The Lincoln Myth

by Steve Berry

  But not right now.

  Josepe came to the end of the street and turned left.

  She hustled to the intersection, arriving just as he disappeared around another corner. Above she saw the dark outline of St. Peter’s church, its onion-shaped roof distinctive. She entered the abbey’s courtyard, which spread out before the church’s main entrance, buildings encasing all sides. Another fountain splashed at its center.

  No sign of Josepe.

  All of the buildings were dark, no way out of the courtyard.

  Except.

  An open passageway, to the right of the church.

  SALAZAR FOUND THE CEMETERY.

  His man had called and said that Malone was in custody and that they had retrieved the book. His Danites were good. Not as highly trained as an American intelligence agent, but competent. Thanks to three deaths he was down to two men, but he had an ample reserve of candidates from which to replenish the ranks.

  St. Peter’s graveyard was a familiar place. He’d visited several times, always amazed at how gentiles adorned their tombs as shrines.

  Here was a perfect example of that excess.

  Graves intentionally decorated with flowers and ironworks, open all day for people to gawk at as a tourist attraction. No Saint would ever be treated that way. True, there were places of pilgrimage. He’d witnessed where Joseph Smith, his brother, and his wife lay buried in Illinois. And Brigham Young’s final resting place in Salt Lake. A Saint might also pay homage to an individual pioneer’s grave if they were a descendant. But on the whole, Saints were not honored with great memorials. The body was a sacred entity, formed in the image of Heavenly Father. A temple of the Holy Spirit. The flesh was to be treated with great respect, both in life and death. During life it must be kept clean and free from evil contamination. When the spirit left the body to return to its heavenly home, mortal remains were laid to rest with reverence and dedication. His eternal reward should be great, as he’d led an exemplary life, directed by the prophets, guided by the angel, all in furtherance of his church.

  His man had told him that they were holding Malone near the entrance to the catacombs, which were actually caves high overhead. The darkness here was nearly absolute, the cemetery framed in jagged shadows. No one else was around, the silence broken only by the sudden scurry of a startled animal. High overhead, lights still burned in the castle where the auction reception was surely in progress.

  “Here, sir.”

  He scanned the shadows in the direction of the voice.

  Two men stood at the top of a short incline, one holding the other from behind. The body in front seemed limp, with its head down and arms drooping at the sides.

  He approached.

  The man holding the body released his grip, allowing the shadow to fold to the ground. The gun came up, level to his face, and the form said, “It’s time for you and me to have a chat.”

  New voice.

  Malone.

  A twinge of alarm jarred his nerves, but he quickly regained control. “Perhaps we should.”

  Malone motioned with the gun. “Inside.”

  He saw that the iron grille gate that restricted access to the caves above was open. “You would think they lock that at night.”

  “They do. Up the stairs. We’ll talk there.”

  CASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS JOSEPE STOPPED AT THE TOP OF THE inclined path, then turned and disappeared to her right. She was unsure of her location, as Salzburg was only partially familiar to her, but it appeared that she’d entered St. Peter’s cemetery. Graves lined the path on both sides. Her position was exposed so she kept to the sides, utilizing the stone markers for cover. She’d heard the sound of voices. Not loud but there, to the right. Unfortunately, she’d not been able to hear the words.

  At the top of the incline she hesitated, using shrubbery to shield her body. She peered right and saw nothing. To her left, twenty meters away, she caught sight of a black mass with form and definition. A man. Staggering to his feet. She rushed over and saw it was one of the men from earlier, who’d been waiting for Josepe when they returned from the auction.

  “You okay?” she asked him.

  He nodded. “Got pounded hard.”

  And she knew by whom.

  “Where is Senor Salazar?” he asked.

  “This way.”

  She led him back to where Josepe had gone, and they carefully approached a portal blocked by an iron grille.

  Another body lay just before it.

  They helped the second man to his feet. He was also dazed from a blow to the head.

  Both seemed okay.

  She stepped to the gate and saw that its wooden jamb had been kicked open.

  That meant Cotton had Josepe.

  She motioned for quiet and led them away.

  “Does either of you still have a weapon?” she whispered.

  The second man shook his head and said that his attacker most likely took his. The first man she’d encountered produced a pistol. Cotton must have been in a hurry to leave it behind.

  She gripped the gun. “Stay here.”

  “It’s our duty to look after Senor Salazar.”

  “You know who I am.”

  Their silence confirmed that they did.

  “Do as I say. Stay here.”

  “You should not be the one to go in there.”

  She was grateful for the darkness, which concealed the deep concern on her face. Any other time this man would be right.

  “Unfortunately, I’m the only one who can.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  MALONE FOLLOWED AS SALAZAR LED THE WAY UP STEPS CHISELED from the rock that encased them, smooth and concave from centuries of wear. At the top they entered a small chamber, the sagging form of its ceiling and rough walls evidence that it had once been a cave. He found a switch and lit a series of dim incandescent candle bulbs, whose pinpricks of light spread out into a rich glow. Six flat, arched niches lined the wall opposite the entrance. He knew what they were—seats for the priests during liturgy. This was the Gertraude Chapel, consecrated in the 12th century and still used for services. In the center rose a Romanesque Gothic pillar, an altar of clay plates to its left, reminiscent of something seen in an actual subterranean catacomb. The contours of an anchor, cross, and fire adorned the altar, representing the divine virtues of hope, faith, and love. A line of five oak benches faced the altar.

  “Over there,” he told Salazar, motioning with the gun toward the benches.

  He positioned himself between Salazar and the exit. The light barely pushed at the gloom, a washed-out yellow flickering like candles in a breeze. He laid the wooden box on the altar. “I was surprised you let me buy this. A million euros isn’t all that much to a man like you.”

  “May I ask why the U.S. government is so interested in my purchases?”

  “We’re interested in you.”

  “You made that clear.”

  He was flying blind. He knew only the tiny bit garnered last night in Salazar’s study. “Tell me about Texas, Hawaii, Alaska, Vermont, and Montana.”

  “I see you’ve been inside my residence. Wasn’t that illegal?”

  “And Utah. Add that to the mix. What does a citizen of Spain and Denmark care about six American states?”

  “Have you ever heard of the White Horse Prophecy?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “It’s part of my religion. It foretells a great change for America. One that Latter-day Saints will be participants in accomplishing.”

  “You’re not serious with ‘the Mormons are going to take over,’ are you? That is insulting to your religion.”

  “On that we agree. And no. That is not what I mean. The Constitution of the United States is sacred to us. Our Doctrine and Covenants declare that the Constitution is an inspired document, established by the hands of wise men, whom God raised up onto that purpose to free them from bondage. It is a golden mean between anarchy and tyranny. For whatsoever is more or less th
an the Constitution, cometh of evil. Our founder, Prophet Joseph Smith, believed in those precepts. But we revere the document in its entire form, as it was meant to be understood.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Salazar smiled like a man at ease. No concern filled his face. “I have no intention of explaining myself to you. I need you, though, to answer me a question. What laws have I broken?”

  “Murder, for one.”

  “Who did I kill?”

  “Barry Kirk said you killed a man for a book.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Not really. You sent him to see what he could learn. So he dangled enough bait to get us interested. Smart. Unfortunately, for you, Kirk pushed too far and I killed him.”

  “And the two men on the boat?”

  “They got what they asked for.”

  “Then I’d say I owe you two deaths.”

  A clever admission about the dead agent. Indirect. But nonetheless clear. Which meant Salazar was confident he would be the one leaving here. He’d taken out two Danites below. But how many more were there?

  “At least we’ve dropped the pretense. Can we get down to business?”

  “The only business I have with you, Mr. Malone, is seeing to your salvation.”

  “You don’t think I’m here alone, do you?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  He said, “At the moment it seems we have a standoff. Just you and me. Why don’t we make the most of it?”

  CASSIOPEIA STEPPED THROUGH THE GATE AND CAREFULLY SHUT the iron grille. Josepe’s two men waited outside, out of view. Though they were clearly ready to help, this she had to do alone.

  The crypt surrounding her was small, only a few graves visible in the darkness. A soft orange glow, which acted as a night-light, illuminated a Baroque crucifix. To its right and left, painted on six wooden panels, she saw a danse macabre of medieval paintings. Above one, where it appeared Death toted a basket of bones, was written huc fessa reponite membra.

  She translated.

  Here are buried the tired limbs.

  Below was another painted inscription, in German, which she also translated.

  After a holy life and good works

  Just remember,

  You will gently rest.

  Really? She wasn’t so sure about that.

  She tried to live a good life, but it seemed little reward ever came her way. Instead, it was one problem after another. She was actually tired of the battles, longing for some peace and stability. She thought that falling in love might be a step in the right direction. Unfortunately she fell for another wayward soul, Cotton’s spirit seemingly as free as her own.

  Which had probably been part of the attraction.

  On both sides.

  But that was also a liability.

  A set of risers cut a path straight up into the rock. Worry was not improving her ill-temper. A cold draft of night air brushed the floor and touched her ankles. A few deep breaths calmed her. The darkness offered courage, but no wisdom.

  She carefully began the ascent.

  SALAZAR STAYED CALM. NO MATTER HOW MUCH BRAVADO Cotton Malone showed, he doubted he was in physical danger. He was merely one of a thousand secondary officials in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Unlikely the U.S. government was here to assassinate him. But that didn’t mean the situation wasn’t perilous. He’d already noticed that Malone had relieved one of the Danites of his weapon, as he recognized the pistol aimed at him. All of his men carried the same make and model. Guns were a passion. He loved them, and had all of his life. His father taught him about weapons and how to respect them. On his own, though, he’d mastered how to use them for the good of the church.

  “It’s interesting,” he said, “that your superiors sent you here to confront me with so little information. Seems you would know the connection among those six American states.”

  “You’d be surprised how much I know.”

  And he did not like the look of confidence on his captor’s face.

  “My guess,” Malone said, “is you’re the one who’s curious. You want to know how and why we’re so interested in you. Get ready. You’re going to find out the answer to that real soon.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “I wonder,” Malone said. “Does the current prophet know about your merry little band of Danites? I can’t imagine he would sanction that. The Mormon Church has come a long way since its beginnings. The need for such extremes has long passed.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. My church has been the subject of much abuse and persecution. We have suffered through insults, like the ones you delivered earlier, violence, even death. And we’ve survived all of that by not being weak.”

  He was stalling, giving his men time to act—which, he hoped, they were doing. “I twice underestimated you, Mr. Malone.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “I won’t a third time.”

  CASSIOPEIA STEPPED FROM THE SHADOWS, JUST OUTSIDE THE doorway leading into what appeared to be a chapel.

  Four steps and she was directly behind Cotton.

  She pressed her weapon into his spine and said, “Drop the gun.”

  MALONE FROZE.

  “I’m not going to repeat myself,” Cassiopeia made clear.

  He decided that he had no choice.

  The gun clattered on the floor.

  Salazar retrieved the weapon, finger on the trigger, and immediately raised it to Malone’s forehead. “I should shoot you here and now. You killed three of my employees. Kidnapped me, demanding answers to your questions. The U.S. government has no right to be doing any of this.”

  Rage filled Salazar’s eyes.

  “You killed an American agent,” Malone said.

  “Liar,” Salazar screamed. “I killed no one.”

  The black dot of the gun barrel remained in his face.

  But he’d faced one before and did not flinch.

  “No, Josepe,” Cassiopeia said, coming around to where Malone could see her. “No violence. I came to end this.”

  “He is evil,” Salazar said.

  “But killing him would be equally as bad.”

  Salazar lowered the weapon, his expression one of disgust. “Of course. You’re correct. I have done nothing wrong. Nothing at all.”

  Malone wondered how long Cassiopeia had been outside the chapel. Had she heard Salazar’s tacit confession? Perhaps Salazar was wondering the same thing. Which would explain his show.

  Cassiopeia stepped to the altar and retrieved the book. “This belongs to us.”

  She handed the box to Salazar, who said, “Tell your superiors, Mr. Malone, that I thank them for the purchase.”

  “So stealing is okay?”

  Salazar threw him a smile. “Under the circumstances, I would say no. We’ll call it partial compensation for what I owe you.”

  He caught the meaning.

  They headed for the doorway.

  Cassiopeia backed away, her gun aimed on him.

  His eyes never wavered from her, either. “You going to shoot me?”

  “If you don’t stay here, until we’re gone, I’ll do just that. I haven’t forgotten your insults. To me. To him. To our religion. I believe in restraint. But if pushed, I will shoot you.”

  And she left.

  MALONE STOOD IN THE SILENCE. HE HAD NO INTENTION OF following. Cassiopeia had ended the confrontation her way.

  And that was as far as it could go.

  He stepped from the chapel into a small foyer hewn from the rock, and approached a rectangular opening in the outer wall. No glass filled the window. A gray-yellow amorphous quarter moon hid behind scattered cloud cover. Below, he saw the silent forms of Cassiopeia, Salazar, and the two Danites as they retreated from the graveyard, heading back into town. He felt angry, betrayed, disillusioned, bitter, and, more than anything else, foolish. He’d confronted Salazar with no real purpose, other than to pick a fight.


  Not his style.

  He usually never made a threat he could not back up. But this time had been different. The president of the United States had wanted Salazar hassled. What just happened certainly qualified.

  The four shadows disappeared into the night.

  One of whom he loved.

  Now what?

  Hell if he knew.

  CASSIOPEIA ENTERED THE GOLDENER HIRSCH, THE GUN BACK in the possession of the younger man. She’d learned that both were staying on the third floor in a room down the hall from Josepe’s. She was one floor below them in a spacious suite. Josepe handed over the book to his associates then excused them, escorting her to her door. She inserted the key. He gently grasped her arm and drew her close.

  “I want you to know that I have hurt no one. That allegation was false and malicious.”

  “I know, Josepe. That’s not you.”

  “Did you mean what you said? About our religion and that he insulted us?”

  “Every word.”

  Lying was becoming far too easy for her.

  “Why did you follow me?”

  “I have skills, Josepe, that may be of assistance to you.”

  “That I can see.”

  “I’ve been involved with several high-profile investigations. I can handle myself in … difficult situations.”

  “I saw that, too.”

  “The important thing is that you now have the book and he did not win. Whatever else exists between you and Malone and the Americans, I’m here if you want my help.”

  He appraised her with careful eyes. She could almost hear his thoughts as he considered the reasons why he should not trust her.