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“Could this affect the president?”
“I don’t know that, either. But Vance is no team player, and he did want Fox’s job.”
“Like me, he had no chance. But he sealed his fate a long time ago when he took the Speaker’s job.”
“You and I know that he’s a danger. I hope Fox does, too.”
Solomon chuckled. “Let’s just say that our new president is not as schooled on the lay of the land as you and I.”
“And I doubt he’ll be listening to his seasoned vice president.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Since January 20 I’ve talked with him a grand total of”—Solomon held up a finger—“one time. Just now.”
A huge mistake on Fox’s part. Solomon, like himself, was skilled in deciphering the silences between words, the thoughts obtuse speech many times disguised. From everything Danny had seen and read, the Fox administration seemed a nervous coalition of doves, hawks, and activists, each with their own idea of what might be best for the country. Teddy Solomon was far more pragmatic, a tried-and-true warrior. A man with an encyclopedic knowledge of Washington, DC. Information that a novice in the White House, like Warner Fox, could make good use of. Unfortunately, pride and stupidity usually kept the rookies from asking for help, which ultimately cost them.
One name proved his point.
Jimmy Carter.
“You knew they would ignore you,” he said. “So why take the job?”
“I’m sixty-nine years old, Danny. I could have served in the Senate forever. But I’ve always wanted to be president. You know that. I can’t explain why, I just wanted the job. The people, though, had other ideas.” Solomon shrugged. “This is as close as I can get. So you take the good with the bad.”
This was a smart man, a pro who’d learned long ago, as he had, that the country was only what the people wanted it to be. If they made their decisions in ignorance, or off the cuff, or even in stupidity, so be it, it was their republic. We the people meant just that. His job, and that of everyone else in public office, was to serve the country—not mold it. Clever politicians understood that duty. Great ones, like Teddy Solomon, believed it in their heart.
This man would have made a terrific president.
“Can you snoop around on your side of the aisle and see if anything’s brewing in the House? I’ve got a bad feelin’, Teddy.”
“Bad enough to come back in the line of fire? When you could have been off fishing somewhere?”
“Somethin’ like that. It may be up to two broken-down old geezers like us to stop whatever it is.”
“Sounds awful melodramatic. But I like it.”
“And let’s keep this between us. Just in case I’m totally full of crap.”
“That’s one thing you never were.” Solomon extended his hand again. “Welcome back, Senator.”
They shook.
“It’s time to make you official,” the vice president said.
He’d taken oaths as a city councilman, a governor, senator, and president. All before crowds, part of the spectacle. Now, with just him and a good friend present, he raised his right hand and repeated the words he’d said three times before.
“I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. That I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same. That I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter.
“So help me God.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Cotton was back in the windowless archive at the American history museum, the engraved stone from Fossil Hall lying on the table.
“That guy took a huge chance coming back for this,” he said.
Which meant it was really important. He was hoping that Stamm got the message. Time for more information, especially about Angus Adams. But the curator seemed to be waiting for something.
The silence within the archive was suddenly disturbed by a door opening at the other end, then closing. The rows of track shelves blocked any view, so he waited. And was not surprised when the visitor appeared.
The chief justice of the United States.
Warren Weston.
The jurist introduced himself and they shook hands, their attention immediately drawn to the stone.
“So it really was right here,” Weston muttered. “All this time. Incredible.”
The older man lightly caressed the pale-white limestone surface.
“You knew it might be?” Cotton asked.
“All the information available pointed to one of the museums as the hiding place. We just didn’t know which one. Thankfully, we were led straight to it.”
“With one person dead, and another in the hospital.”
“I’m truly sorry for both of those,” Weston said. “None of that was ever intended, but this whole thing has escalated. We need your help now, more than ever.”
“This isn’t the Supreme Court and I’m not some lawyer standing before you. And I mean no disrespect, but I’m going to ask you a question and you better give me a real good answer.”
“Or what?” Weston asked.
“Or I’m pulling the plug on this entire thing.”
“The attorney general may not like that.”
“I don’t work for him, either. I can do whatever the hell I want. And one call to the DC Police, then another to the Washington Post should do the trick.”
“Ask your question.”
“Why did you involve me in this?”
“Because your ancestor, Angus Adams, is key, and we were hoping you, or your family, might be able to add to our knowledge. The fact that you are a trained intelligence operative—one of the best, I’m told—seemed an added bonus. I considered it a win–win.”
“How is Adams the key?”
“Can I answer that by asking you something?”
He decided to indulge the man and nodded.
“Do you understand what’s depicted there, on that stone?”
To the uneducated it seemed there was little rhyme or reason to the squiggly lines, the dagger, and the numbers.
But not to him.
He nodded. “My granddaddy taught me some of the Order’s hidden language. We used to play coded games with it.”
“I was hoping that was the case. What does it tell you?”
“It seems incomplete. Like it’s only part of something else. Something more. There are too few symbols to gather any meaning.”
“You’re absolutely right. This Trail Stone is part of something else.”
He’d actually cheated a little, since Morse had told him about five stones. But one thing did jump out. The heart-shaped indentation. And something his grandfather taught him. Hearts meant gold to the Spanish, and to the knights.
“I’m assuming there’s another stone,” he said. “Heart-shaped, that fits into that recessed cavity.”
“There is, aptly called the Heart Stone.”
“Which leads to the gold.”
Weston smiled. “I see you do understand the language. There were five stones all totaled. The Witch’s, which I’m told you’ve already seen. The Trail Stone here. The Heart Stone.” Weston turned to Stamm and nodded. The curator worked the keyboard for the computer, then turned the screen Cotton’s way.
“Here’s the fourth,” Weston said. “The Horse Stone.”
“Found sometime near the turn of the 20th century, along with the Trail Stone,” Stamm said. “Both were kept in our collections. Unfortunately, around 1920, the Horse Stone was destroyed in what the records say was an accident at one of the warehouses. But these photos survive.”
He studied the black-and-white images.
A horse faced left, with its tail to the right, but cocked left. Within the torso was what looked like the number 3, or, if viewed at an angle, a double-bump sign, which he knew was the Order’s symbol for a bird, indicating move
ment and direction. Below the tail was what looked like the letter E and another double bump.
He noticed more letters and symbols, their meanings speaking to him. A 5 in the upper left with three equally spaced dots surrounding could be viewed on its side to be an inverted U.
