The Lincoln Myth (27 page)

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.

S
ALAZAR 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.”

C
ASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS
J
OSEPE 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

M
ALONE FOLLOWED AS
S
ALAZAR 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 than 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?”

C
ASSIOPEIA 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
,