The Lincoln Myth

by Steve Berry

  “It’s at Montpelier, his home in Virginia, where he built himself a temple.”

  She’d visited there twice and had seen the columned structure. Madison loved Roman classicism, so he’d based the structure on the tempietto of Bramante in Rome. It sat on a knoll, among old-growth cedar and fir trees, in the garden adjacent to the house.

  “Madison had style,” Daniels said. “Beneath his temple he dug a pit, which became the icehouse. The original flooring above was wood, so it would have been cool in summer to stand out there. Like air-conditioning. That wood floor is gone, replaced by a concrete slab with a hatch in the middle.”

  “And why do I need to know this?”

  “Madison called the temple his summer study. I need you to find what he hid beneath it.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because, thanks to Senator Rowan, you’re the only one who can.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  SALZBURG

  MALONE FLED THE GOLDENER HIRSCH AND WALKED DOWN A crowded Getreidegasse toward his hotel. He’d gone to rattle Josepe Salazar and he supposed that mission had been accomplished. But he’d also wanted to send a three-pronged message to Cassiopeia. First, she was not alone. Second, he knew she was there. And third, Salazar was dangerous. When he’d insulted Cassiopeia he’d caught the contempt in Salazar’s eyes—how he’d been personally offended by the attack on her honor. He understood that Cassiopeia would have stayed in character, playing her part, but he still wasn’t sure it was a part. He didn’t like anything about this. The fact that they were both staying at the Goldener Hirsch, having dinner, about to attend an auction together, then head back to the hotel for—

  Stop it.

  He needed to think straight.

  He turned and headed for the Residenzplatz, an open cobbled square bordered by the city’s cathedral and its former archbishop’s residence, centered by a white marble Baroque fountain. His hotel was just to the northeast, past the state museum. Daylight still shone, but evening was taking hold, the sun rapidly fading in the west.

  He stopped at the flowing water.

  Time to start acting like an agent.

  So he found his phone, and did the sensible thing.

  STEPHANIE’S PHONE VIBRATED IN HER JACKET POCKET.

  “You going to get that?” Daniels asked.

  The pulse of the hum could be heard in the quiet of the dining room.

  “It can wait.”

  “Maybe not.”

  She found the phone and read the caller ID. “It’s Cotton.”

  “Answer it. On speaker.”

  She did, laying the unit on the table.

  “I’m in Salzburg,” Malone said.

  “Like I’m surprised.”

  “It’s a bitch being predictable. But I have a problem. I’ve rattled Salazar and he now knows we’re all over him.”

  “Hopefully not at Cassiopeia’s expense.”

  “No danger of that. This guy thinks he’s her knight in shining armor. It’s touching to watch.”

  She saw Daniels smile at the sarcasm and wondered just how much the president knew. He definitely seemed like a man informed.

  “There’s an auction happening here. I want to buy a book.”

  “You’re the expert on that.”

  “I need money.” He told her the amount.

  Daniels mouthed, Do it.

  “Where do you want it deposited?” she asked.

  “I’ll email my account info. Wire it immediately.”

  The president reached over and drew the phone closer. “Cotton, this is Danny Daniels.”

  “I didn’t know I was interrupting a presidential conference.”

  “I’m glad you did. It’s important you keep Salazar busy for the next day or so. Can you manage that?”

  “Shouldn’t be too much of a problem. If I can buy that book, I’ll be tops on his list of things to do.”

  “Then buy it. I don’t care what it costs.”

  “You know he needs a bullet in his brain.”

  “He’ll pay for what he did to our man. But not yet. Be patient.”

  “I specialize in that.”

  The call ended.

  She stared at Daniels.

  “Stephanie,” he said. “If we lose this one, it’s all over.”

  CASSIOPEIA TRIED TO ENJOY HER DINNER, BUT COTTON’S appearance was troublesome. Josepe, too, seemed distracted. He’d apologized to her, expressing concern that the man named Malone was deranged. She’d again suggested the police, but he’d vetoed the move. Ten minutes after Cotton left another man appeared in the restaurant—young, muscular, short hair—obviously someone who worked for Josepe, and they stepped outside.

  A Danite?

  She’d watched them through the windows, sipping her water, trying to seem disinterested. Cotton had come to deliberately announce his presence to both Josepe and her.

  Of that there was no doubt.

  But he wanted her to know about the dead agent, too.

  Was it possible Josepe was involved?

  “Are you enjoying the food?” he asked her, returning to the table.

  “It’s delicious.”

  “The hotel chef is renowned. I always enjoy visiting here.”

  “You come often?”

  “There’s an active stake in Salzburg, started in 1997, now with over a thousand members. I’ve visited several times, as part of my European duties.”

  “The church has truly become worldwide.”

  He nodded. “More than fourteen million members. Over half live outside the United States.”

  She was trying to calm him down, help him forget about the intrusion. But she could see that he was still bothered.

  “What Malone mentioned,” she said. “About the U.S. government investigating you. Is that true?”

  “There have been rumors. I’ve been told that it involves the church and some vendetta the government has against us. But I know nothing for sure.”

  “And the allegation of you being a murderer.”

  “That was outrageous, as was his personal attack on you.”

  “Who is Barry Kirk?”

  “He works for me and has been missing for a few days now. I have to confess, that part of what he said is of concern.”

  “Then we should call the police.”

  Josepe seemed troubled. “Not yet. I have my associate investigating. It could be that Barry simply quit without notice. I need to be sure before involving the authorities.”

  “I appreciate you coming to my defense.”

  “My pleasure, but I want you to know that there is nothing here to be concerned about. I just told my associate to telephone Salt Lake City and report what happened. Hopefully, church officials can contact the right people in the government and make sure that we’ve seen the last of Mr. Malone.”

  “He made some wild accusations.”

  Josepe nodded. “Designed, I’m sure, to provoke a response.”

  “If I can help in any way, you know I’m here for you.”

  He seemed to appreciate her concern. “That means a lot.” He glanced at his watch. “Shall we prepare ourselves for the auction? We can meet in the lobby in, say, fifteen minutes.”

  They rose from the table and walked from the restaurant, back into the hotel. Her apprehensions had now turned to outright fear.

  Unfortunately Josepe was wrong.

  Neither one of them had heard the last of Cotton.

  THIRTY

  SALZBURG

  7:00 P.M.

  MALONE SHOWERED AND CHANGED, DONNING A PAIR OF DRESS slacks, a buttondown Paul & Shack shirt, and a blazer. He’d brought the clothes especially for the auction, unsure whether to attend. But after his visit with Salazar, he knew he had to go.

  The brochure he’d found in Salazar’s study had indicated that the sale would happen in the Golden Hall of Festung Hohensalzburg, the High Salzburg Fortress, which sat four hundred feet above the city. Two great bastions rose, the lower one hewn straight from
the rock, both bristling with the battlements and towers expected of a medieval fortress. He’d visited once, following its twisted corridors into great halls and gilded chambers, past glistening tile stoves and down to a dungeon.

  He avoided the funicular, thinking that might be the way Salazar and Cassiopeia would ascend. Instead he walked the footpath, a steep thirty-minute stroll beneath trees shedding their summer foliage. Visitors from the castle, leaving for the day, passed him on their way back down to town. Dusk fell along the way, the moon and stars emerging overhead, the air chilly but with a benign bite.

  The climb provided him an opportunity to think.

  Danny Daniels being on the phone with Stephanie had surprised him, and he wondered what was happening across the Atlantic. The president knew of Salazar, so whatever was happening reached all the way to the Oval Office. That meant the stakes were at their highest.

  Fine by him.

  Nothing kept the senses sharper.

  And he needed to stay focused.

  He entered the castle across a stone bridge that traversed what was once a moat. Above the archway he spotted a circular loophole, above that a bay from where projectiles could be hurled down onto intruders. He’d timed his appearance to just after the auction’s beginning. He noticed from a placard that the castle closed at 6:30, its Golden Hall presumably leased out in the evenings for special events. An older woman guarded the stairs that led inside. He explained he was here for the sale and she waved him ahead.

  He was familiar with Dorotheum. They ran a professional, no-nonsense sale. Upstairs, in a spacious hallway, another woman handed him a catalog and registered him. His gaze settled across the space on a towering statue of Charlemagne that guarded the entrance to the Golden Hall. Another of the castle’s claims to fame was that the first Holy Roman Emperor once visited. Beyond the open doorway he could hear the auctioneer going about his business.

  “Sales are all final,” she said to him, “and require immediate payment of certified funds.”

  He knew the drill, so he displayed his phone and told her, “I have money ready and waiting.”

  “Enjoy yourself.”

  That he would.

  CASSIOPEIA SAT BESIDE JOSEPE.

  They’d journeyed up to the castle by way of the funicular railway, a one-minute steep-angled haul through a tunnel in the lower bastion. Twilight had firmly taken hold, the city lights springing to life, an orange sun disappearing into the western horizon.

  Arm in arm, they’d wandered the ramparts and taken in the labyrinth of spires, towers, and domes in the streets below. Beyond Salzburg, in the gray dusk, lay undulating hills and green meadows dotted with farmhouses. A placid, rural scene, much like where she lived in southern France. She missed her house and her castle. Being here, inside this ancient fortress, appreciating what it had taken to build it so long ago, had made her think of her own building project. The reconstruction was progressing, three of the outer walls now standing. Her engineers had told her that another decade would be required to finish the 13th-century structure.

  She’d thumbed through the catalog for the estate sale, the offered items impressive. Apparently the deceased was a person of means. Porcelain, china, silverware, three paintings, and several books, one an original edition of the Book of Mormon. Josepe had seemed excited about the prospect of owning that treasure. The local ward had alerted him to the sale, and he’d voiced a hope that not many serious collectors would come. Normally telephone bids were allowed at a Dorotheum sale, but this one had specifically omitted that possibility, which meant bidders had to be in the hall, with money, to claim their prize. She was still troubled by what had happened in the restaurant. She’d caught the look in Cotton’s eyes. Half wary, half pleading, angry.

  No. More hurt.

  Waves of doubt flowed through her.

  So she told herself to stay alert.

  No telling what was about to happen.

  MALONE STOOD OUTSIDE THE HALL, LISTENING TO THE bidding on other items, taking inventory. About fifty people filled the chairs that faced a small stage. The room was aglow from gold carvings, gilded walls, and the enormous tile stove that filled one corner. Red marble dominated the twisted columns. A rich coffered ceiling was adorned with gold buttons that twinkled like stars. Princes had once entertained here, and now it was a tourist attraction and rental space.

  He’d spotted Salazar and Cassiopeia, sitting near the front, both focused on the auctioneer, who was accepting bids on a porcelain vase. He studied the catalog. The Book of Mormon was three items away.

  He checked his phone.

  A message from Stephanie indicated that the money had been transferred and more would be added, if needed.

  He smiled.

  Never a bad thing to have the president of the United States as your banker.

  SALAZAR WAS BECOMING ANXIOUS. ALL OF HIS LIFE HE’D dreamed of holding something that perhaps the Prophet Joseph himself may have touched. He knew the drama involved when the first 5,000 copies of the Book of Mormon were printed. For a small shop in upstate New York, the task had been enormous. It had required eight months to produce the nearly three million pages needed for the complete first edition. On March 26, 1830, the books finally went on sale. Initially they sold for $1.75 but because of poor response the price was dropped to $1.25. An early Saint, Martin Harris, eventually sold 150 acres of his farm and raised the $3,000 owed the printer.

  “Thou shalt not covet thine own property, but impart it freely to the printing. That is what Elder Harris was told,” the angel said inside his head. “His sacrifice made it all possible.”

  Eleven days after the book was available for sale, believers in the word met in Fayette, New York, and legally organized what eight years later was renamed the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

  “This is your moment, Josepe. The prophets are watching. You are their Danite, the one who understands what is at stake.”

  He’d come to claim his prize.

  And not just one.

  He desired the book and Cassiopeia. The more he was around her, the more he wanted her.

  He could not deny it.

  Nor did he want to.

  THIRTY-ONE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  STEPHANIE NIBBLED AT THE BREAKFAST THE STAFF HAD SERVED her and the president. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but the food offered her time to think. She’d been around long enough to know the lay of the land. Some of the games she was forced to play were silly. A few nonsensical. Others bothersome or a nuisance. Then there was the real thing.

  “Edwin and I have been working this for over a year,” Daniels said. “Just the two of us, with a little help from the Secret Service. But things are escalating. When Rowan moved on you, we knew what he wanted.”

  She laid down her fork.

  “You don’t like the eggs?”

  “Actually, I hate eggs.”

  “It’s not that bad, Stephanie.”

  “You’re not the one facing a congressional inquiry—which, apparently, you knew was coming.”

  Daniels shook his head. “I was only hoping it would, but I didn’t know.”

  “Hoping?”

  Daniels shoved his plate aside. “Actually, I’m not all that fond of eggs, either.”

  “Then why are we eating them?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just told them to fix some food. This isn’t easy.”

  “And why are we here, as opposed to your office?”

  “Too many eyes and ears there.”

  A strange response, but she let it go.

  “You realize,” he said, “that Mary Todd Lincoln was probably a manic depressive.”

  “She was a sad woman who lost nearly everything dear to her. It’s amazing she didn’t lose her mind completely.”

  “Her surviving son, Robert, thought she had. He committed her.”

  “And she managed to legally reverse that decision.”

  “That she did. Then, not lo
ng after that, she sent Ulysses Grant a letter. Why in the world would she do that?”

  “Apparently she wasn’t as crazy as history wants her to be. Grant not only kept what she sent, he classified it. There have been a lot of presidents since 1876. Why are you the first one to be concerned about this?”

  “I’m not.”

  Now she was interested.

  “There are indications that both Roosevelts looked into it, along with Nixon.”

  “Why am I not surprised.”

  Daniels chuckled. “I thought the same thing. Nixon had two Mormons in his cabinet. He liked the church and the way it thought. He courted them in 1960, ’68, and ’72. In July 1970 he visited Salt Lake City and met with the prophet and twelve apostles. A thirty-minute, off-the-record discussion, behind closed doors. A bit unprecedented for a president, don’t you think?”

  “So why did he do it?”

  “ ’Cause I imagine ol’ Tricky Dick wanted to know if what Mary Todd Lincoln wrote was right. Did the Mormons still have what Abraham Lincoln gave them?”

  “And what did he find out?”

  “We’ll never know. Everybody there that day, save one, is dead.”

  “Seems like you need to talk to that one.”

  “I intend to do just that.” He pointed at Madison’s message. “Thank goodness we found that, or we wouldn’t even know to ask or look.”

  Her gaze wandered the room and settled on a portrait of John Adams, the first person to serve as vice president. “You need to get to the point, Danny.”

  The use of his first name signaled how irritated she truly was with him.

  “I like it when you say my name.”

  “I like it when you’re straightforward.” She paused. “Which is a rarity, by the way.”

  “I just wanted to finish out my eight years,” he quietly said. “The last few months should have been peaceful. God knows we’ve had enough excitement. But Thaddeus Rowan had other ideas.”

  She waited for more.

  “He’s been trying for over a year to access certain classified files. Things his security clearance doesn’t even get close to allowing. He’s pressured the CIA, FBI, NSA, even a couple of White House staffers. The man’s been around and knows how to throw his weight. So far, he’s been moderately successful. Now he’s focused on you.”