“My thoughts exactly.”
“But rest assured, Josepe, neither of us has broken any laws. Their inquiries are simply investigatory.”
He again said nothing.
Danites had always worked in secrecy. Recruitment 150 years ago, as now, was by personal contact only. Meetings were carefully guarded. Teachings were not openly discussed, even with fellow Danites, outside those gatherings. Members were taught to obey their leader’s instructions without question or hesitation, admonished to prove faithful in all things committed to their trust, come life or death. Each recruit took a solemn covenant not to reveal anything. Punishment for violations of the code was carried out in secret.
“We live in a new and different dispensation,” the angel said. “One in which the Kingdom of God will break into pieces and consume all earthly kingdoms. The duty of all noble and loyal Danites is to waste away the gentiles and consecrate them to the Kingdom of God. The earth is the Lord’s, Josepe, not man’s. And the laws of the land do not apply when one commits himself to God.”
“My fear,” he said to Rowan, “is that their investigative efforts could escalate.”
“And they will. So conduct yourself accordingly.”
He understood the instruction. Nothing the Danites did could ever become public. Josepe knew his role. He was the hammer and the sword. His reward was an inner satisfaction, not one to be flaunted for the benefit of others.
“It is not your business or place to know what is required by God,” the angel said inside his head. “He will inform you by means of the prophet, and you must perform.”
Amen, he mouthed. “I have matters in hand.”
“As I knew you would. I may need you here soon, so be prepared to travel. I’m on the way back to Washington. Contact me when you have more to report.”
He stared at the map and the states highlighted.
Texas, Hawaii, Alaska, Vermont, and Montana.
And Utah.
He checked his watch.
“May Heavenly Father watch over you,” Rowan said.
“Same to you, sir.”
TWENTY-TWO
COPENHAGEN
MALONE FELT LIKE THE OLD DAYS, TOSSING ONLY THE ESSENTIALS into a travel bag, then grabbing the knapsack from beneath his bed and retrieving the few hundred euros he always kept on hand, along with his passport. Years ago passports were the least of his concerns. As a Magellan Billet agent he’d moved about the world at will, sometimes legally, most times not. What a life. Occasionally he missed it, no matter how much he might say otherwise. He’d once been involved with some important assignments, a few that even changed history. But that was not his life anymore. Or at least that’s what he’d told himself for the past few years, ever since he walked away. Yet he’d also been part of some astounding stuff since retiring.
Which seemed the case here, too.
What had Luke Daniels said last night? There’s a connection between Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, James Madison, and Abraham Lincoln. One that stretches straight back to the Founding Fathers.
He’d parted ways with Luke after they returned to Copenhagen, and the younger agent had seemed glad to be rid of him. He’d once viewed Magellan Billet business through fresh eyes, too. Straight from the navy JAG, where Stephanie had recruited him for what became a permanent reassignment to the Justice Department. When he quit the government he’d also resigned his navy commission as Commander Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone, son of Forrest Malone—also a commander, United States Navy, lost at sea. His gaze darted to the frame on the wall and the handwritten note, dated November 17, 1971. His father’s last 640 words. Written especially for his family. He’d savored every one. Especially the final sentence.
I love you, Cotton.
Not something he’d ever heard much while his dad had lived.
He’d tried not to make the same mistake with his own son, Gary, now sixteen. He certainly hoped the boy knew how he felt. God knows they’d been through enough together.
He grabbed hold of the Beretta. It had served him well yesterday. How many people had he killed with it over the years? Ten? Twelve? Fifteen?
Hard to remember.
Which bothered him.
As did what he’d witnessed last night with Cassiopeia. Her kiss with Salazar hurt, no matter how much of a role she may have been playing. He was jealous, there was no other way to view it. She’d readily offered to stay the night. What would have happened if Salazar had said yes? He didn’t want to think about it. Of course, he had no idea what happened after they’d left the estate. Salazar could have stayed over at her hotel.
Stop.
Quit this.
He hated the doubts that swirled through him, wishing he’d never seen nor heard any of it. He was better off not knowing.