She stepped close to the image.
“Having the everlasting gospel to preach unto them that dwell on the earth, and to every nation, and kindred, and tongue, and people,” Rowan said. “Revelation 14:6. Moroni is our messenger from heaven. This is the plaster original from which the hammered copper statue atop the Salt Lake temple was fashioned. Brigham Young himself brought this here.”
Josepe was clearly in awe. “He is the angel of light, who wore a loose robe of most exquisite whiteness. A whiteness beyond anything ever seen. His whole person glorious beyond description.”
Rowan nodded. “You quote the prophet well. That is exactly how Joseph Smith described Moroni, and it’s how we try to depict him.”
“But he’s golden, not white,” she said.
“Our way of accentuating the brightness.”
But she wasn’t so sure.
She’d read once that Smith may have come across the name Moroni from reading the treasure-hunting stories of William Kidd. Legend held that Kidd buried his treasure on the Comoros Islands. Moroni was the capital city of the union of the Comoros. Smith also named the hill where he found the golden plates Cumorah. Coincidence? If so, she wondered about the odds.
“This is an underground temple,” Rowan said. “Created long ago by the prophets as a place of worship inside the earth. Few come here anymore. But this is where Prophet Brigham hid what Abraham Lincoln gave him.”
She’d already surveyed the chamber. Except for the statue and the artificial lighting, there was nothing else man-made in sight.
“The one time I came,” Rowan said, “there were artifacts on display from the Spanish. Pieces of bone, buttons, bits of iron, and shoulder yokes. The yokes were cut from cedar, about three feet wide, with a curve in the center to fit the bearer’s neck. There were notches on each end to secure heavy, rawhide ore sacks. I was amazed how they’d survived the centuries.”
But no artifacts were here now.
“Where do we look?” Josepe asked.
“In a moment,” Rowan said. “First, there is a matter we must deal with.”
The senator pointed a finger her way.
“This woman is a spy.”
SALAZAR WAS SHOCKED BY THE APOSTLE’S DECLARATION. “A spy? You’re mistaken.”
“Am I? Ask yourself, Josepe, how did she reenter your life? After so many years, and at this precise moment.”
“She’s been nothing but helpful.”
“As spies are. How else can they ingratiate themselves? You pressed me yesterday about how I learned of this place. I finally revealed that I possessed a source within the government, one who is close to our enemies. That source told me not only this location, but that this woman is working for the president of the United States.”
“And you believed that?” Cassiopeia asked. “Of course your enemies want to create confusion in your ranks. What better way than to provide false information.”
“How did that source know your exact name?” Rowan asked. “How did the source even know you existed?”
Salazar waited for a reply.
“I can only assume,” she said, “that your source is in the intelligence business, aware of what that man Malone has been doing.”
“Interesting you mention his name. My source also said you not only know Cotton Malone, but that you are romantically linked with him.”
“Is that true?” Salazar demanded, his voice rising.
CASSIOPEIA FELT CAGED.
Stephanie had intentionally compromised her, surely in response to her breaking off all contact and stealing the watch.
She heard the anger in Josepe’s question.
Two options.
Lie or tell the truth.
SALAZAR WAITED FOR AN ANSWER, UNSURE WHAT MIGHT COME from Cassioepia’s mouth. The fact that she’d not instantly denied the accusation gave him pause. His heart thudded, and his breathing had gone shallow. His head spun.
The angel appeared.
Hovering near the statue of Moroni, the face unadorned with its usual reassuring smile.
“We might have been wrong about her.”
He could not reply, so he simply shook his head, ever so gently, refusing to acknowledge the fact.
“Do not be ashamed, Josepe. The time for pretense is over. Reveal me to them. Let them know that the prophets are with you.”
He’d never spoken of the angel to anyone.
“What are you looking at?” Rowan asked him.
He ignored the elder and focused on the vision.
“Protect me.”
And he saw something on the angel’s face he’d never before seen.
Concern.
His right hand plunged beneath his jacket and found the gun.
STEPHANIE HAD SLOWLY WORKED HER WAY THROUGH THE PASSAGE, following lights toward voices. She’d traversed one small chamber, then found a larger one, slipping inside unnoticed among more illuminated rock formations. She’d listened as Rowan, Salazar, and Cassiopeia talked, Salazar angry over what Rowan had revealed.