The Lincoln Myth (18 page)

S
TEPHANIE ENDED THE CALL
.

She hadn’t liked lying to Cassiopeia, but it had been necessary. Cotton was not fine. That was clear from the call earlier. Luke, too, had confirmed that Cotton was upset.

And her dead agent.

She’d withheld that also.

If she’d told Cassiopeia the truth on both counts, there was no telling what the reaction might be. She could try to confront Salazar. Or she might leave. Better to keep that information close for a little while longer.

She sat up in her bed and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 3:50
A.M
.

Her flight to Washington left in four hours. Edwin Davis had said he’d meet her at Reagan National. She was anxious to find out more. The little she knew so far was troubling enough. Thirty years she’d worked for the government, starting during the Reagan administration with the State Department, then moving to Justice. She’d seen a lot of crises. Through it all she’d developed a sixth sense. If that sense was right this time, Malone was on his way to Salzburg. He’d been coy on the phone, but she knew better. Especially after she told him Cassiopeia was on her own. No way was he going to allow her to fly solo. Nothing would keep him away.

Sleep had fled her. She was wide awake.

And not just from the two phone calls.

Apprehension gnawed at her brain.

What was it she did not know?

TWENTY-FOUR

K
ALUNDBORG

S
ALAZAR COMPLETED ALL OF THE ARRANGEMENTS FOR HIS TRIP
to Salzburg. His latest toy, a Learjet 75, was waiting. A car was outside, ready to take him into town for Cassiopeia, then to the airfield. He’d altered the hotel reservations and the Goldener Hirsch had been accommodating, assuring him that two suites would be ready. The flight would take less than two hours, and he was looking forward to being back in the Austrian mountains. The weather should be lovely. He loved Salzburg. It was one of his favorite cities—and now the trip would be that much more enjoyable, thanks to Cassiopeia coming along.

The doors to his study opened. One of his two remaining men, a loyal Danite who’d been in Copenhagen, entered.

“Cotton Malone,” his man said, “is a bookseller in Copenhagen.”

“Yet he managed to kill two of our own.” Those deaths bothered him. He’d never lost a man before. “And Barry? Any sign of him?”

“We found the cell phone on a public bus, put there to lead us off the trail. Brother Kirk has made no contact since last night outside the bookstore.”

He knew what that meant.

Three men gone.

“Did you handle things?”

His acolyte nodded. “I personally disposed of the American agent’s body.”

“Any link to us with the two who will be found in the Øresund?”

“There should not be.”

He’d already been briefed on what had happened yesterday when another American agent had been cornered outside Kalundborg, then fled, stealing one of his prop planes—which, by now, from the reports he’d received, was at the bottom of the North Sea.

“Your assessment?” he asked.

He valued his men’s opinions. Good advisers made for good decisions. That was something all of the prophets had in common, counting on smart and obedient men to provide wisdom and guidance. He and his Danites served that function for Elder Rowan.

“Brother Kirk briefed me before he left for Sweden. He said the Americans’ interest piqued when he mentioned the death. They seem intent on finding whatever negatives they can.”

They’d used the possibility of a murder relative to the Rushton journal as a way to excite their enemy into making a mistake. And though the owner of the journal, which still lay on his desk, was indeed dead, nothing linked that to him—other than a wild assertion.

“Do you think they have Barry?” he asked.

Kirk’s task had been to learn what he could from the inside, then divert his saviors here. But something had gone wrong.

“It’s unlikely. How would they have known to plant the phone on the bus? Brother Kirk never would have told them anything voluntarily. In the square, just before Malone diverted the police our way, Brother Kirk signaled to me to stand ready. We were to follow using the phone tracker. I was the one who reported the killings on the water to the police. I gave them Malone’s location. It was meant to flush them out, keep things moving. But it backfired.”

That it had.

He recalled his conversation earlier with Elder Rowan. Things were happening across the Atlantic and he would soon be needed there. In the meantime Rowan had told him to learn what he could on this end.

And that was what he planned to do.

He reached for a remote control and pointed the device at a flat screen mounted on the far wall. The image that appeared was of the study, from last night, two men rummaging through the desk and examining the map on the easel, which had been left on display for a reason.

“Barry seems to have told them to come here, though, as we planned,” he said.

He and Kirk had agreed to lead the Americans so that, before killing them, they could see what might be learned when their enemy thought no one was listening. They would first find the body then, enraged, head for the main house. After saying what they might not otherwise say, they were to join their compatriot in eternity.

But that had not happened.

And from the time indicators on the video, he realized that the enemy had been inside the house as he and Cassiopeia had left. Which was never part of the plan.

Of course, as things unfolded last night he’d been unaware of any problems. From the text received at dinner, he’d believed all was proceeding smoothly.

“The younger man is the one who stole the plane and was in Copenhagen last night,” his man said. “That’s Malone studying the map.”

“Why are those states colored?” Malone asked. “And don’t tell me you don’t know. That call from Stephanie, in the car, was a briefing. I used to get them, too.”

“Those states are the problem.”

He watched as Malone pointed to Utah.

“And this?”

The answer to that question surprised him.

“It’s a complicated thing. Hard to believe, actually. But there’s a connection between Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, James Madison, and Abraham Lincoln. One that stretches straight back to the Founding Fathers.”

“Involving?”

“The U.S. Constitution.”

They watched as the two Americans found the auction brochure on the desk, the marked reference to the Book of Mormon being offered for sale. He clicked off the video, pleased that the microcamera installed in the ceiling had worked perfectly. They had, indeed, learned from their enemy.

“I’m leaving for Salzburg in a few minutes.”

“Will you be alone?”

“No. Miss Vitt will be joining me.”

“Is that wise?”

He recognized that this man’s job was to look after him, especially considering what had happened over the past twenty-four hours.

“She is a trusted old friend.”

“I didn’t meant to offend. It’s just that it might be better if this was handled by us alone.”

“I want her there.”

He wasn’t going to listen to any negativity toward Cassiopeia. He could still feel her lips on his skin and the exhilarating electricity that had swept through him. She’d given him no reason to doubt her in any way.

“It’s not a matter for debate.”

His man nodded.

“We owe Malone for our dead brothers,” he said, shifting the subject.

“I watched from shore as he killed them, powerless to do anything.”

“We must stand by one another and defend one another in all things,”
the angel said in his head.
“If our enemies swear against us, we can swear also. In this way we will consecrate much unto the Lord and build up His kingdom. Who can stand against us?”

No one.

“Be ready to leave shortly.”

His man left.

He thought about the coming few hours and wondered if they might have been too bold, too clever, providing their enemy too
much latitude. The idea of sending Kirk into their midst had made sense.

But it could have cost his friend’s life.

Perhaps one or both of the two Americans from yesterday would travel to Austria.

If so, he would learn Kirk’s fate and deal with them.

Heavenly Father might even smile upon him and send Cotton Malone.

TWENTY-FIVE

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

11:00
A.M
.

S
TEPHANIE RODE IN THE LIMOUSINE
, E
DWIN
D
AVIS BESIDE HER
. True to his word, after her Delta shuttle from Atlanta landed he’d met her at Reagan National. He’d told her to pack a bag, as she might be here for a few days. Beyond that, she had no idea what to expect.

Morning traffic puttered along, stop and go, the syrupy congestion continuing even after they exited the expressway. Davis had been cordial with his greeting but beyond that he’d been quiet, staring out the window. She, too, had watched as the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and the Capitol passed by. Though she’d lived and worked here off and on for over thirty years, the sights never failed to impress her.

“It’s interesting,” Davis said, his voice nearly a whisper. “All of this was started by a group of men holed up behind closed doors in the brutal heat of a Philadelphia summer.”

She agreed about the accomplishment. Fifty-five delegates from twelve states arrived in May and stayed until September 1787. Rhode Island never sent any representatives, refusing to participate, and two of the three New York delegates left early. But the men who remained managed a political miracle. Sixty percent of them had
participated in the Revolution. Most had served in both the Confederation and Continental Congresses. Several had been governors. Over half were trained as lawyers, the rest a varied lot—merchants, manufacturers, shippers, bankers, doctors, a minister, and several farmers. Twenty-five owned slaves. Two, George Washington and Gouverneur Morris, were among the wealthiest men in the country.

“You know what happened at the convention’s end?” Davis asked. “When it came time to sign.”

She nodded. “Only 42 were there that day, and just 39 signed.”

“Washington went first, then the representatives marched up, north to south, one state at a time. Nobody was really happy. Nathaniel Gorham, from Massachusetts, said he doubted the new nation would last 150 years. Yet here we are. Still going.”

She wondered about the cynicism.

“What happened during those few months in Philadelphia,” he said, “has become more legend than fact. Watch some of the cable news shows and you’d think those men could do no wrong.” He finally faced her. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“Edwin, I know the founders were flawed. I’ve read Madison’s notes.”

The definitive record of what happened in Philadelphia was James Madison’s
Notes of Debates in the Federal Convention of 1787
. Though not the convention’s official secretary, Madison kept a meticulous record, which he faithfully transcribed each evening. The delegates had first assembled to amend the impractical Articles of Confederation, but quickly decided to discard those articles entirely and draft a new constitution. Most states, if informed of that intent, would have recalled their delegates, ending the convention. So the proceedings were held in secret and, afterward, the working papers kept by the official secretary were destroyed. Only a tally of resolutions and votes survived. Other delegates kept notes, but Madison’s became the most authoritative account of day-to-day deliberations.

“The problem,” he said, “is that his record is not reliable.”

She knew that, too. “He didn’t publish them until 1840.”

And during those ensuing 53 years Madison admitted embellishing his remembrances, making countless emendations, deletions, and insertions. So many that it was now impossible to know what actually took place. Compounding things was Madison’s refusal to allow his record to be published until all of the convention members, including himself, were dead.