"And how much would these little bits of gold be worth on today's market?" Gallant asked shrewdly.
"According to my research," said Holliday, "the silver dollars would go for about four million and the gold for about ten."
"For the lot?" Gallant asked.
"Each," answered Holliday.
"Mary mother of God," muttered Gallant, his eyes filled with an entirely unholy lust.
"Ongeshtopt mit gelt!" Rafi breathed.
"Holy crap!" said Peggy.
"You've got a bite," said Holliday, glancing at Gallant's jerking line.
Katherine Sinclair sat in the damaged study, her life in ruins as well as her house. After the debacle brought down on them by John Holliday and his godless rescuers nothing could be salvaged. The Edwards bitch had launched an all-out attack on Margaret's credibility and the authenticity of her find, and the chances of her son being elected leader faded with each passing day. The position would fall either to Edwards herself or to that idiot preacher Bainbridge.
She picked up the telephone in front of her and dialed Joseph Patchin's private number at the CIA. He answered on the second ring.
"Yes," he said.
"You know who this is?"
"Yes."
"Initiate Ironstone immediately. We have no other choice now."
"I understand," answered Patchin. The line went dead. Katherine Sinclair hung up the phone. There was no turning back now. The United States of America would never be the same again. Read on for a special sneak preview from another thrilling novel by New York Times bestselling author Paul Christopher
THE TEMPLAR CONSPIRACY
Coming from Signet in January 2011 It was Christmas Day in Rome, and it was snowing. Snow was a rare occurrence here, but he was ready for it. He had kept his eyes on the weather reports for the past ten days. It was always best to be prepared.
The name on his American passport was Hannu Hancock, born of a Finnish mother and an American father in Madison, Wisconsin, where his father taught at the university and his mother ran a Finnish craft store. Hancock was forty-six, had attended East High School, followed by a bachelor's and then a master's in agronomy at the University of Wisconsin, Madison. His present job was as a soil-conservation biologist and traveling soil-conservation consultant with the U.S Department of Agriculture. Hancock had been married for three years to a young woman named Janit Ferguson, who had died of lung cancer. He was childless and had not remarried.
Not a word of this was true. Not even the people who hired him knew who he really was. He traveled under a number of passports, each with a different name and fully detailed biography to go along with it. The passports, along with a great deal of money, were kept in a safety-deposit box at Banque Bauer in Geneva. As an alternate he kept several more passports and a secondary nest egg tucked away in a bank in Nassau, the Bahamas, where he also owned a relatively small house in Lyford Cay-Sir Sean Connery was his closest neighbor-as well as a self-storage locker on the Carmichael Road on the way to the airport. The Bahamas house was his usual destination after doing a job. It would be his eventual destination again, but he'd been told to remain available for another assignment in Rome sometime within the next six days.
Not for a minute did he consider failing, nor did he think about the enormity of the initial act he'd been hired to complete. He never failed; he never made mistakes. Remorse was an emotion that was unknown to him. Some people would have called him a sociopath, but they would have been wrong. He was simply a man with a singular talent, and he practiced it with enormous efficiency. He left the motive and morality of his task entirely in the hands of his employers. In his own mind he was nothing more than a technician-a facilitator of the needs of the people who hired him.
Hancock made his way down the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II in the lightly falling snow. He glanced at his watch. It was six thirty in the morning, and it was still dark. Sunrise would be in an hour and four minutes. He still had plenty of time. He was wearing a white ski jacket purchased in Geneva, blue jeans from a vintage clothing store in New York, and high-top running shoes from a store in Paddington, London. He had a pale gray backpack slung over his shoulder and tucked under his arm was a long, Christmas-paper-wrapped box of the kind usually used for long-stemmed roses. On his head, covering his dark hair, he wore a white balaclava ski hat rolled up into a watch cap.
He'd seen virtually no one on his walk, except for a few taxi drivers, and the steel shutters were pulled down over the entrances to the cafes, bars and small pizzerias along the way. Partly it was the unfamiliar snow on the ground, and partly it was the day. Most people would be at home with loved ones, and the more pious would be preparing breakfast before heading out to St. Peter's Square for the Apostolic Blessing from the Pope, scheduled for noon.
Hancock reached the Via Dei Filippini and turned into the narrow alley. Cars were angle-parked along the right-hand side, the only spaces available for the large nineteenth-century apartment block on the left. Hancock's own little DR5 rental was where he'd left it the night before. He continued down the alley until he reached an anonymous black door on the right. Using the old-fashioned key he'd been provided, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.
He found himself in a small, dark foyer with a winding iron staircase directly in front of him. He began to climb, ignoring several landings, and finally reached the top. A stone corridor led to the right, and Hancock followed it. The passage took several turns and ended at one of the choir lofts.
He looked down into the central part of the church, eighty or ninety feet below. As expected, it was empty. Most churches in Rome, big and small, would be vacant this morning. Every worshipper in the city was hurrying to St. Peter's in time to get one of the good spots close to the main loggia of the church, where the Pope made his most important proclamations.
There was a narrow door at the left side of the choir loft. Opening it, Hancock was faced with a steep wooden staircase with a scrolled banister. He climbed the steps steadily until he reached the head of the stairs and the small chamber at the top. The floor of the chamber was made of thick Sardinian oak planks, black with age, and the walls were a complex mass of curving struts and beams of the same wood, much like the skeletal framework of a ship from the Spanish Armada, which was not surprising since the framework was built by the best Italian shipwrights from Liguria in the late sixteenth century.
The framework supported the heavy outer masonry dome and allowed the much lighter inner dome to be significantly taller than was normally seen in churches built at that time. A simple wooden staircase with banisters on both sides soared upward, following the dome's curve and ending at the foot of a small round tower steeple that capped the dome.
Hancock climbed again, reaching the top of the dome, and then went up a narrow spiral staircase into the tower. He checked his watch. Still forty minutes until the sun began to rise. He dropped the heavy parcel and shrugged off the backpack. The trip from the outer door on Via Dei Filippini to the tower had taken him eleven minutes. By his calculations the return journey would take no more than seven minutes since he would be going down rather than up and he'd no longer be carrying the extra weight.
Before doing anything else, Hancock took out a pair of surgical gloves and snapped them on. He opened the flap on the backpack and took out a wax-paper-wrapped fried-egg sandwich and ate, quickly and methodically making sure that no crumbs fell on the stone floor at his feet. As he ate, he looked out over the city. The snow was coming down more heavily now, easily enough to cover his tracks down the alley to the access door but not so heavily as to obscure vision. He finished the sandwich, carefully folded the waxed paper and slipped it into the pocket of his ski jacket.