“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.”