The Lincoln Myth

by Steve Berry

  But recover it did.

  Now it was worth billions. No one outside a handful of apostles and a few high-level administrators knew the exact amount.

  And he’d keep it that way.

  “We will be able to buy and sell every remaining state in your Union,” he said, “and many of the nations of the world.”

  “You’re not out yet.”

  “It’s only a matter of time. Obviously you know what the founders left behind, what they signed in 1787.”

  “I do. But I also know things you don’t know.”

  He could not tell if Daniels was serious or merely posturing. The president was known as an excellent poker player, but something told him this was not a bluff—instead, this was the reason he’d been summoned.

  “Your church,” Daniels said, “was trusted with something that could have, at that time, destroyed this nation. Instead the United States survived, partly thanks to what Brigham Young did not do with what he had. Thankfully, after Lincoln was killed, and no one contacted him for the document, Young still did nothing.”

  “He foolishly trusted that the federal government would continue to leave us alone. But it didn’t. Twenty years later you all but destroyed us.”

  “Yet no one within the church brought out the document. Quite a bargaining chip to never use.”

  “No one knew. Young was dead by then, and he took the secret to his grave.”

  “That’s not true. People were aware.”

  “How would you know that?”

  Daniels stepped back and opened the door.

  Charles R. Snow appeared, standing on his frail legs, dressed in a suit and tie, looking every bit the head of Zion. The prophet stepped inside, his steps short but firm.

  Rowan was taken aback, unsure what to say or do.

  “Thaddeus,” Snow said. “I can’t express in words how disappointed I am in you.”

  “You told me to search.”

  “That I did. The disappointment is with your motives and judgment.”

  He was not in the mood for any criticism from this imbecile. “You’re so weak. We cannot afford any more like you.”

  Snow crept over to a pale green sofa and sat. “What you are about to do, Thaddeus, will destroy a hundred years of hard work.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  DES MOINES, IOWA

  CASSIOPEIA STUDIED THE COTTAGE, WHICH REMINDED HER OF something from the English countryside. Everything else at Salisbury House carried a similar look and feel. No one had paid her any attention as she drifted from the garden, following a pebbled path that wound through autumn grass and fall flowers. A couple of times she’d stopped to admire the foliage, checking to see if she was alone. The cottage stood about thirty meters from the main house, electrical wires entering through a conduit projecting from a gable. Thankfully the entrance was away from the terrace and garden, where the darkness was nearly absolute.

  The wooden door was secured by a single pin-and-tumbler lock mounted above the knob, an obvious addition. Luckily, she’d come prepared, picks always at the ready in her makeup bag. Cotton had found that so amusing—traveling with burglary tools—but he was just as bad—a small pick stayed hidden inside his wallet. She liked that about him. Always prepared.

  She found the picks in her clutch bag and worked them into the lock. No need to see anything, more a matter of feel. Both hands had to sense the inner workings and feel for the tumblers.

  Two clicks signaled success.

  She worked the bolt free from the jamb, then entered and closed the door, relocking the latch on the inside. As she suspected, electrical boxes dotted one wall. Lawn and garden equipment filled about a third of the space. Light spilled in through four windows. Her pupils were wide to the night, and she found the main breaker on the outside of one of the boxes.

  Switch that off and she’d have maybe five minutes before somebody checked the circuits, especially once they noticed through the trees that houses in the distance remained lit.

  But that’s all the time she’d need.

  She found a dirty rag near a lawn mower and used it to wipe the lock latch clean, then to grip the electrical cutoff.

  MALONE SMILED AS SALISBURY HOUSE WENT DARK.

  “What the hell, Pappy?” Luke said in his ear.

  “She’s making her move. Your turn, Frat Boy.”

  “Bring her on. I’m ready.”

  Yeah, right.

  LUKE STOOD IN THE GREAT HALL WHEN THE HOUSE LIGHTS EXTINGUISHED. There was at first just a low murmur from those around him. Then, once folks realized the electricity was not returning, voices rose. He immediately turned and headed back for the Common Room, where the pocket watch waited. Darkness inside ran deep, the going slow as he had to be careful of others and constantly excuse himself.

  “She’s back inside,” Malone said in his ear. “Have fun.”

  He could almost see the smirk on Malone’s face. But he’d not met a woman yet he couldn’t handle. Katie Bishop was a perfect example. He’d certainly turned those lemons into lemonade.

  He found the short flight of stairs that led down to the Common Room. Luckily the corridor was wide and not as populated as it had been at the Great Hall. He entered the main room and noticed shadows moving toward the walls, a male voice asking everyone to inch that way until they found it. Smart move. Protects the cases in the middle. Keeps people controlled and contained. Shows that somebody is in charge. Of course, he ignored the instruction and eased toward the third case.

  Cassiopeia Vitt was already there.

  “I don’t think so,” he whispered.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “The guy that’s here to keep you from stealing this watch.”

  “Bad move, Frat Boy,” Malone said in his ear. “Don’t give her a heads-up.”

  He ignored the advice and said, “Move away from the case.”

  The black form stood still.

  “I don’t stutter,” he made clear. “Move away from the case.”

  “Is there a problem?” a new male voice said, the same one who’d been directing traffic a few moments ago. Probably one of the cops.

  Cassiopeia moved fast.

  One leg came into the air and clipped the cop in the chest, sending him sprawling backward, crashing into an adjacent display case, which slammed to the wood floor, glass obliterated in a shattering crescendo.

  People on the perimeter gasped in surprise.

  Before Luke could react a second kick caught him square in the crotch. Breath spewed from his lungs. Pain burst upward and outward.

  Mother of—

  His legs collapsed.

  Down he went.

  He tried to gather himself and stand, but the pain was too intense. He grabbed for his aching midsection, fighting nausea and helpless to do anything as Vitt shattered the display case’s glass cover and claimed the watch.

  “What’s happening?” Malone asked in his ears. “Talk to me.”

  He tried, but nothing came out.

  He’d played a little football in high school and had been racked before. It even happened a couple of times in the army.

  But nothing like this.

  Vitt vanished into the darkness, amid the chaos.

  He drew a breath and staggered to his feet.

  People were trying to flee the room.

  Suck it up, he told himself.

  “She’s got the watch … and … is leaving,” he reported into the mike.

  He started after her.

  CASSIOPEIA WAS BAFFLED AS TO HOW THAT MAN KNEW WHAT she was after. He’d obviously been waiting for her to make a move. The voice had sounded younger, with a touch of the American South she’d come to recognize from Cotton. Had Stephanie tracked her here? That seemed the only explanation, which meant the younger man was not alone.

  She kept moving through the dark mass of people, edging herself toward the front door. Her car waited only a few hundred meters behind the house. Getting there from here through the house c
ould be a problem.

  Rounding the exterior would work much better.

  So she found the door latch and eased it open, slipping out into the night.

  LUKE HEADED BACK TOWARD THE MAIN ENTRANCE AND THE Great Hall. The folks remaining in the Common Room had determined that glass was now everywhere on the floor, caution being advised, so he’d used that momentary distraction to slip away, finding his way through the dark.

  His crotch ached, but the pain had eased.

  No matter, he wasn’t going to allow Cassiopeia Vitt to get away. He’d never hear the end of it from Malone or Stephanie, especially after the old-timer had warned him. He turned a corner and felt his way along the wall to the short flight of steps that led up to the entrance foyer.

  He heard the front door open, then close.

  Was that her?

  It made sense.

  So he headed for the exit.

  He opened the door and stepped outside.

  Ahead he saw nothing.

  Then he caught a glimpse of Cassiopeia Vitt, near the house wall, turning a corner, heading back toward its rear. This time he provided her no warning, but said into the mike, “She’s coming your way, Pappy.”

  Then he followed.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  RICHARD NIXON ENTERED THE CONFERENCE ROOM AND SHOOK hands with the Prophet Joseph Fielding Smith, his two counselors, and all of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. The president of the United States had come to Salt Lake campaigning for local Republican candidates in the congressional midterm elections. He’d brought his wife, daughter Tricia, and two cabinet members—George Romney and David Kennedy—who were both Saints. The customary public appearances had all been made, and now they were safe inside the church’s main administrative building, behind closed doors, paneled walls and a coffered wood ceiling enclosing them. Nixon and Smith sat at one end of a polished table, the rest of the apostles occupying its sides.

  “I’ve always found my visits to Salt Lake City to be extremely heartwarming,” Nixon said. “Your church is a great institution that has played a part in this administration.”

  The date was July 24, 1970. Pioneer Day. An official Utah state holiday, designated to commemorate the entry, in 1847, of the first wave of people to the Salt Lake basin. Parades, fireworks, rodeos, and other festivities traditionally marked the day. Like July 4 for Latter-day Saints. Later, Nixon himself was scheduled to attend the famous Days of ’47 Rodeo at the Salt Palace.

  “I don’t know of any group in America that has contributed more to our strong moral leadership and high moral standards—the spirit that has kept America going through bad times as well as good times. No group has done more than those who are members of this church.”

  “Why are you here?” Smith asked.

  Nixon seemed taken aback by the abruptness of the question. “I just told you. I came to offer my praise.”

  “Mr. President, you personally requested this private audience with myself, my counselors, and the Quorum of Twelve. No president has ever asked that of us before. Surely you have to understand why we would be curious. So here we are. Just us. What is it you want?”

  Smith, though a consummate gentleman, was no fool. He was the tenth prophet to lead the church, his father had been the sixth, and his grandfather had been the brother of founder Joseph Smith. He became an apostle in 1910, at age twenty-five, and had only six months back been elevated to prophet at the age of ninety-four, the oldest man ever selected. He was the only one in the room who’d actually been present when the temple in Salt Lake had been dedicated in 1893.

  He bowed to no one.

  Not even presidents of the United States.

  Nixon’s face changed, shifting from a countenance of congeniality to one of a man on a mission. “All right. I like directness. Saves time. Something was given to you in 1863 by Abraham Lincoln, something you never returned. I want it back.”

  “Why is that?” Smith asked.

  “Because it belongs to the United States.”

  “Yet it was given to us for safekeeping.”

  Nixon studied the men around the table. “I see you know what I’m talking about. Good. That’ll make this simpler.”

  Smith pointed a wizened finger at the president. “You have no idea what it says, do you?”

  “I know that it caused Lincoln great anguish. I know that he sent it away for a reason. I know that, as part of the bargain, Brigham Young provided Lincoln with the location of a mine, one that people have sought for a long time. A place where a lot of your gold may be hidden away, gold lost during the Mormon War when 22 wagons disappeared.”

  “None of that gold was lost,” one of the apostles said. “Not one ounce. All of it was reintroduced into our economy, after the threat of war from the federal government waned. Prophet Brigham made sure that happened. There is no mystery there.”

  “Interesting you would say that,” Nixon said. “I had that researched. Brigham Young sent the gold away to California. But according to your own written records, those wagons were attacked and men were killed, the gold stolen and lost. Are you saying your prophet was involved with that theft?”

  “We’re not saying anything,” another of the apostles said, “except that no gold was lost.”

  “Does not the White Horse Prophecy mean anything to you? Were you not to be the saviors of our Constitution?”

  A few of the apostles chuckled.

  “That’s a fable,” one of them said. “A story made up by the early church fathers as a way to bolster our new religion. Just hearsay and misinterpretation that spread, like rumors do. Every theology has such stories. But it’s not real. We disavowed its language long ago.”

  Nixon grinned. “Gentlemen, I’ve played many a hand of poker, and I’ve played against the best. I’m not fooled here by your bluff. Brigham Young made a deal with Abraham Lincoln, and both sides, to their credit, kept it. I’ve read a note that survived from Lincoln’s time. A handwritten message from James Buchanan, sent to Lincoln, that provided him with a document. More papers I’ve seen indicate that the document was ultimately sent here, as Lincoln’s part of the bargain. But thanks to Lincoln’s sudden, untimely death you still have that document.”

  “For sake of argument,” Smith said. “If such a document were returned, what would you do with it?”

  “That depends on what it says. My guess is that it concerns the Founding Fathers and what they may, or may not, have done in Philadelphia.”

  “The Constitution is, to us, a glorious standard, one founded in the wisdom of God,” the prophet said. “It is a heavenly banner. To all those who are privileged with the blessings of liberty, it is like the cooling shades and refreshing waters of a great rock in a thirsty and weary land.”

  “Wonderful analogies,” Nixon said. “But you have yet to answer my question.”

  Smith faced the apostles around the table. “You see here an example of what we’ve faced since the beginning. The arrogance of a federal government, come here, to our home, demanding that we obey its commands.”

  A few heads bobbed in agreement.

  “I indulged this request for a private audience hoping that this president would be different.” Smith’s gaze locked on George Romney and David Kennedy. “Two of our own serve in this administration, which we took as a good sign.” The prophet paused, as if gathering himself. Smith had served for many years as church Historian and Recorder. If anyone would know what the records held, he would.

  Finally, Smith faced Nixon.

  “We are indeed the custodians of something given to us long ago. But Brigham Young made the decision to keep what he’d been given, and every prophet since has likewise done the same. That decision is, therefore, mine. So I decline your request.”

  “You’re refusing a direct demand from the president of the United States?”

  “In our Doctrine and Covenants, 109:54, it is said Have mercy, O Lord, upon all the nations of the earth; have mercy upon the rulers of our land; may
those principles, which were so honorably and nobly defended, namely, the Constitution of our land, by our fathers, be established forever. That is what I obey … Mr. President. Not you.”

  Rowan stared at Charles Snow and Danny Daniels.

  He’d listened as Snow told him what happened over four decades ago.

  “I was there,” Snow said. “Sitting around that table. A relatively new apostle, but I watched as Joseph Fielding Smith dealt with Richard Nixon. That was the first time I became aware of our great secret.”

  “And the others knew?”

  Snow nodded. “Some of the most senior were aware.”

  “Charles,” Rowan said. “You sent me to find it. You told me to look.”

  “No, Thaddeus. I showed you what came from the record stone simply as way to provide you with enough rope to hang yourself. President Daniels and I have been speaking on this for many months now.”

  He could not believe what he was hearing. The prophet himself a spy? A traitor? Placing the interests of gentiles above those of Saints?

  “Joseph Fielding Smith,” Snow said, “was a brilliant man. He served this church for three-quarters of the 20th century. After Nixon left that day, we were all briefed on some of what happened in 1863. But it was only when I became prophet that I learned the rest. Each prophet since has passed that information on to his successor. All of the men there that day with Nixon are now dead. Only I remain. But the duty of passing on ends here and now. I will tell you nothing.”

  “We can do this, Charles,” Rowan said. “We can leave this godforsaken country, with all of its laws and rules and taxes and problems. We don’t need it any longer. We’ve done polls. The people are solidly behind secession. Utahans will approve any resolution calling for it.”

  “Do you realize what will happen,” Daniels asked, “if you go through with this? The United States is a world power.”

  “And losing Utah will change that?” he asked. “You’re being ludicrous.”