The Lincoln Myth (41 page)

She hated herself for telling more lies. When would they stop? Impossible to say. Especially with the leap she was about to make.

They found the hotel where Josepe had booked three rooms and said their goodbyes.

“Be careful,” he told her.

“I always am.”

L
UKE STARED ACROSS THE CAR
’
S INTERIOR
. H
E
’
D JUST SPENT
the past four hours with Cotton Malone and learned that the ex-agent’s mood had not changed since Denmark.

He’d been waiting at the regional airfield north of Des Moines and watched as an F-15E Strike Eagle dropped from the midday sky and powered to a stop on the field’s short runway. He’d never flown in a fighter and envied those allowed the privilege. He knew from Stephanie that Malone was a trained fighter pilot who’d abandoned that career to become a Navy lawyer. She hadn’t explained why he made the transition, but he assumed there’d been a good reason, since he doubted Malone did anything he didn’t want to. They’d eaten lunch, then scoped out Salisbury House, learning all they could about its layout.

“She’s pullin’ out,” he said as he watched Cassiopeia Vitt leave a downtown hotel and ease back into traffic, minus Josepe Salazar and the two others.

He and Malone had been waiting at the Des Moines airport, near the terminal that accommodated private aircraft.

“She’s headed in the right direction,” he said to Malone.

“Just don’t let her make you. She’s good at paying attention.”

Usually he’d have some snappy comeback, but he decided to not aggravate the old-timer. Instead he asked, “What do we do if she goes to where we think she’s goin’?”

“You’ll deal with her. She’s never seen you. So you can blend right in.”

“And you?”

“I’ll watch your back and try to anticipate her. I have some experience with the way she thinks.”

“Stephanie says we’re to get that watch, no matter what.”

“I know. She told me, too.”

He liked the element of not knowing that came from developing a plan as you went along. There was a thrill about it, especially when everything went right. Like at Montpelier. Katie Bishop was now ensconced at the White House, Uncle Danny telling her that she wouldn’t be heading back to Virginia. Instead, her employer would
be told that she was needed in Washington for a few days, her job secure. Katie had seemed thrilled, and Stephanie had asked her to explore the Madison journal in detail.

He kept a quarter mile back from Cassiopeia’s vehicle, plenty of cars in between. The road west out of central downtown was a busy boulevard, no way anyone would ever notice a tail.

She was still headed in the right direction.

“It’s going to get more difficult once we get back into that neighborhood near Salisbury House.”

They’d already made the trip, prior to Salazar landing. No danger had existed of missing anybody since the U.S. military was tracking the Learjet across the United States. Stephanie had called in the troops, as this was a top priority.

Ahead, Cassiopeia made a left turn exactly where she should.

“Give her space,” Malone said, his voice remaining deadpan.

He’d already intended to do just that.

S
ALAZAR ENTERED HIS ROOM AND CLOSED THE DOOR.
H
E
immediately fell to his knees and prayed for the angel to appear. To his immense relief, the apparition hovered above the bed, the same gentle gaze he’d come to expect smiling down at him.

“It is as you commanded. I’ve trusted her.”

“She will not disappoint you.”

“Help her be successful. I want no harm to come her way.”

“She is to be of your body. To become your wife. Together you will start a family that will grow and emerge in the fullness of heaven. Know that to be true.”

He was grateful for the angel’s vision. It calmed him. He’d wanted to go with Cassiopeia, but knew that her caution was wise. He could not risk exposure. For now, Cassiopeia’s skill and independence were assets. But once this threat passed and the promise of Zion fulfilled, there would be changes. Leading and supporting a family was a father’s duty. Mothers raised children. That was the
way it had been in his parents’ family, and it would be the same in his own. For both parents to be devoted to something outside the home was a detriment to children, and he wanted good children. At least one from Cassiopeia, more from other wives. His and Cassiopeia’s ages would be a factor, so any other unions would have to be with younger women. He firmly believed that a mother at home improved children’s school performance, enhanced their attitude toward life, stimulated a healthier work ethic later in life, and forged stronger morals.

He wanted that for his children.

He’d been patient finding a new wife.

So he intended to do it right.

“Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother were married. As parents they bore the spirit children, which meant that all of the people who ever lived are literally the children of God, brothers and sisters to one another. Soon you will add to their number.”

He liked hearing that.

But for now, he bowed his head and prayed for Cassiopeia’s success.

FIFTY-FOUR

L
UKE ENTERED
S
ALISBURY
H
OUSE THROUGH ITS NORTH DOOR
, following a group of excited visitors. Malone had dropped him at the end of the drive and he’d walked the rest of the way. They could not afford to have their car parked in some restricted lot, subject to a valet. Instead Malone kept it a few streets over, past the house’s rear garden, through the trees. They’d chosen a suitable locale earlier.

He checked his watch: 7:25
P.M
.

Darkness had arrived, a tame crowd of maybe a hundred milling about through the ground floor and onto a lit back terrace. The front doors opened into what appeared to be a grand hall, where half-timbered beams held the ceiling high overhead and an enormous medieval-style fireplace anchored the opposite wall. Above him, a railing crowded with visitors protected an exposed second-floor balcony that overlooked the hall.

Malone had described Cassiopeia Vitt and Stephanie had emailed a photograph. He saw no one matching her description admiring the glass cases of Lincoln artifacts displayed in the Great Hall. The only security was a uniformed city policeman, no side-arm, standing near the fireplace, surely here to earn a few bucks from an easy off-duty gig.

Sorry to mess up your night
, he thought.

He wandered from the hall down a short flight of stairs and entered what a placard called the Common Room. More halogen-light-displayed exhibits were here, as were more people.

One of the patrons caught his eye.

Long dark hair, with a hint of curl. Killer body. Gorgeous face. Like a model, but he could tell that she was in shape. She wore a clingy silk pantsuit that clung to all of her curves.

He liked what he saw.

No wonder Malone was freaked out.

Cassiopeia Vitt was hot.

C
ASSIOPEIA ADMIRED A MAGNIFICENT
S
TEINWAY GRAND PIANO
. On the walls of the Common Room she’d already noticed a Van Dyck portrait dated to 1624 and an elaborate crest of the Armand Cosmetics Company, which had been founded at the turn of the 20th century by the house’s original owner. The center of the long room was dotted with lit glass cases, each displaying some object dealing with Lincoln. There was an iron wedge used to split wood, various clothing, books, writings, even the top hat worn the night he was assassinated. The idea seemed to present an intimate portrait of Lincoln’s life and legacy. The case that drew her attention stood third from the end and contained a silver pocket watch. The information card inside confirmed that this was her prize.

She’d already taken a look at the ground-floor rooms.

Lighting was ambient, intentionally low so as to highlight the brightly lit displays. That would help. She’d only seen two security men, both wearing local police uniforms. Neither appeared especially interested, nor a threat. Maybe a hundred people were present, scattered about, making for plenty of distractions.

She ambled from the Common Room back to the Great Hall, admiring the three-quarter-scale suit of armor that sat near stairs
leading up to a balcony. She’d only need a minute or so to acquire the watch. The glass in the case was not thick. Breaking it would be an easy matter that would not damage the watch. Besides, according to Josepe, what they were after lay within the timepiece.

She admired the house’s interior style and design. Her trained eye noticed English oak, Elizabethan cupboards, Chinese vases, and the paintings, each old and unique. But she also felt the sense that this had been someone’s home. People had lived here. In some ways it reminded her of her own childhood home, though Tudor adornments gave way there to Spanish and Arab influences. Her parents had also decorated it with things that meant something to them. It remained that way to this day, as, like Josepe and his mother’s parlor, she’d not changed much.

She wandered outside to the terrace.

A lovely rear garden stretched to a tree line about forty meters away. Her gaze drifted up to the roofline, and she saw where electrical cables entered the main house. She followed the wires to an outbuilding among the trees. She’d expected that to be the case. Through decades of modifications and upgrades, eventually everything became centralized. It happened with her château in France and at her parents’ home. Here, the location was a cottage with a gabled tile roof.

All she had to do was get inside.

Unnoticed.