The Lincoln Myth (24 page)

He flicked his right hand, signaling that he opened with one hundred thousand. He’d already informed the auctioneer that he would be bidding on this item.

“We have one hundred thousand.”

“One hundred twenty thousand,” a man said from across the aisle.

“One fifty,” Salazar stated.

“The bid is 150,000 euros. Is there more?”

No one replied. He was pleased.

“One hundred sixty,” a new voice said.

He turned and saw Cotton Malone standing at the rear of the hall.

“It’s the man from earlier,” Cassiopeia said.

“That it is,” he whispered.

Malone stepped toward the chairs and sat in an empty one.

“We have a bid of 160,000 euros,” the auctioneer announced.

“One hundred seventy,” Salazar said.

“Two hundred thousand,” Malone called out.

The auctioneer seemed surprised.

So was Salazar. “I request to know if the gentleman is certified.”

That was allowed, particularly when bids exceeded market value. Otherwise, owners and speculators could run up the price through nonsensical amounts that they were not prepared to honor.

“Herr Salazar wishes to know your credentials,” the auctioneer asked.

M
ALONE STOOD FROM HIS CHAIR
. H
E
’
D ATTENDED ENOUGH
auctions to know this might happen, which was why he’d removed from the knapsack beneath his bed back in Copenhagen his Justice Department credentials, which Stephanie had allowed him to keep. Rarely in his former occupation had he ever carried them. He fished the leather wallet from his pocket and flashed the gold badge and photo identification to the auctioneer.

“Cotton Malone. United States Justice Department. Good enough?”

The auctioneer never flinched. “So long as you can honor your bid.”

“I assure you I can.”

“Then, let us proceed. The bid is two hundred thousand euros. Herr Salazar?”

“Two fifty.”

C
ASSIOPEIA GRABBED
S
ALAZAR
’
S ARM AND WHISPERED,
“
YOU
told me the value of this book, which is far less than you just bid.”

“Things have changed.”

“Three hundred thousand,” Cotton said.

S
ALAZAR TURNED AND FACED HIS ADVERSARY.
T
RUE, HE’D
wanted the Americans to come, even hoped that Malone himself would appear. But he’d not expected this type of challenge.

“Four hundred thousand,” he said, his eyes on his opponent.

“Four hundred fifty,” Malone quickly replied.

“Five hundred thousand.”

Silence filled the room.

He waited.

“One million euros,” Malone said.

He kept his gaze locked on his enemy.

“Satan is here. See him, Josepe. There he sits. He is an agent of the U.S. government. Wherever there is any dominion that is beneath that of the celestial world, we are to be free of it. The American continent was not designed for such a corrupt government as the United States to prosper long upon it. Let him win. Then make him pay.”

He’d never questioned the angel before and was not going to start now.

He turned toward the auctioneer and shook his head.

Ending the sale.

He watched as Malone paid the cashier an amount seven times what any other original edition would command. The Book of Mormon lay on the table, sealed in plastic, inside a stylish wooden box.

Malone lifted the prize out for a quick inspection.

Cassiopeia marched over and said, “Was it worth it?”

Malone smiled. “Every euro.”

“You are a despicable man.”

The American shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

“You’ll regret what you just did,” she said to him.

Malone threw her a quizzical look. “Is that a threat, ma’am?”

“Take it as a promise.”

Malone chuckled as he laid the book back inside the box and sealed the lid. “I’ll do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

“Know that there are more treasures than one for you in this world,”
the angel told Salazar.
“Worry not over the loss of this one. But neither allow the enemy to walk easy.”

The auction house was holding a reception after the sale, one he’d originally planned to attend.

Not anymore.

He and Cassiopeia descended to the castle’s lower level and made their way to the funicular station. The route took them across another of the castle’s open terraces, past a restaurant busy with evening diners. He pointed beyond the parapets, eastward, where she could see the streets and building lights of Salzburg’s antiseptic suburbs.

“The local ward is headquartered down there. I should call and schedule a visit before we leave town.”

“We can do that tomorrow,” Cassiopeia said.

They entered the station and found the railcar. Inside stood Cotton Malone. The interior was claustrophobic, the car nearly full. A few more people trickled inside, then the doors shut and the steep descent began. He kept his attention out the forward windows for the entire minute of the journey.

At ground level, they exited and found the street.

Malone passed them and kept walking.

His two Danites were waiting where he’d directed them to be earlier.

“I thought we’d take a stroll through the streets of old town,” he said to Cassiopeia. “Before heading back to the hotel. It’s a lovely night.”

“I’d like that.”

“Let me speak a moment with my associates. I had asked them to be here so they might take charge of my purchase. Of course, I don’t have one now.”

He left her and walked to his men. With his back to Cassiopeia he stared at them both and said, “I assume you saw Malone?”

They nodded.

“Seize him. Call me when you have him. And retrieve that wooden box he’s holding.”

THIRTY-THREE

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

1:00
P.M
.

L
UKE HAD NOT BEEN HOME IN SEVERAL WEEKS
. H
E LEASED AN
apartment near Georgetown in an ivy-veined brick building brimming with tenants in their seventies. He liked the quiet and appreciated the fact that everyone seemed to mind their own business. He spent only a few days here each month, between assignments, on the downtime Stephanie Nelle required all her Magellan Billet agents to take.

He’d been born and raised in a small Tennessee town where his father and uncle were both known, particularly his uncle, who served in various local political offices, then as governor before becoming president. His father died when he was seventeen. Cancer. Fatal eighteen days after diagnosis. What a shock. He and his three brothers had been there for every moment of those final days. His mother took the loss hard. They’d been married a long time. Her husband was everything to her, and then, suddenly, he was gone.

That’s why he called her every Sunday.

Never missed.

Even when on assignment.

It might be late at night her time when he had the chance, but he called. His father always said that the smartest thing he ever did was
marry her, proclaiming that
even the blind-eyed biscuit thrower occasionally hits the target
.

Both his parents were devoutly religious—Southern Baptists—so they’d named their sons to correspond with the books of the New Testament. His two older brothers were Matthew and Mark. His younger, John. He was the third in line and acquired the name Luke.

He would never forget his last conversation with his father.

“I’m going to die later today or tomorrow. I’m done. I can feel it. But I have to say this to you. I want you to make something of your life. Okay? Something good. You choose what works. Doesn’t matter. But, whatever it is, make the most of it.”

He could still feel the gentle grip of his father’s sweaty palm as they shook hands for the last time. All of the sons had been close to their father. And he’d known exactly what his dad had meant. School had never interested him, his grades barely passing. College was not in his future. So he’d enlisted right out of high school and was accepted for Army Ranger training. Sixty-one of the hardest days of his life.
Not for the weak or fainthearted
—that’s what it said right in the Ranger handbook. Kind of an understatement, considering the failure rate was way over 50 percent. But he’d made it, earning his lieutenant bars. Eventually he’d been deployed to some of the hottest spots on the planet, wounded twice, and received multiple commendations.

His father would have been proud.

Then he was chosen to work for the Magellan Billet, where he’d been involved in more high-stakes action.

He was now thirty years old, and the loss of his dad still hurt. What was the saying?
Real men don’t cry
. Bullshit. Real men bawl their eyes out, as he and his brothers had thirteen years ago when they watched the man they idolized take his last breath.

A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts.

He’d been sitting in the quiet for half an hour, shaking off jet lag, trying to re-acclimate himself to Eastern Daylight Time. He opened the door to find Stephanie Nelle. He was not aware that she knew where he lived.