Thinking about what happened so long ago disgusted him. The 1887 Edmunds-Tucker Act had literally dissolved the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Never before or since had the Congress directed such venom toward a singular religious organization. The bill provided not only for the end of the church, but a confiscation of all its property. And the devil-ridden Supreme Court of the United States in 1890 validated those acts as constitutional.
“What are you after?” Daniels asked.
“I only want what’s best for the people of Utah. I personally could not care less about the federal government. It has outlived its usefulness.”
“I’ll remind you of that when your borders are attacked.”
He chuckled. “I doubt anyone, besides you, would ever want to invade Deseret.”
“Is that the name you’ve decided on?”
“It means something to us. It’s what the land should have been called in the first place. But this government insisted on Utah.”
All part of the despicable concessions demanded and provided. The day still disgusted him. September 25, 1890. When a declaration was issued by the then-prophet accepting obedience to all federal law and announcing the end of plural marriage. Six years later, statehood was granted. Property was slowly returned, including the Salt Lake temple. But the church had taken a beating. Heavily in debt and divided over both theology and finances, it would take decades to recover.
But recover it did.
Now it was worth billions. No one outside a handful of apostles and a few high-level administrators knew the exact amount.
And he’d keep it that way.
“We will be able to buy and sell every remaining state in your union ,” he said, “and many of the nations of the world.”
“You’re not out yet.”
“It’s only a matter of time. Obviously you know what the founders left behind, what they signed in 1787.”
“I do. But I also know things you don’t know.”
He could not tell if Daniels was serious or merely posturing. The president was known as an excellent poker player, but something told him this was not a bluff—instead, this was the reason he’d been summoned.
“Your church,” Daniels said, “was trusted with something that could have, at that time, destroyed this nation. Instead the United States survived, partly thanks to what Brigham Young did not do with what he had. Thankfully, after Lincoln was killed, and no one contacted him for the document, Young still did nothing.”
“He foolishly trusted that the federal government would continue to leave us alone. But it didn’t. Twenty years later you all but destroyed us.”
“Yet no one within the church brought out the document. Quite a bargaining chip to never use.”
“No one knew. Young was dead by then, and he took the secret to his grave.”
“That’s not true. People were aware.”
“How would you know that?”
Daniels stepped back and opened the door.
Charles R. Snow appeared, standing on his frail legs, dressed in a suit and tie, looking every bit the head of Zion. The prophet stepped inside, his steps short but firm.
Rowan was taken aback, unsure what to say or do.
“Thaddeus,” Snow said. “I can’t express in words how disappointed I am in you.”
“You told me to search.”
“That I did. The disappointment is with your motives and judgment.”
He was not in the mood for any criticism from this imbecile. “You’re so weak. We cannot afford any more like you.”
Snow crept over to a pale green sofa and sat. “What you are about to do, Thaddeus, will destroy a hundred years of hard work.”
FIFTY-SIX
DES MOINES, IOWA
CASSIOPEIA STUDIED THE COTTAGE, WHICH REMINDED HER OF something from the English countryside. Everything else at Salisbury House carried a similar look and feel. No one had paid her any attention as she drifted from the garden, following a pebbled path that wound through autumn grass and fall flowers. A couple of times she’d stopped to admire the foliage, checking to see if she was alone. The cottage stood about thirty meters from the main house, electrical wires entering through a conduit projecting from a gable. Thankfully the entrance was away from the terrace and garden, where the darkness was nearly absolute.
The wooden door was secured by a single pin-and-tumbler lock mounted above the knob, an obvious addition. Luckily, she’d come prepared, picks always at the ready in her makeup bag. Cotton had found that so amusing—traveling with burglary tools—but he was just as bad—a small pick stayed hidden inside his wallet. She liked that about him. Always prepared.