The Lincoln Myth (11 page)

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 was 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

S
ALT
L
AKE
C
ITY

R
OWAN HELPED
P
ROPHET
S
NOW 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.

Symbolism abounded.

The east side’s three towers represented the First Presidency. The twelve pinnacles rising from the towers implied the twelve apostles. The west side’s towers reflected the presiding bishops and the church’s high council. The east side was purposefully built six feet higher, so to make clear which was superior. Its castle-like battlements illustrated a separation from the world and a protection of the holy ordinances practiced within, a statement in stone that no
one would destroy this mighty edifice, as had happened before that time to the temples in both Missouri and Illinois.

Atop each of the center towers were eyes, which represented God’s ability to see all things. The earth stones, moonstones, sun-stones, cloud stones, and star stones each told a story of the celestial kingdom and the promise of salvation. One of the early elders said it best when he proclaimed,
Every stone is a sermon
.

And Rowan agreed.

The Old Testament taught that temples were the houses of God. The church now owned 130 around the globe. This one anchored ten acres in the center of Salt Lake, the oval-shaped tabernacle building just behind, the old Assembly Hall nearby, two modern visitor centers nestled close. A massive conference center, which could accommodate more than 20,000, stood across the street.

Access inside any temple was restricted to those members who’d achieved “temple recommend.” To gain that status a Saint must believe in God the Father and Jesus as Savior. He must support the church and all of its teachings, including the law of chastity that mandates celibacy outside of marriage. He must be honest, never abuse his family, remain morally clean, and pay the required yearly tithe. He must also keep all of his solemn oaths and wear the temple garments, both night and day. Once granted by a bishop and a stake president, the recommend remained valid for two years before being reviewed.

To have a temple recommend was a blessing all Saints desired.

Rowan went through the temple at nineteen, when he served his mission. He’d kept a temple recommend ever since. Now he was the second-highest-ranking official in the church, perhaps only a few months away from becoming the next prophet.

“Where are we going?” he asked Snow.

The old man’s legs barely worked, but he made it inside the doors.

“There is something you must see.”

With each rise in the hierarchy, Rowan had become aware of more and more secret information. The church had always worked
by compartmentalizing, information passed vertically and horizontally on a need-to-know basis. So it made sense that there were matters only the man at the top was privy to.

Two young temple workers waited at the base of a staircase. Usually just the retired served inside, but these two were special.

“Are we to change clothes?” he asked the prophet.

Normally only white garments were worn inside the temple.

“Not today. It’s just you and me.” Snow crept toward the two men and said, “I appreciate your help. I’m afraid my legs cannot make the climb.”

They both nodded, affection and respect in their eyes. No one outside of the apostles was allowed to witness their assistance. Snow settled into their intertwined arms, and they lifted his frail body from the pale blue carpet. Rowan followed them up the Victorian staircase, his hand sliding along on the polished cherry banister.

They ascended to the third floor and entered the council room.

White walls, white carpet, and a white ceiling cast a look of utter purity. Victorian lighting fixtures burned bright. Fifteen low-backed upholstered chairs dotted the carpet. Twelve were arranged in a semi-circle, facing toward the south wall, where three more faced back, lined in a row behind a simple desk.

The center of the three was for the prophet only.

Snow was settled into his chair and the two young men left, closing the door behind them.

“For us,” Snow said, “this is the most secure place on this planet. I feel most safe right here.”

So had Rowan, for a long time.

“What we are about to discuss none, save the next prophet after you, may know. It will be your duty to pass this on.”

They’d never before spoken of succession.

“You assume I will be chosen.”

“That has been our way for a long time. You are next in line. I doubt our colleagues will vary from tradition.”

The twelve chairs arranged in a semi-circle were for the apostles, Rowan’s designated spot at their center, facing the prophet, the
desk symbolically between them. On either side of the prophet sat the two councilors of the First Presidency. He’d already been giving thought as to who he would select to flank him when it came his time to lead.

“Look around, Thaddeus,” Snow said, voice cracking. “The prophets watch over us. Each is anxious to see how you will react to what you are about to hear.”

The white walls were lined with gilt-framed portraits of the sixteen men who’d led the church before Snow.

“My image will soon join them.” Snow pointed to a blank spot. “Hang my portrait there, so you can always see me.”

On the desk before the old man sat a plain wooden box, about two feet long, a foot wide, and half a foot tall, its lid shut. He’d noticed it immediately and assumed it was why they were here.

Snow caught his interest.

“I had that brought from the closed archives. It is for prophets only.”

“Which I am not.”

“But you soon will be, and you have to know what I am about to reveal. It was told to me by my predecessor when I served in your capacity as president of the twelve. Do you recall what happened here, at the temple, in 1993? With the record stone.”

The story was legendary. A hole was dug ten feet deep near the temple’s southeast corner. The goal was to find a hollowed-out foundation block. In 1867, during the temple’s construction, Brigham Young had filled the stone with books, pamphlets, periodicals, and a set of gold coins in denominations of $2.50, $5, $10, and $20, creating a time capsule. The stone was found cracked, which had caused most of the paper inside to rot away. Fragments survived, which had been placed in the church archives, some occasionally on display in the History Library. In 1993 Rowan was beginning his third term in the Senate and had just risen to the level of an apostle. He hadn’t been present on August 13, exactly 136 years to the day after the stone had first been sealed.

“I was there,” Snow said, “when they climbed from that hole
with buckets of mush, like papier-mâché. The gold coins were spectacular, though. Minted right here in Salt Lake. That’s the thing about gold—time never affects it. But the paper was another matter. Moisture had done its damage.” The prophet paused. “I’ve always wondered why Brigham Young included coins. They seemed so out of place. But maybe he was saying that there are things on which time has no effect.”

“You speak in riddles, Charles.”

Only here, inside the temple, behind the closed doors of the council room, would he ever use the prophet’s first name.

“Brigham Young was not perfect,” Snow said. “He made errors in judgment. He was human, as are we all. On the issue of our lost gold he may have made a grievous error. But with regard to Abraham Lincoln, he might have committed an even bigger mistake.”

FIFTEEN

D
ENMARK

M
ALONE DROVE HIS
M
AZDA OUT OF
C
OPENHAGEN, THEN SIXTY
miles west to Kalundborg and Zealand’s northwest coast. Four-laned highway the entire way made the going quick.

“You suspected Kirk, too, didn’t you?” he asked Luke.

“He was a little too fast with the info in your shop. What did Stephanie tell you on the phone?”

“Enough for me to know that Kirk wasn’t trustworthy.”

“When he came up behind me with the gun I thought it better to give him a little rope and see where it led. Then I saw you thinking the same. Of course, I didn’t know you were going to go all William Tell on me.”