The Lincoln Myth

by Steve Berry

  “What exactly is she doing for you?”

  “I can’t go into that on this phone.”

  “Luke said there’s something going on that involves the Founding Fathers.”

  “It’s my mess, not yours.”

  He hesitated a second before saying, “I agree. I also agree that Cassiopeia is a big girl. She can handle herself.”

  “I’m sure she can. The question of the day is, can you?”

  He could not bullshit Stephanie. She knew him, as he knew her.

  “You love her, Cotton. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

  “She didn’t involve me here. So it’s not my business. Like you say, we’re not married.”

  “I’ve recalled Luke. He should be back here in the States shortly. Salazar’s men saw him and you, so his effectiveness there has been compromised.”

  “Do Frat Boy and the president get along?”

  “Luke has no idea that his uncle intervened on his behalf. That was another presidential condition.”

  He was impressed Stephanie had done the favor. Not necessarily her style. But he’d learned from Cassiopeia that feelings existed between his former boss and the current president. Which had surprised him. But never had he and Stephanie spoken on the matter. Neither one of them liked to talk about those kinds of things.

  “Hard to fault a boy who calls his mother every Sunday,” she said.

  His own mother still lived in middle Georgia, on the sweet onion farm her family had owned for over a century. But unlike Luke Daniels, he did not call every week. Major holidays, birthdays, Mother’s Day. That was the extent of his contact. She never complained, but that was her way. A negative word never came from her mouth. How old was she now? Seventy? Seventy-five? He wasn’t sure. Why didn’t he know his mother’s age?

  “And I made a call to Copenhagen,” she said. “The locals won’t be bothering you.”

  He’d wondered why the bookshop had not been overrun with police.

  “They broke my front door glass.”

  “Send me the bill.”

  “I just might.”

  “I know you’re pissed,” she said. “I can’t blame you. But, Cotton, you’re going to leave Cassiopeia alone, right? We can’t risk her. Leave her be, until this is over. Like you say, she’s a big girl. There are no more agents backing her up. She’s on her own.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He ended the call and stared down at the travel bag.

  He was being played again.

  No question.

  He slipped the Beretta back into the knapsack and slid the bag beneath his bed. Unfortunately, he could not tote the weapon with him. Not allowed on planes, and checking it raised questions he preferred not answering. That was another perk that had come from carrying government credentials.

  No matter. He’d adapt.

  The U. S. government employed thousands of agents whose job it was to guard the national interests. He once worked as one. His job now was more personal. What had Stephanie just said about Cassiopeia? No more agents backing her up. She’s on her own.

  Not exactly.

  And Stephanie knew it.

  He needed to hurry.

  His flight to Salzburg left in two hours.

  TWENTY-THREE

  KALUNDBORG

  CASSIOPEIA FINISHED PACKING HER BAG. SHE’D BROUGHT PRECIOUS little, just a few outfits, the ensembles interchangeable for a variety of looks. She’d expected to be gone only a few days. Now her trip had been extended. The French doors were swung open, offering a spectacular view of the fjord and the Great Belt Strait, the gray-brown waters stirred by a stiff easterly breeze. Josepe had arranged her accommodations at the seaside inn, purposefully not allowing her to stay at his estate. That could be because he preferred to keep their relationship on a proper level, or it could be because he did not want her there. She’d been in Denmark three days and last night was the first time he’d taken her for a visit.

  Everything that happened last night disturbed her.

  Kissing Josepe again, after so many years, had brought back memories she’d thought were gone. He’d been her first love, and she his. He’d always been a perfect gentleman toward her, their relationship loving but never passionate. Church doctrine forbade premarital sex. So her offer to stay the night with him had been risky, but not overly so. If nothing else, the gesture had further ingratiated her.

  She still felt awful deceiving him, regretting more by the minute her participation in this charade. When she’d agreed to help she hadn’t known that he still harbored such deep feelings. Sure, Stephanie had told her of the photograph, but that could have been explained in many ways. Instead the actual explanation had become abundantly clear.

  Josepe cared for her.

  She arranged the last of her clothes in the bag and zipped it shut.

  She should stop this farce. That was the right thing to do. But the allegation of murder counseled otherwise. Mormonism abhorred violence. Sure, once, long ago, things had been different and Saints had dished out their share. But that had been a matter of survival. An issue of self-defense, a sign of those times. Josepe was a devout believer in church doctrine, which forbade harm to others, so why would he venture away from principles so fundamental? There had to be another explanation. One that did not link him with murder.

  She checked her watch: 9:30 A.M.

  He would be here soon.

  She walked to the open doors and listened to the rhythmic beat of the surf and the cries of birds.

  Her cell phone chimed.

  “We had an incident last night,” Stephanie said when she answered.

  She listened to what had happened on the Øresund and in Copenhagen with one of Josepe’s associates.

  “I had to involve Cotton,” Stephanie said. “He was all I had at the moment. He handled it, but he killed three men.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Anything on your missing man?”

  “Still missing. The men who came after Cotton were Danites in Salazar’s employ.”

  Danites? She recalled reading about them as a teenager, but they no longer existed, extinct since the 19th century. “I’ve seen no evidence of that here.” Then she reported what had happened between her and Josepe. “He cares for me a great deal. I feel like a cheat. I should get out of this.”

  “I need you to hang with it a little longer. Things have escalated on this end, and I’ll be learning more today. Go to Salzburg with him and see what you might pick up. After that, you can leave. He’ll never know the difference.”

  “But I will. I lied to Cotton, too. He would not be happy with what I’m doing.”

  “You’re assisting a U.S. intelligence operation. That’s all. The Elder Rowan, Salazar mentioned, is Senator Thaddeus Rowan of Utah.”

  She explained about the map in Josepe’s study. “Utah was highlighted in yellow. The other five states in pink.”

  “Which ones?”

  She told her.

  “At the moment, Senator Rowan has me in his congressional sights. That great mission Salazar mentioned? That’s what we need to find out about. It’s important, Cassiopeia. And you’re our fastest way in.”

  “I need to call Cotton.”

  “Let’s not do that. He seems okay. He helped me out last night and now he’s back to work at his bookshop.”

  But she wasn’t okay.

  She felt alone.

  And that bothered her.

  She’d been thinking about Cotton all morning. Technically, what she’d done with Josepe wasn’t cheating. More a deception. Interesting the differences between the two men. Where Cotton was unassuming, reserved, and stingy with his emotions, Josepe was flamboyant, warm, and loving. His deep religious beliefs were both an asset and a curse. Both were strikingly handsome, alpha males, sure and confident. Both possessed flaws. She wasn’t sure why comparisons had become relevant, only that, ever since last night, she’d been making them.r />
  “Play this out a little longer,” Stephanie said.

  “I’m not okay with this anymore.”

  “I hear that, but there’s a lot at stake. And, Cassiopeia, no matter what you want to believe, Salazar is not an innocent.”

  STEPHANIE ENDED THE CALL.

  She hadn’t liked lying to Cassiopeia, but it had been necessary. Cotton was not fine. That was clear from the call earlier. Luke, too, had confirmed that Cotton was upset.

  And her dead agent.

  She’d withheld that also.

  If she’d told Cassiopeia the truth on both counts, there was no telling what the reaction might be. She could try to confront Salazar. Or she might leave. Better to keep that information close for a little while longer.

  She sat up in her bed and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 3:50 A.M.

  Her flight to Washington left in four hours. Edwin Davis had said he’d meet her at Reagan National. She was anxious to find out more. The little she knew so far was troubling enough. Thirty years she’d worked for the government, starting during the Reagan administration with the State Department, then moving to Justice. She’d seen a lot of crises. Through it all she’d developed a sixth sense. If that sense was right this time, Malone was on his way to Salzburg. He’d been coy on the phone, but she knew better. Especially after she told him Cassiopeia was on her own. No way was he going to allow her to fly solo. Nothing would keep him away.

  Sleep had fled her. She was wide awake.

  And not just from the two phone calls.

  Apprehension gnawed at her brain.

  What was it she did not know?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  KALUNDBORG

  SALAZAR COMPLETED ALL OF THE ARRANGEMENTS FOR HIS TRIP to Salzburg. His latest toy, a Learjet 75, was waiting. A car was outside, ready to take him into town for Cassiopeia, then to the airfield. He’d altered the hotel reservations and the Goldener Hirsch had been accommodating, assuring him that two suites would be ready. The flight would take less than two hours, and he was looking forward to being back in the Austrian mountains. The weather should be lovely. He loved Salzburg. It was one of his favorite cities—and now the trip would be that much more enjoyable, thanks to Cassiopeia coming along.

  The doors to his study opened. One of his two remaining men, a loyal Danite who’d been in Copenhagen, entered.

  “Cotton Malone,” his man said, “is a bookseller in Copenhagen.”

  “Yet he managed to kill two of our own.” Those deaths bothered him. He’d never lost a man before. “And Barry? Any sign of him?”

  “We found the cell phone on a public bus, put there to lead us off the trail. Brother Kirk has made no contact since last night outside the bookstore.”

  He knew what that meant.

  Three men gone.

  “Did you handle things?”

  His acolyte nodded. “I personally disposed of the American agent’s body.”

  “Any link to us with the two who will be found in the Øresund?”

  “There should not be.”

  He’d already been briefed on what had happened yesterday when another American agent had been cornered outside Kalundborg, then fled, stealing one of his prop planes—which, by now, from the reports he’d received, was at the bottom of the North Sea.

  “Your assessment?” he asked.

  He valued his men’s opinions. Good advisers made for good decisions. That was something all of the prophets had in common, counting on smart and obedient men to provide wisdom and guidance. He and his Danites served that function for Elder Rowan.

  “Brother Kirk briefed me before he left for Sweden. He said the Americans’ interest piqued when he mentioned the death. They seem intent on finding whatever negatives they can.”

  They’d used the possibility of a murder relative to the Rushton journal as a way to excite their enemy into making a mistake. And though the owner of the journal, which still lay on his desk, was indeed dead, nothing linked that to him—other than a wild assertion.

  “Do you think they have Barry?” he asked.

  Kirk’s task had been to learn what he could from the inside, then divert his saviors here. But something had gone wrong.

  “It’s unlikely. How would they have known to plant the phone on the bus? Brother Kirk never would have told them anything voluntarily. In the square, just before Malone diverted the police our way, Brother Kirk signaled to me to stand ready. We were to follow using the phone tracker. I was the one who reported the killings on the water to the police. I gave them Malone’s location. It was meant to flush them out, keep things moving. But it backfired.”

  That it had.

  He recalled his conversation earlier with Elder Rowan. Things were happening across the Atlantic and he would soon be needed there. In the meantime Rowan had told him to learn what he could on this end.

  And that was what he planned to do.

  He reached for a remote control and pointed the device at a flat screen mounted on the far wall. The image that appeared was of the study, from last night, two men rummaging through the desk and examining the map on the easel, which had been left on display for a reason.

  “Barry seems to have told them to come here, though, as we planned,” he said.

  He and Kirk had agreed to lead the Americans so that, before killing them, they could see what might be learned when their enemy thought no one was listening. They would first find the body then, enraged, head for the main house. After saying what they might not otherwise say, they were to join their compatriot in eternity.

  But that had not happened.

  And from the time indicators on the video, he realized that the enemy had been inside the house as he and Cassiopeia had left. Which was never part of the plan.

  Of course, as things unfolded last night he’d been unaware of any problems. From the text received at dinner, he’d believed all was proceeding smoothly.

  “The younger man is the one who stole the plane and was in Copenhagen last night,” his man said. “That’s Malone studying the map.”

  “Why are those states colored?” Malone asked. “And don’t tell me you don’t know. That call from Stephanie, in the car, was a briefing. I used to get them, too.”

  “Those states are the problem.”

  He watched as Malone pointed to Utah.

  “And this?”

  The answer to that question surprised him.

  “It’s a complicated thing. Hard to believe, actually. But there’s a connection between Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, James Madison, and Abraham Lincoln. One that stretches straight back to the Founding Fathers.”

  “Involving?”

  “The U.S. Constitution.”

  They watched as the two Americans found the auction brochure on the desk, the marked reference to the Book of Mormon being offered for sale. He clicked off the video, pleased that the microcamera installed in the ceiling had worked perfectly. They had, indeed, learned from their enemy.

  “I’m leaving for Salzburg in a few minutes.”

  “Will you be alone?”

  “No. Miss Vitt will be joining me.”

  “Is that wise?”

  He recognized that this man’s job was to look after him, especially considering what had happened over the past twenty-four hours.

  “She is a trusted old friend.”

  “I didn’t meant to offend. It’s just that it might be better if this was handled by us alone.”

  “I want her there.”

  He wasn’t going to listen to any negativity toward Cassiopeia. He could still feel her lips on his skin and the exhilarating electricity that had swept through him. She’d given him no reason to doubt her in any way.

  “It’s not a matter for debate.”

  His man nodded.

  “We owe Malone for our dead brothers,” he said, shifting the subject.

  “I watched from shore as he killed them, powerless to do anything.”

  “We must stand by one another a
nd defend one another in all things,” the angel said in his head. “If our enemies swear against us, we can swear also. In this way we will consecrate much unto the Lord and build up His kingdom. Who can stand against us?”

  No one.

  “Be ready to leave shortly.”

  His man left.

  He thought about the coming few hours and wondered if they might have been too bold, too clever, providing their enemy too much latitude. The idea of sending Kirk into their midst had made sense.

  But it could have cost his friend’s life.

  Perhaps one or both of the two Americans from yesterday would travel to Austria.

  If so, he would learn Kirk’s fate and deal with them.

  Heavenly Father might even smile upon him and send Cotton Malone.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  11:00 A.M.

  STEPHANIE RODE IN THE LIMOUSINE, EDWIN DAVIS BESIDE HER. True to his word, after her Delta shuttle from Atlanta landed he’d met her at Reagan National. He’d told her to pack a bag, as she might be here for a few days. Beyond that, she had no idea what to expect.

  Morning traffic puttered along, stop and go, the syrupy congestion continuing even after they exited the expressway. Davis had been cordial with his greeting but beyond that he’d been quiet, staring out the window. She, too, had watched as the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and the Capitol passed by. Though she’d lived and worked here off and on for over thirty years, the sights never failed to impress her.

  “It’s interesting,” Davis said, his voice nearly a whisper. “All of this was started by a group of men holed up behind closed doors in the brutal heat of a Philadelphia summer.”

  She agreed about the accomplishment. Fifty-five delegates from twelve states arrived in May and stayed until September 1787. Rhode Island never sent any representatives, refusing to participate, and two of the three New York delegates left early. But the men who remained managed a political miracle. Sixty percent of them had participated in the Revolution. Most had served in both the Confederation and Continental Congresses. Several had been governors. Over half were trained as lawyers, the rest a varied lot—merchants, manufacturers, shippers, bankers, doctors, a minister, and several farmers. Twenty-five owned slaves. Two, George Washington and Gouverneur Morris, were among the wealthiest men in the country.