The Lincoln Myth

by Steve Berry

  Snow nodded. “The names on the wall are proof. I never believed I would hear from those men again.”

  Fjeldsted. Hyde. Woodruff. Egan.

  “Damnation to the prophet. They cursed us in death, Thaddeus.”

  “Maybe they had a right to? They were all murdered.”

  “I always thought the whole thing a story fabricated at the time. But apparently it’s a true one.”

  One Rowan knew in detail.

  By 1856 war seemed inevitable between the United States and the Latter-day Saints. Differences over plural marriage, religion, and political autonomy had festered to the breaking point. Brigham Young ran his isolated community as he saw fit, with no regard for federal law. He minted his own money, passed his own rules, created his own courts, educated the young as he thought best, and worshiped as he believed. Even what to label the newly settled land had been a matter of dispute. Locals referred to it as Deseret. Congress called it the Utah Territory. Finally, word came that a Union army was marching west to subdue the rebels everyone in the east called Mormons.

  So Young decided to collect the community’s wealth, hiding it until the expected conflict ended. Every hard asset was converted into gold bullion, church members willingly divesting themselves of almost all their worldly goods. Twenty-two wagons were requisitioned to relocate the gold to California, where other Saints waited to receive it. To avoid detection a circuitous route bypassing populated settlements was chosen.

  Little is known of what happened after that.

  The official story said the caravan set off with the gold across the uncharted badlands of the south-central part of Deseret. The men soon ran short of water and all efforts to find a source were fruitless. A decision was made to retrace their path back to the last water hole, more than a day’s ride behind them. Teamsters were instructed to manage the horses and watch over the gold while forty militiamen set out for the water hole. Upon their return several days later, they found the wagons’ charred and blackened hulks, all of the teamsters dead, the horses and gold gone.

  Paiutes were blamed for the attack.

  The militiamen spent days reconnoitering the region, tracks fading out on rocky scarps or stopping abruptly in dry, meandering riverbeds. Eventually they gave up and returned empty-handed to report their failure to Brigham Young.

  More search teams were sent out.

  None of the gold was ever found.

  Records noted that there was approximately 80,000 ounces being transported, the value at the time nearly $19 an ounce. That same gold now was worth over $150 million.

  “You realize that the story we’ve heard for so long is wrong,” he said.

  He saw that Snow had already considered the reality.

  “Those wagons weren’t burned or charred,” Rowan went on. “They were deliberately hacked apart inside a cavern. Hidden away. Four men shot. Then the cave sealed up.”

  And there was one other problem.

  “Not a speck of gold was there,” he said.

  Snow sat silent in his wheelchair, clearly considering something.

  “I had hoped that this would not arise during my tenure,” the older man whispered.

  He stared at the prophet.

  “Forget us not. It’s interesting they chose those words, because we haven’t, Thaddeus. Not in the least. There’s something you do not know.”

  He waited.

  “We have to cross the street, to the temple. Where I can show you.”

  TWELVE

  MALONE ASSESSED THE SITUATION. KIRK HAD CLEARLY COME to them armed. But with all the excitement, who would have thought to search the victim for weapons? Still, something had not rung right about the man from the moment they’d met.

  And the call with Stephanie had cemented his doubts.

  He said, “You work with those two we met in the square.”

  “More like they work for me.”

  Luke stood military-straight, his eyes suggesting We should take this son of a bitch right here, right now.

  But his stare back signaled No.

  Not yet.

  Kirk cocked the hammer of the gun. “I’d like nothing better than to blow his brains out. So you need to do what I say.”

  “The police came far too quick,” Malone said. “Those bodies on the water would have been found, but not that fast. And there’s no way the police could have found a trail to us that soon. Your men call them?”

  “A good way to flush you out. Keep you moving. We needed you headed out of town.”

  “Then there were those two on the water. Right place, right time. There was only one way they knew to be there.” He pointed at Kirk. “You told them. What’s this dog-and-pony show for?”

  “We thought we’d learn more by infiltrating the enemy camp. Your agent has been sneaking around for months, asking questions. We’ve watched with patience, but thought a turncoat might speed the process.”

  “So you sacrificed two of your men?”

  Kirk’s face clouded with anger. “That wasn’t part of it. They were supposed to make it look good, press you along, reinforce the threat. Unfortunately, you decided to kill them.”

  “Salazar must have a lot to hide.”

  “My employer simply wants to be left alone. He does not appreciate your government’s interference in his life.”

  “Is our man dead?” Luke asked.

  “If not, he will be. The idea was to draw you to the same place where he’s being held and deal with you all at once. But that little ploy back in the square, turning the police on my men, ruined that.”

  “Sorry to be such a bother,” Malone said.

  “Better we deal with you here. This empty store seems perfect, as do those rooms beneath. So we’re going to wait until my men get here.”

  “You’re tagged?” he asked.

  Kirk shrugged. “Cell phones are good for that.”

  Which meant Malone had to act. “You a Danite?”

  “Ordained and sworn. Now I need you to drop your gun to the floor.”

  Amateur. Only an idiot asked his adversary to toss a weapon away. Smart people just took it.

  He reached beneath his jacket and found the Beretta.

  But instead of dropping it to the floor he aimed the stubby muzzle at Kirk, who shrank back but kept the gun to Luke’s head.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Kirk said. “I’ll kill him.”

  He shrugged. “Go ahead. I don’t give a shit. He’s a smart-mouthed pain in the ass.”

  His right eye sighted down the Beretta’s short barrel. It had been four years since he’d last been to the range. His skills were a little rusty, but he’d just proven out on the water that he could still shoot. True, it was dark in here, but he pushed all doubt from his mind and took aim.

  “Put the gun down,” Kirk said, his voice rising.

  Luke’s gaze was locked on the Beretta, but the younger man’s nerve seemed to hold. Malone could sympathize. Caught between two guns was not a good place to be.

  “I’m going to count to three,” he said. “You better have that gun lowered by the time I finish.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Malone. My men will be here any second.”

  “One.”

  He saw Kirk’s trigger finger tighten. The dilemma was clear. He had to either shoot Luke in the head, which meant Malone would shoot him, or swing the gun around and fire across the store. But he’d never make that shot before a bullet from the Beretta left the barrel. The smart play was to lower the gun. Amateurs, however, rarely made the right move.

  “Two.”

  He fired.

  The shot rattled the room.

  The bullet slammed into Kirk’s face and the body spun backward. Hands clawed the air, then Kirk crumbled sideways, finally thudding to the floor.

  “Three.”

  “Are you out of your friggin’ mind,” Luke screamed. “I felt that bullet whiz by my ear.”

  “Get his gun.”

  Luke was already lunging for t
he weapon. “Malone, you’re certifiable. You play awful fast and loose with other people’s brains. I could have taken him. We could have used him alive.”

  “That wasn’t an option. He’s right. We’re going to have company shortly.”

  He opened the exterior door and searched the cobbled street for any sign of trouble, wondering if the shot had been noticed. Thirty feet to his left a procession of people paraded back and forth on another street, Højbro Plads left of there and back fifty feet. Above him the green dome of the Nikolaj church glowed into the night.

  “Get his phone,” he told Luke.

  “Already got it. I do know a little somethin’ about this business.”

  “Then slide the body over there behind those counters and let’s go.”

  Luke did, then came to the door.

  They fled the store, heading down a quiet backstreet toward busy Kongens Nytorv, the city’s busiest public square. Roads clogged with night traffic encircled a statue of Christian V. The royal theater was lit brightly, as was the Hotel d’Angleterre. Nyhavn’s cafés, on the square’s far side abutting the waterfront, were still alive with people. He’d delayed the two Danites back in Højbro Plads, but only for so long. If Kirk was right and they were tracking him, he had to move fast. His eyes raked the crowded scene, settling on the perfect solution.

  They crossed the street and trotted for the bus stop.

  Copenhagen had a terrific public transportation system and he’d often hopped onto buses from here. They came and went every few minutes all day and one was now easing to a stop, riders streaming on and off.

  “The phone,” he said to Luke, who produced it.

  He casually laid it inside the rear bumper.

  The doors closed and the bus lumbered away, heading north toward the royal palace.

  “That should keep whoever is coming occupied,” he said.

  “You think he was tellin’ the truth about any of it?”

  He nodded. “He took a chance showing his hand. But he thought he was in control and could handle things.”

  “Yeah. Big mistake. He didn’t know he was dealing with a friggin’ wild cowboy.”

  “We have to go see about where he mentioned, even though the whole thing smells like a trap.” He pointed south. “I have a car stored a few blocks over. Where is Salazar’s estate?”

  “Kalundborg.”

  THIRTEEN

  KALUNDBORG, DENMARK

  11:00 P.M.

  SALAZAR WAS ENJOYING DINNER, THRILLED THAT CASSIOPEIA had, after all these years, returned to his life. Her calls a few months ago had been as welcome as they were unexpected. He’d missed her. She’d been his first love as a young man, the woman he’d come to believe might be his wife.

  But sadly, their relationship ended.

  “This is not going to work,” she said to him.

  “I love you. You know that.”

  “And I have deep feelings for you, but we have … differences.”

  “Faith should not keep us apart.”

  “But it does,” she said. “You’re a true believer. The Book of Mormon is sacred for you. The Words of Wisdom are a guide for your life. I respect that. But you have to respect that they are not the same for me.”

  “Our parents believed, as I do.”

  “And I didn’t agree with them, either.”

  “So you’re willing to ignore your heart?”

  “Before I grow to resent you, I think it’s better that we part friends.”

  She was right on one count. His faith was important. No success can compensate for a failure in the home. That’s what David O. McKay taught. Only husbands and wives, acting together, can achieve eternal life in heaven. If either be proven unrighteous, both would be denied salvation. Marriage was an eternal bond—between a man and a woman—the family here a reflection of the family in heaven. Both had to be absolutely committed.

  “I was so sorry to hear about your wife,” she said to him.

  He’d married less than a year after he and Cassiopeia ended their relationship. A lovely woman from Madrid, born to the faith, devout in her following of the prophets. They’d tried to have children, but with no success, the doctors saying that the problem was most likely with her. He’d deemed it God’s will and accepted the prohibition. Then, four years ago, she was killed in a car accident. That, too, he’d accepted as God’s will. A sign, perhaps, for a change of direction. Now this vibrant, beautiful woman from his past had reappeared. Another sign?

  “It had to be awful,” she said, and he appreciated her sentiment.

  “I try to remember her carefully. The pain of her loss is still there. I can’t deny that. I suppose it’s why I have not sought another wife.” He hesitated a moment. “But I should be asking you this question. Did you ever marry?”

  She shook her head. “Kind of sad, wouldn’t you say?”

  He savored the cod he’d ordered and Cassiopeia seemed to like the Baltic shrimp that filled her plate. He noticed that she hadn’t ordered wine, preferring mineral water. Besides the clear religious prohibition, he’d always believed that alcohol made people say and do things they later regretted, so he’d never acquired the taste.

  She looked terrific.

  Her dark hair, twisted into curls, draped just below her shoulders and framed the same thin brows, brooding cheeks, and blunt nose he remembered. Her swarthy skin remained as smooth and unblemished as a bar of tan soap, her round neck sculpted like a column. The sensuality she projected was so calm and controlled, it might have been choreographed.

  A true beauty from heaven.

  “Love is that constant, never-failing quality that has the power to lift us above evil. It is the essence of the gospel. It is the security of the home. It is the safeguard of community life. It is a beacon of hope in a world of distress.”

  That he knew.

  He liked that the angel kept watch over him.

  Never failing. Always right.

  “What are you thinking?” Cassiopeia asked.

  She drew his attention like a magnet.

  “Just that it is truly wonderful to be back with you, if only for these few days.”

  “Does it have to be limited to that?”

  “Not at all. But I recall our last conversation from years ago, when you made clear how you felt about our faith. You have to know, nothing has changed for me.”

  “But as I said earlier, things have changed … for me.”

  He waited for her to explain.

  “Recently, I did something I never did as a young girl.” She stared into his eyes. “I read the Book of Mormon. Every word. When I was done I realized that everything there was absolutely true.”

  He stopped eating and listened.

  “I then realized that my current lifestyle was not worthy of my birthright. I was born and baptized Mormon, but I’ve never been one. My father led one of the first stakes in Spain. Both my mother and father were devout believers. While they were alive, I was a good daughter and did as my parents asked.”

  She paused.

  “But I never really believed. So my realizations at reading it now were totally unexpected. Some unseen person kept whispering in my ear that what I was reading was true. Tears poured down my cheeks, as I finally recognized the gift of the Holy Ghost that I first received as a child.”

  He’d heard similar stories from converts all across Europe. His own Spanish stake comprised nearly five thousand Saints scattered across twelve wards. As a member of the First Quorum of Seventy he oversaw stakes across the Continent. Every day new converts joined with the joy he now saw on Cassiopeia’s face.

  Which was wonderful.

  If it had been there eleven years ago, they would have surely been married. But perhaps heaven was offering them another chance?

  “I was struck by the truthfulness of what I read,” she said. “I was convinced. I knew that the Holy Ghost had confirmed the truth of every page.”

  “I recall my first time,” he said. “I w
as fifteen years old. My father read with me. I came to believe that Joseph Smith did see God and His Son in a vision, and was told to join no other religion. Instead, he was to restore the true church once again. That testimony has served me well over the years. It keeps me focused, willing to dedicate myself, with all my heart, to what has to be done.”

  “I was foolish not to admire that,” she said, “all those years ago. I’ve wanted to tell you this. That’s why I’m here, Josepe.”

  He was so pleased.

  They ate in silence for a few moments. His nerves were alive, both from what had happened earlier and with what was happening now. He’d tried to call Elder Rowan and report what he’d learned from the captured agent, but had not been able to connect with him.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  Normally he’d ignore it, but he was waiting for a return call from Utah and a report from Copenhagen.

  “Excuse me.”

  He checked the display.

  A text message.

  FOLLOWING KIRK. ON THE MOVE.

  “Problems?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “On the contrary. Good news. Another successful business effort.”

  “I’ve noticed that your family’s concerns have prospered,” she said. “Your father would be proud.”

  “My brothers and sisters work hard in the company. They do the everyday work, and have for the past five years. They understand that the church now commands my full attention.”

  “That’s not required for a member of the Seventy.”

  He nodded. “I know. But I, personally, made that choice.”

  “In preparation for the time when you’re sustained as an apostle?”

  He smiled. “I have no idea if that will ever happen.”

  “You seem ideal for the job.”

  Maybe he was. He hoped so.

  “You shall be chosen, Josepe. One day.”

  “That,” he said, “will be a decision for Heavenly Father and the prophet.”

  FOURTEEN

  SALT LAKE CITY

  ROWAN HELPED PROPHET SNOW UP THE STONE STEPS AND through the east entrance. Four days after the pioneers first entered the Salt Lake basin Brigham Young had stuck his cane into the ground and proclaimed, Here we will build a temple to our God. Construction began in 1853 and continued for forty years, most of the work donated by those first Saints. Only the finest materials had been used, the quartz monzonite for the two-hundred-foot-high walls carted by oxen from quarries twenty miles away. The finished walls were nine feet thick at the base, tapering to six feet at the top. Two hundred and fifty-three thousand square feet lay under the roof. Four stories, all topped by a gold statue of the angel Moroni that, together with its distinctive spires, had become the church’s most recognizable image.