This is a work of fiction.

All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in

this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

SILVER CROSS

Copyright © 2012 by B. Kent Anderson

All rights reserved.

A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Anderson, B. Kent, 1963–
Silver cross / B. Kent Anderson.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 978-0-7653-2862-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-4811-1 (e-book)
1. History teachers—Fiction. 2. Governmental investigations—
Fiction. 3. Conspiracies—United States—Fiction. 4. Treasure troves—
Fiction. I. Title.
PS3601.N455S55 2012
813'.6—dc23
2012019973

First Edition: November 2012

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 chapter

1
Present Day

T he sign on the office door still read where cases go to die. It

was a white piece of paper with the letters in black marker, held
in place by tape. A new nameplate was above the sign: meg tolman,
deputy director, research and investigations office. The office
was at the end of a short hallway on the fourth floor of an unassuming
office suite in an equally unassuming office building in downtown
Washington. The woman behind the office’s desk wasn’t thinking
about research or investigations. She was wondering if she could get
away with doing a lecture about piano music of the Romantic period
and not mention Franz Liszt.
In the months since Meg Tolman had been named to run the day-
to-day operations of RIO, she had learned that much of her job in-
volved submitting reports to the offices of the attorney general and the
secretaries of both Treasury and Homeland Security, the three depart-
ments that coadministered the agency. But she’d also learned why
there had never been a person with the title of “director,” why a “dep-
uty director” was in charge. The titular director of RIO was the presi-
dent of the United States. Twice a month Tolman had a personal
meeting with the president’s chief of staff. On two occasions she’d met
with President Mendoza himself. In such an environment, it was easy
22 B. Kent Anderson

to get distracted from her other world—that of part-time concert pia-

nist.
Still, Tolman had farmed out as much of the administrative func-
tion of her job as possible to others in the office, so that she could still
do actual work. RIO took cases that were referred from other law en-
forcement agencies—often strange and unsolvable crimes—and re-
viewed them to determine whether it was appropriate for federal
resources to be committed. In most instances the cases were returned
to the referring department. Occasionally they weren’t. It was a strange
and surreal existence, and Tolman needed her music to balance her life.
She doodled in a notebook, thinking about the lecture she was
supposed to give in the afternoon at Northern Virginia Community
College. She would talk about Schumann and Brahms and Chopin
and even the “twentieth-century Romantics” like her beloved Rach-
maninov, but Liszt . . .
“Liszt was a fucking show-off,” she muttered.
She doodled a few music notes, a box, a cat, then put the notebook
aside and turned to her computer to finish writing another report. She
was plodding through an analysis of alleged federal civil rights abuses
in a case from Ohio that had arisen from state police response to one of
the recent waves of protests and general unrest sweeping the country.
Protests on the left, protests on the right, she thought. No one’s satisfied and
the cops are overmatched. What a mess—thinking about Liszt was easier.
She looked up from the computer when her cell phone rang.
“Hello, is this Meg Tolman?” said a male voice she didn’t recog-
nize.
“The one and only,” she said, still looking at the Ohio case but
thinking about what a prima donna Liszt had been.
“Ms. Tolman, this is Carl Troutman at New Hanover Regional
Medical Center in Wilmington, North Carolina. You are listed as the
emergency contact for Dana Cable. There’s been an accident.”
Tolman looked away from the computer. “What? Did you say
Dana Cable?”
“Yes. Her insurance company lists you as her emergency contact.”
“You mean Dana Cable the cellist?”
The man hesitated. “I don’t know if she’s a cellist, but her address is
in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and her insurance company—”
 Silver Cross 23

“I haven’t seen Dana in a long time, probably six or seven years.

There must be someone else. . . .”
“You are Meg Tolman and you work in Washington, D.C.?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Then there’s no mistake.”
“Where did you say you are? North Carolina?”
“Yes. Wilmington.”
“What’s Dana doing there? What kind of accident?”
“I don’t know the answer to the first question. As to the second,
from what we can tell she was out walking on the seawall below Kure
Beach that separates the Cape Fear River from the Atlantic. It seems
she had been drinking, and it was high tide. A wave knocked her over.
She hit her head.”
“That’s not right.”
“Ms. Tolman—”
“No, no, you don’t understand. That can’t be right.”
“Ms. Tolman, your friend has been in a serious accident. She’s been
in and out of consciousness and is in ICU. The nurses told me that she’s
said your name several times. Will you be able to come?”
“What?”
“She’s asking for you, Ms. Tolman. You should come soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t mean to be indelicate, but if you want to see your friend
while she’s still alive, you should be on your way here as soon as possible.”
Tolman gripped the phone. Dana Cable. She had a vision of the
two of them playing Beethoven’s Cello Sonata no. 2. It was Dana’s se-
nior recital at the Curtis Institute, and she’d asked Tolman to accom-
pany her. She remembered the way Dana’s long brown hair had fallen
around her face as she bowed, lost in the music. Afterward they’d gone
to a bar down the street, and while Tolman drank rum and Coke as
Dana drank straight Coke, both of them confessed they never wanted
to hear Beethoven’s Cello Sonata no. 2 again. Tolman remembered
Dana mumbling about wishing they could see her “back home” now.
She’d come from some little town in the Ozark Mountains, and she
was fairly certain she’d owned the only cello in the entire county. Tol-
man blinked away the memory.
“I’m on my way,” she said.
 chapter

W hen she stepped off the plane in Wilmington, Tolman real-

ized she’d come to the only possible place in America that
was more humid than D.C. in August.
Although she hated driving almost as much as she hated Franz
Liszt, she rented a car. It was her experience that there was no decent
public transportation between Washington and Atlanta. Following the
rental’s GPS, she found herself on highways 74 and 76 within a few
minutes of each other, made a wrong turn, crossed the Cape Fear River
twice, and finally arrived at the sprawling New Hanover Regional
Medical Center complex on Seventeenth Street.
She dragged her purse and laptop bag out of the car and found the
main hospital entrance. Her blouse was dotted with perspiration from
the coastal humidity by the time she reached the door. She was glad her
hair was still short—anything longer than her very short shag would
have wilted like dying flowers.
She asked for directions from a volunteer desk near the entrance,
and in five minutes she found herself standing outside the ICU. “I’m
here to see Dana Cable,” she told the nurse.
The nurse picked up the phone, punched some buttons, spoke qui-
etly. Tolman scanned the ICU waiting area: families congregating
 Silver Cross 25

with fast-food wrappers in corners, an old woman crying while a

middle-aged version of her held her hand and stared into space; a tired
man with a salt-and-pepper beard sat with three teenage boys, peri-
odically speaking in low tones about when they would be able to go in
and see “granddad.” Tolman turned away—there was tragedy every-
where. A former boss and mentor, a man who had betrayed Tolman
and many others, had once said, “If you dig deep enough, you always
come up with a fistful of tragedy.” He’d been right on that one.
The nurse at the desk said, “Someone will be out to talk to you in a
couple of minutes.”
“What about this guy Troutman who called me? Who is he?”
“He’s the unit clerk on the earlier shift,” the nurse said. “But some-
one else will be out to talk to you.”
“Who, the doctor?”
“If you’ll take a seat, someone will—”
“I’ll take it from here,” said a voice in a deep Carolina drawl behind
her.
Tolman turned and looked up at a tall man in polo shirt and kha-
kis. “Who are you?” she said. “Are you the doctor?”
“Let’s go in,” the man said. He slapped a silver square button and
the doors to the unit began to swing open. They were in a long hall.
“She’s at the far end, in the trauma section.” He turned and looked
down at Tolman as they walked. His legs were longer, and she had
to trot to keep up. “I’m Larry Poe, New Hanover County Sheriff ’s De-
partment.”
“Are you the investigating officer?”
Poe didn’t break stride. “Now that’s interesting. Usually when I in-
troduce myself in a situation like this, people say, ‘Sheriff ’s department?
Why is the sheriff ’s department here? Don’t sheriff ’s deputies wear
uniforms?’ Things like that.”
Tolman smiled. “I’m with the Research and Investigations Office
in D.C. We’re part of the departments of Justice, Treasury, and Home-
land Security.”
“I see,” Poe said. “Three bosses. As much of a headache as it sounds?”
Tolman decided she liked Larry Poe. “More than I ever thought
possible.”
“Never heard of your department before.”
26 B. Kent Anderson

“You and a couple of hundred million other Americans. We fly

under the radar.”
“Like NSA? No Such Agency, that sort of thing?”
“Hardly,” Tolman said. “We’re not that important. We look at
cases that other departments think are worthless.”
Poe stopped. “You’re making that up.”
She sighed. “No one would make up a job like that.”
The sheriff ’s man started walking again. “Good point. The clerk
tells me you’re listed as emergency contact for Dana Cable.”
“Apparently so. I didn’t know it until the call came today.”
“Haven’t seen her in a while, then?”
“About seven years, since we graduated from the Curtis Institute.”
“In Philadelphia.”
“Right. She’s a cellist. I’m a pianist.”
“Thought you were with the three-boss office in D.C.”
“That’s my day job.”
“Got it. Well, your friend went out for a late-night walk on the
seawall, down at the tip of the Cape. Her blood alcohol level was
nearly twice the legal limit.”
“See, that’s what doesn’t make sense,” Tolman said. They reached
the end of the carpeted hallway. Poe touched another square button
and another pair of doors swung open.
“She’s in room three,” he said, then stopped. Nurses in scrubs, and
at least one doctor, were filing out of the room with the number three
above it. One nurse drew the curtain across the opening. The doctor,
a slim young African American man, pulled off his surgical cap and
caught Poe’s eye. He came toward them.
“Inspector,” he said, nodding at Poe. “She went into coma about an
hour ago. She coded ten minutes ago. The brain trauma was too severe
for her body to handle. Is there someone else we should call?”
Poe nodded at Tolman.
“Are you a family member?” the doctor asked.
Tolman felt numb, her feelings on unsure footing. She hadn’t seen
Dana Cable in seven years, and they’d only kept in contact sporadi-
cally . . . a handful of phone calls and e-mails. Nothing at all in the last
six months or so. “An old friend,” she finally said.
“Oh,” the doctor said.
 Silver Cross 27

“I know she had two brothers,” Tolman said, “but I don’t know
anything about them. I don’t even know where they live now. I think
she said one is an accountant, and one was a college professor some-
where. I don’t know where.”
“We’ll be ordering an autopsy,” Poe said.
“Of course,” the doctor said, and looked at Tolman. “I’m sorry.” He
moved away.
“Do you need a few minutes?” Poe asked.
“What?” Tolman said.
Poe gestured toward the door of room three.
It took Tolman a moment to get what he meant. “You mean go in
there?”
“Yeah.”
“No,” Tolman said. “I don’t want to see her dead.”
Poe looked surprised. “You sure? There might not be a chance . . .”
Seeing death, even violent death, didn’t scare Tolman. She’d even
had a part in killing a man a few months ago, a man who was shooting
at an unarmed civilian, and who had been part of a plot to overthrow
the United States government. But seeing someone she knew—that
was different. Her mother’s car had gone over an embankment and
into the Potomac River when Tolman was sixteen. In the backseat,
she survived. Her mother didn’t. At the hospital, her father—who
had been called to the hospital from President Clinton’s Secret Ser vice
detail—wouldn’t let her see the body. “That’s not your mom anymore,”
Ray Tolman had told her. “That’s just a container with a bunch of skin and
bones and blood and muscle in it. That’s all it is now.”
“No,” Tolman said. “I’d rather picture her playing the cello.”
“Okay,” Poe said. “We’ll need a couple of days for the autopsy. Do
you want to claim the body? You mentioned brothers. Maybe they—”
“I don’t know. I guess if she listed me as her emergency contact,
though I don’t know why she would, she must have wanted me to do
something.”
“We’ve searched her hotel room and released it. I have her belong-
ings. There was a letter.”
Tolman looked up at him. “What kind of letter?”
“It said ‘In case of emergency’ on the envelope. It tells what to do
in the event of her death.”
28 B. Kent Anderson

Tolman felt her heart slow down. “How many people carry some-
thing like that around with them?”
“Then you see why I’m here, and why this all looks a whole lot
more complicated than someone getting drunk and going for a mid-
night stroll at high tide.”
Tolman glanced at the closed curtain of room three. “She wasn’t
drunk.”
Poe spread his hands. “Yes, she was.”
“No. Maybe her blood alcohol level said she was, but Dana didn’t
drink.”
“You hadn’t seen her in seven years. Maybe she started.”
“Both of her parents were alcoholics. Her father wandered drunk
out of a bar one night when Dana was little and ran out in the middle
of the highway, where a truck hit him and killed him. Her mother died
of cirrhosis of the liver when Dana was in college. She and her brothers
all swore they would never touch alcohol as long as they lived.”
“People break childhood pledges all the time.”
Tolman looked up at the tall man again. “Bullshit, Inspector. You
don’t believe that. You’re playing devil’s advocate with me. You know
something’s not right here.”
Poe ran a hand through his short, graying brown hair. “Hungry?
Ever had East Carolina–style barbeque?”
“No and no. I want to know why she was down here, and I want to
know what happened to her.”
“Did she know what you do for a living? Research and investiga-
tions, all that business?”
Tolman met the man’s eyes. “Yes.”
“Uh-huh. Let’s get something to eat, Ms. Tolman. Then I want to
take you for a little ride down the coast. We have a lot of daylight left.”
As they turned toward the unit door, one of the nurses who had
come out of Dana’s room caught up to them, trotting from the nurses’
station. “Excuse me,” she said, and her voice carried the same soft drawl-
ing cadence as Poe’s. “Is your name Meg? Were you a friend of hers?”
She tilted her head toward the room.
“I’m Meg,” Tolman said.
“She was in and out of consciousness ever since she came up from
the ER,” the nurse said. “She wasn’t very coherent. And with the brain
 Silver Cross 29

injury . . .” She shrugged. “But when she was lucid, before she went
into coma, she said your name several times. She even grabbed my arm
one time when she said it. She kept saying, ‘Tell Meg, tell Meg.’ I
asked her who Meg was and what we were supposed to tell. ‘Tell Meg,’
she kept saying. Then after Troutman reached you and you said you
were coming, I told her you were on your way. But right before she went
into coma, she said it again. ‘Tell Meg.’ Then she said, ‘The rose and the
silver cross. Tell Meg, the rose and the silver cross.’ ” The nurse dipped
her head. “Does that mean something to you?”
“The rose and the silver cross.”
“Tell Meg.”
And she thought of her mother, the way she’d been screaming at
her over the seat of the car when she’d lost control. And she thought of
Dana Cable and the good times in Philadelphia, a lifetime ago. The
way they’d gone out after recitals, with Dana as the perpetual desig-
nated driver. She hadn’t seen either of them dead, her mother or Dana,
even though both of them had been talking to her—in very different
ways—right before they died.
“No,” Tolman said. “That doesn’t mean a damn thing to me.” She
looked up at Poe. “Let’s take that ride down the coast, Inspector.”
 SILVER  CROSS

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