, re-gripped his instruments, and started walking southwest. Sixty more feet and he found another buried marker, this time an ax-head, still pointed southwest. He was careful with both his steps and his digging. This was rattlesnake country, and a few might be out enjoying the toasty afternoon. Which was another reason why his holstered Beretta rested within easy reach inside the backpack.
The vector he’d taken had led straight back to the map tree, forming a large triangle. Now he knew where to concentrate his efforts. No longer was the entire Arkansas countryside in play, only the space between the lines he’d just laid out.
He walked toward its center.
The reflective matte-black lenses of his sunglasses muted the harshness of the bright sun. The branches were full of noise from birds, squirrels, and insects. This part of Arkansas seemed a gorgeous gem tucked away in nearly the center of the country. It was remote a century and a half ago, and not much had changed, the biggest difference being that the National Park Service now made sure everything stayed pristine. He wasn’t exactly sure if he was inside the park boundaries but, if not, he was awful close.
Historically, no substantial quantities of gold had ever been mined in Arkansas, but legends persisted of its existence. And not the kind that came from a clear stream or out of a vein. Instead, it had all been placed. The original hypothesis revolved around 16th-century Spaniards, who’d hidden hundreds of gold caches across the Midwest and West. But outlaws, too, had used these woods as their hideout. Then there was one other group. From the 19th century.
The Knights of the Golden Circle.
Who’d flourished here.
Ahead, nearly in the center of the triangle, he spotted a large maple with a long, vertical line ingrown in its bark.
Hardly noticeable.
Yet there.
He swept the magnetometer over the ground around the tree and it screamed a find. Back to his knees, he dug carefully. Six inches and nothing. He kept going. About a foot down, he felt something hard. An object placed deep enough that no compass would ever find it.
And he knew what that meant.
The prize, gained only after deciphering the other clues and knowing exactly where to dig.
Yes, definitely, this was the property of the Knights of the Golden Circle.
He cleared the soil away and realized that he’d located a glass jar with a metal lid that had long rusted through. He freed the jar, about the size of a half-gallon milk container. Once it was out in the light he saw that it contained a stash of gold coins, packed tight, time doing nearly nothing to dull them. He tried to estimate how many were inside. He’d been told to photograph anything before physically examining it, so he laid the jar on the ground, located his phone, and activated the camera.
He was about to snap a few images when he heard something.
Movement.
Quick.
Approaching.
He reached into his pack, found his Beretta, and pivoted. In a blur of sight and reason, all he caught was a dark figure and the familiar outline of a rifle.
Coming his way.
Then, there was nothing.
CHAPTER TWO
EASTERN TENNESSEE
4:50 P.M.
Danny Daniels hated funerals, avoiding them whenever possible. As president of the United States he’d attended precious few, delegating that solemn task to others. Now, as an ex-president, he had no one to send. No matter, though. This funeral was an exception to his usual rule.
He’d known the deceased ever since his own days as a Maryville city councilman, when Alex Sherwood served in the Tennessee state legislature. Ultimately, they’d risen together, he to the governor’s mansion, Congress, and finally the White House—Sherwood to Speaker of the Tennessee legislature then on to the U.S. Senate. Two country boys, each finding his own path to success.
During two terms in the White House he’d always counted on Alex. He knew that his old friend would have liked to have been president. But it had not happened. Quick to praise, reluctant to find fault. That was Alex. Just too damn nice. To be president you had to own many moods, not only making decisions but also convincing everyone else that you knew what the hell you were doing. Sometimes that took an ass-chewing, which was not a skill his old pal had ever mastered. Instead, Alex used courtesy, kindness, and reason. Which many times just did not work.
A slow drizzle drained from the gray, spring sky. Umbrellas protected the mourners. He’d left his at home, donning only a raincoat to keep his suit dry. His time as president had ended four months ago and he’d returned home to Blount County, Tennessee.
To start a new life.
“Please join us,” the minister said, urging the crowd forward to the grave site.
The church had been filled with over five hundred, that service open to the public. But here, in the old cemetery among the trees, with the Appalachian foothills off to the east, less than a hundred had been invited, all relatives or close friends. No press. The U.S. Senate was represented by the majority leader and eight of his colleagues. The House, too, had sent a contingent, headed by the Speaker himself. But he’d never cared for the current Speaker, a self-confident, pompous ass from South Carolina named Lucius Vance. They were of different parties, different states, different thinking. Vance, though, was a master at satisfying his colleagues, finagling support, and juggling the thousand chores needed to keep his seat. He was a man of the House, accustomed to biennial approval, acutely aware of how fast the public’s love changed to hate. Nine years ago that experience, and over twenty years in office, finally accumulated enough political capital to elevate Vance to the Speaker’s chair, making him the 62nd person to hold the job.
Once Danny had kept a close watch on the opposition, knowing their every move. And when was th
at? Oh, four months ago. But not anymore. What did it matter? Ex-presidents rarely amounted to much. Their one job was to fade away. Vance, though, was still going strong—pragmatic and precise—holding tight to the reins of power. For eight years Vance had been a thorn in the Daniels administration’s side, trying every way possible to derail anything the White House proposed.
And succeeding more often than not.
But that was no longer Danny’s problem.
That task now fell to President Warner Scott Fox, who had the advantage of being in the same party as Vance.
But that might not mean a thing.
Congress routinely ate its own.
The mourners scrummed together around a large tent erected near the grave. Alex’s widow, Diane, sat beneath it with hands folded in her lap. The Sherwood marriage had lasted a long time. Unlike his own, which was now over. He and Pauline had already signed the divorce papers. They’d agreed that July 1 would be the day to file and end their relationship. By then people would have forgotten about the previous president of the United States and his First Lady.
Interesting how things had changed.
Not all that long ago he was the most important man in the world. Thousands worked around the clock to please him. He commanded the most powerful military on the planet. His decisions affected hundreds of millions. Now he was again an ordinary citizen. Of course, not that long ago Alex Sherwood had been alive. So he shouldn’t complain. Pauline seemed happy with her new life and love. And he was happy with Stephanie Nelle. Some people might call the whole thing strange. He called it the way of the world. He’d done his duty and served his country. So had Pauline. Now it was time they served themselves.
He walked across the wet grass, pebbles crunching beneath his soles, hands inside his coat pockets. He stopped just inside the tent, where he could hear the minister over the patter of rain on canvas overhead. The governor was there, another friend, along with a state legislative delegation. Diane had not left out any of the key players, seemingly mindful of protocol.
