The Lincoln Myth (16 page)

“I understand. But know that I wanted to.”

“I do, and it means more than you can imagine. Tomorrow, I’ll come for you around ten. Be packed and ready to leave.”

“Where are we going?”

“Salzburg.”

They disappeared down the corridor. A door opened, then closed. A few moments later a car engine growled, then faded into the distance.

He stood still, his heart pounding.

“You okay?” Luke asked.

His mind snapped back to the situation at hand. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“That’s your girl and—”

“I’m not some high schooler. And how do you know she’s my girl?”

“Three guesses. Look, that would have hurt, if it were me.”

“You’re not me.”

“Okay. I get it. The subject is off limits.”

“Stephanie tell you to keep her involvement from me?”

“She and Salazar were not supposed to be here. Vitt’s job was to keep him away for the evening.”

“Her
job
?”

“She’s helping Stephanie. A favor. We discovered that she and Salazar once knew each other. They were … close. Obviously. We just saw that. Stephanie asked her to make contact and see what she could learn. She’s just working him.”

But he wondered. Was she playing a part? Simply trying to gain Salazar’s confidence? If so, she was an excellent actress. Every word had sounded believable. Now Salazar himself was enlisting
her
help.

“I need to take a look inside that study.”

He grabbed Luke’s arm. “Is that all you’ve held back?”

“You said back at your bookshop you knew about Mormons. Did you know Cassiopeia Vitt was born one?”

He glared at Luke.

“I didn’t think so. Part of the connection here is that she and Salazar were childhood friends. Their families close. Same religion, too.”

Seemed like a night of surprises.

“Could you let go of my arm?”

He released his grip.

Luke brushed past and fled the media room.

He followed.

They entered the study, a warm space with paneled walls painted a sage green. The lights remained on, curtains drawn on the windows.

He focused on the task. “He doesn’t have any staff in this house?”

“Reports say there are a few, but they don’t stay overnight. Salazar likes his privacy.”

But the remaining Danites could appear at any time. “Those two may have discovered the ruse with the bus by now. Do what you have to do. He was reading to her from something. That old journal, there.”

Luke moved toward the desk and, with his Billet phone, snapped pictures of the tattered pages, especially the ones marked with slips of paper. While Luke searched the desk drawers, Malone was drawn to the map displayed on an easel. He’d heard earlier when Salazar rattled off the places where Mormons had settled on their way west to the Salt Lake valley. He’d actually once visited Nauvoo, in central Illinois, where they headquartered for seven years. The temple that stood there now was a reconstruction, the original 19th-century version destroyed by mobs.

Hate.

What a powerful emotion.

So was jealousy.

And he was feeling both right now.

He needed to listen to himself—he
wasn’t
some high schooler—he
was
a man who cared for a woman. He’d been divorced three years, separated from his ex-wife going on ten years. He’d lived alone a long time. Cassiopeia’s entrance into his life had changed things. For the better. Or at least that’s what he’d thought.

“Take a look at this,” Luke said.

He stepped to the desk—huge, inlaid with ivory and decorated with an ornate onyx inkwell. Luke handed him a catalog for Dorotheum, one of the world’s oldest auction houses, headquartered in Austria. He’d dealt with them while on Billet assignments and with his bookshop.

“Seems there’s an event tomorrow night,” Luke said. “In Salzburg.”

He noted the date, time, and place from the catalog. Thumbing through, he discovered it was an estate sale. Furniture, porcelain, china, books. One page was dog-eared. An offering for a Book of Mormon. From March 1830. An original printing. Published by E. B. Grandin. Palmyra, New York.

He knew that volume.

There’d been many editions printed since 1830, but only a few of the original lot still existed. He recalled reading a few months ago how one had sold for nearly $200,000.

“Apparently Salazar wants to buy a book,” he said.

And not just any book. One of the rarest in the world.

He stepped from the desk and again studied the map. Someone had taken a pink highlighter to Texas, Hawaii, Alaska, Vermont, and Montana.

“Why are those states colored? And don’t tell me you don’t know.”

Luke stayed silent.

He placed his finger on Utah, which had been highlighted in yellow. “And this?”

“It’s the center of the whole damn thing.”

Utah was the home of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day
Saints. Several splinter groups of that religion existed, but its main body was headquartered there.

“The center of what?” he asked.

“Hard to believe, actually. But Stephanie told me on the phone there’s a connection between Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, James Madison, and Abraham Lincoln. One that she’s just been briefed on. It stretches straight back to the Founding Fathers.”

“Involving?”

“The U.S. Constitution.”

“Leading to what?”

“A whole bunch of really bad trouble.”

TWENTY-ONE

D
ENMARK

T
HURSDAY
, O
CTOBER 9

9:20
A.M
.

S
ALAZAR SPOKE INTO THE PHONE BUT STUDIED THE MAP
. H
E
was in his study, finally connecting with Elder Rowan, explaining some of what had happened yesterday in Denmark. Their fears were now confirmed. The U.S. government was focused on him.

“They found you through me,” Rowan said. “There are people in Washington who do not want us to succeed.”

That he believed.

There’d always been animosity.

“From the beginning, Josepe,”
the angel said in his brain.

Every Saint knew how Joseph Smith, in 1839, knocked on the door of the White House—which he described as a
palace, large and splendid, decorated with all the fineries and elegance of this world
—and requested to see President Martin Van Buren. When Smith asked to be introduced as a Latter-day Saint, the request was viewed as nonsense. When he insisted, Van Buren merely smiled at the label.

“With his arrogance, Josepe.”

Smith had brought a letter that outlined all of the violent atrocities Saints had faced in Missouri, detailing the shocking loss of life and property. He described the infamous Executive Order 44, issued
by the Missouri governor, which called for the extermination of all Saints. He respectfully asked the federal government to intervene, but Van Buren did nothing.

“He said that to take up their cause would cost him the vote of Missouri,”
the angel reminded him.
“He judged us before he even knew us.”

Many presidents thereafter shared Van Buren’s apathy.

“The government has always been controlled by ignorance, folly, and weakness.”

The angel was right.

“What is the government’s strength? It is like a rope of sand, weak as water. There is little regard for truth or right. Shame on the rulers of the American nation.”

Just as prophets had been with presidents, he was careful with Elder Rowan. But not out of mistrust. Rowan had made clear from the beginning that he did not want details. So he omitted what happened to the American agent, the deaths of two of his own men, and the disappearance of Barry Kirk. He understood the line of demarcation between the Quorum of Twelve and the remainder of the church. Joseph Smith, and his successor Brigham Young, had utilized men just like him who likewise safeguarded the collective interest.

“Is the situation in hand?” Rowan asked.

“Totally.”

“It’s important that it stay that way. The government will try with all its might to stop us. It’s inevitable. We could only keep this secret for so long. Luckily, we’re approaching the goal.”

“Would it not be helpful to know the extent of their knowledge?” he asked.

“I plan to make inquiries on this end. Perhaps you could see what could be learned there?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“But rest assured, Josepe, neither of us has broken any laws. Their inquiries are simply investigatory.”

He again said nothing.

Danites had always worked in secrecy. Recruitment 150 years ago, as now, was by personal contact only. Meetings were carefully
guarded. Teachings were not openly discussed, even with fellow Danites, outside those gatherings. Members were taught to obey their leader’s instructions without question or hesitation, admonished to prove faithful in all things committed to their trust, come life or death. Each recruit took a solemn covenant not to reveal anything. Punishment for violations of the code was carried out in secret.

“We live in a new and different dispensation,”
the angel said.
“One in which the Kingdom of God will break into pieces and consume all earthly kingdoms. The duty of all noble and loyal Danites is to waste away the gentiles and consecrate them to the Kingdom of God. The earth is the Lord’s, Josepe, not man’s. And the laws of the land do not apply when one commits himself to God.”

“My fear,” he said to Rowan, “is that their investigative efforts could escalate.”

“And they will. So conduct yourself accordingly.”

He understood the instruction. Nothing the Danites did could ever become public. Josepe knew his role. He was the hammer and the sword. His reward was an inner satisfaction, not one to be flaunted for the benefit of others.

“It is not your business or place to know what is required by God,”
the angel said inside his head.
“He will inform you by means of the prophet, and you must perform.”

Amen
, he mouthed. “I have matters in hand.”

“As I knew you would. I may need you here soon, so be prepared to travel. I’m on the way back to Washington. Contact me when you have more to report.”

He stared at the map and the states highlighted.

Texas, Hawaii, Alaska, Vermont, and Montana.

And Utah.

He checked his watch.

“May Heavenly Father watch over you,” Rowan said.

“Same to you, sir.”

TWENTY-TWO

C
OPENHAGEN

M
ALONE FELT LIKE THE OLD DAYS, TOSSING ONLY THE ESSENTIALS
into a travel bag, then grabbing the knapsack from beneath his bed and retrieving the few hundred euros he always kept on hand, along with his passport. Years ago passports were the least of his concerns. As a Magellan Billet agent he’d moved about the world at will, sometimes legally, most times not. What a life. Occasionally he missed it, no matter how much he might say otherwise. He’d once been involved with some important assignments, a few that even changed history. But that was not his life anymore. Or at least that’s what he’d told himself for the past few years, ever since he walked away. Yet he’d also been part of some astounding stuff since retiring.

Which seemed the case here, too.

What had Luke Daniels said last night?
There’s a connection between Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, James Madison, and Abraham Lincoln. One that stretches straight back to the Founding Fathers
.

He’d parted ways with Luke after they returned to Copenhagen, and the younger agent had seemed glad to be rid of him. He’d once viewed Magellan Billet business through fresh eyes, too. Straight from the navy JAG, where Stephanie had recruited him for what became a permanent reassignment to the Justice Department. When he quit the government he’d also resigned his navy commission
as Commander Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone, son of Forrest Malone—also a commander, United States Navy, lost at sea. His gaze darted to the frame on the wall and the handwritten note, dated November 17, 1971. His father’s last 640 words. Written especially for his family. He’d savored every one. Especially the final sentence.