The Lincoln Myth

by Steve Berry

  “It may require the theft of the watch.”

  “Normally I would say no, but we’re reaching a critical juncture and need answers fast. Do whatever is necessary. But proceed with great caution.”

  He understood.

  “If it turns out to be a dead end,” Rowans said, “we will regroup in Salt Lake and decide what to do next.”

  He abridged a report of what had happened the night before, saying only that he’d been able to determine that the Americans were intently focused on precisely what they were after.

  “Though I’m still unclear as to how much they know,” he said.

  “I believe I can determine that from this end,” Rowan said. “There’s no need for you to deal with them anymore. Can you slip away?”

  “I’ll be in the air in the next two hours.”

  CASSIOPEIA SAT IN SILENCE. WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN next? How much worse could this get? A gentle rap brought her back to reality. She opened the door to find Josepe and invited him inside.

  “We have to leave,” he said.

  She caught the we.

  “I need to travel to the United States. Iowa.”

  She’d never visited that state before. “Why?”

  “That project I told you about for Elder Rowan. There is an artifact I must examine.” He hesitated. “It might be necessary to steal the object, just temporarily, so it can be studied.”

  “I can manage that.”

  He seemed surprised at her complicity.

  “Stealing is a sin,” he said.

  “You said you were merely borrowing it for a short time. I assume it will be returned?”

  He nodded.

  “Then that’s not theft.”

  “Elder Rowan says it’s necessary. This mission is of tremendous importance. As you’ve seen, the Americans are trying to stop us. So we need to leave quickly and quietly.”

  She wondered about Cotton. He would not give up. And Stephanie. No retreat there, either.

  “I’ll tell you more during the flight,” he said. “I promise. It’s another Great Trek. Perhaps the Saints’ greatest journey ever. More exciting than you can imagine.”

  The first Great Trek had started in 1847. Wagons, handcarts, and, for many, their own two legs were used to make the thousand-plus-mile trip west. The route along the north bank of the Platte River, over the Continental Divide, through the valley of the Sweet-water River, then into the Salt Lake basin became known as the Mormon Trail. Her father had spoken of it many times with reverence. From 1847 to 1869, 70,000 of the faithful made the journey, each one labeled a pioneer.

  He gently grasped her hand. “We, too, are pioneers. But in a new and exciting way. I’ll tell you everything on the way.”

  He swept her into his arms and they kissed.

  She felt his intensity.

  “I love you,” he said.

  His eyes confirmed his words.

  “I have since we were young,” he said. “Our parting—broke my heart. But I respected your decision. I must confess something. I keep a photograph of us in my house in Spain. I found it a few years ago, after my wife died. When my heart was sad and empty, I found that the picture brought me joy.”

  Why was it that every man who showed her interest came with his own assortment of problems? It had started with Josepe and his religion, then continued through a litany of suitors, all of them wonderful in one respect, awful in another. Now she seemed to have come full circle. Back to the beginning. Part of her cared for this man, part was repulsed. And she was not sure which side of her should prevail.

  But she had to find out.

  “This time I will not force a choice,” he said. “You can decide in your own way and in your own time. That lesson I did learn long ago.”

  She appreciated that on a multitude of levels. “Thank you.”

  “I need your help,” he said.

  “It’s significant that you trust me enough to include me. I won’t let you down.”

  He smiled.

  “You never have.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  SALZBURG

  MALONE WAS FOUR HUNDRED FEET ABOVE SALZBURG, ATOP the pine-clad escarpment known as Mönchsberg. The air was cold, his exhales rising in white columns. Hohensalzburg’s gray hulk rose to his right, the local museum of modern art, clad in minimalist white marble, to his left. Beyond the museum stood the Mönchstein—a former castle, now a luxury hotel. Rays from the morning sun blazed off its shiny windows in brilliant reds, golds, and yellows. He knew this mound of rock, made of crushed river stone deposited for eons, liked to fall away in avalanches. One in the 17th century killed a couple hundred townspeople as they slept in their beds. Today there were inspectors who made sure the cliff face remained free of danger, and he’d spotted the mountaineers at work on his way up.

  He’d risen early and walked from his hotel, approaching the Goldener Hirsch with caution. High above, among the trees on the Mönchsberg plateau, he’d caught sight of a man keeping watch. He’d thought at first it was simply another early riser, but when the tiny figure never moved from his perch he decided that one of the Danites had decided to make use of the high ground.

  The Goldener Hirsch was directly below, the entrance to the restaurant visible, as was a busy boulevard with cars winding a path around the pedestrian-only old town. He assumed the other Danite was watching the hotel’s second entrance onto Getreidegasse.

  Tall lime and chestnut trees formed an unbroken canopy above him, providing shade. He’d made his way up using the same footpath as last night, rounding the fortress and walking the quarter mile across the top of the escarpment. Below him, cut through the rock, was the Sigmundstor, a four-hundred-foot-long tunnel with elaborate Baroque portals on both ends. Cars whizzed in and out of the entrance on this side of the Mönchsberg, stopping occasionally at a traffic signal directly in front of the Goldener Hirsch.

  Surrounding him was a manicured wilderness park of trees, grass, and shrubs. He’d managed to close within fifty yards of the Danite, close enough to the edge that he could also see below. What happened last night surely had spooked Salazar, so he was apparently taking no chances, his men ready for anything. He was still in the dark as to what was going on, but none of that really mattered anymore.

  Cassiopeia was the problem.

  Her visit had haunted him.

  She was not the same.

  The last time they were together, three weeks back, had been so different. They’d spent the weekend in Avignon, enjoying the old city, dining at cafés lining its cobbled streets. They’d stayed in a quaint inn, an iron terrace offering stunning views of the former papal palace. Everything had been wonderful. Just like other times they’d spent together, outside some crisis.

  Maybe that was it?

  Too many crises.

  That he could understand. Like him, Cassiopeia seemed to thrive on adventure.

  But at what price?

  He huddled close to the trunk of a massive chestnut tree, the young Danite’s attention remaining downward. He, too, glanced out at the city, preparing itself for another busy day. Salzburg was a town of walkers, each seemingly with little time for dawdling.

  A siren wailed in the distance.

  He spotted the footbridge that led from the old to the new city, spanning the river. He knew what adorned its railings. Tiny locks, all shapes and sizes, each clamped tight to metal fencing. On each was scrawled some form of affection signifying a union of two people. Usually initials joined with and surrounded by hearts. Symbols of love, hundreds of them. A local tradition. Like the way folks in the South carved hearts into trees.

  He’d never really understood any of that sentiment—until recently.

  He felt a strange uneasiness coupled with a touch of anger. He was glad to be alone, since he was not in a talkative mood. Silence enveloped him, which he welcomed. He liked to think that he wasn’t cynical. More pragmatic.

  But maybe he was just a fool.

  He thrust his han
ds into his jacket pockets.

  Below, he spotted Cassiopeia emerge from the hotel.

  Then Salazar.

  Behind them came two bellmen carrying their bags.

  A car eased from the street and parked in one of the empty spaces facing the hotel.

  They both climbed inside.

  He heard the growl of an engine nearby and spotted a light-colored Audi negotiating the paved lane that bisected the woods. It was possible to drive to the top from the mound’s far side, the one facing Salzburg’s eastern suburbs. He used the tree for cover and watched as the Danite fled his post and broke into a sprint.

  The young man climbed inside and the vehicle sped away.

  Seemed everyone was leaving.

  No surprise.

  Which was why his own bag was packed at his hotel.

  STEPHANIE WAITED AS DANNY DANIELS DIGESTED WHAT KATIE had read to them. The implications were beyond dispute. The Founding Fathers had expressly fashioned a way for a state to withdraw from the Union, if that state so desired. But they’d been smart and not included the language in the Constitution. Instead, a separate agreement had been executed that could be used, if needed, to ease any apprehension a ratifying state might have on losing its sovereignty.

  What had the Supreme Court said in Texas v. White?

  Our conclusion therefore is, that Texas continued to be a State, and a State of the Union, notwithstanding the transactions to which we have referred. And this conclusion, in our judgment, is not in conflict with any act or declaration of any department of the National government.

  But it was.

  It directly conflicted with the founders themselves.

  “The whole convention was held in secret,” the president said. “They changed everything behind closed doors, going against the entire intent of why they were there. That’s bad enough, then they go and do this.”

  “The Civil War was fought for nothing,” Katie said. “All those men died for nothing.”

  “What do you mean?” Luke asked.

  “It’s real simple,” the president said. “Lincoln decided the Union was forever. You can’t leave it. No discussion, no debate. He made that call himself. Then he fought a war to prove his point. But guess what. You actually can leave. It’s not forever. Which makes sense. I’ve never believed the founders forged a Union that could never be dissolved. They’d just fought off totalitarianism. Why would they then create a whole new version?”

  Stephanie asked the question she knew Danny was thinking. “Did Lincoln know this?”

  “Mary Todd seemed to think so.”

  And she agreed, recalling the former First Lady’s letter to Ulysses Grant.

  His anguish during the war was deep and profound. I always thought it a consequence of being the commander in chief, but once he told me that it was because of the message.

  “Yet he fought the war anyway,” she said.

  Daniels shrugged. “What choice did he have? It was either that or shut the whole damn country down.”

  “He should have let the people make that call.”

  “This journal is useless,” Katie said.

  Daniels nodded. “You got that right. It’s a good starting point, shows intent, but it’s not enough for anyone who wants to prove the point. To conclusively show that secession is legal, you’d need what they signed.”

  The president’s eyes said what Stephanie was thinking.

  And it was sent to Brigham Young.

  She faced Luke. “Which you’re going to find.”

  “And where do I look?”

  Her phone vibrated.

  She checked the display.

  “I have to take this. It’s Cotton.”

  She stood to leave.

  “Take this one with you,” the president said, pointing to Katie. “I want to speak with my nephew alone.”

  MALONE HELD HIS IPHONE IN ONE HAND, THE OTHER PROPPED against the side of a building. He’d made his way down from the Mönchsberg and back to his hotel, taking a cab to the Salzburg airport. He’d been fairly sure Salazar would be bugging out today. Not so clear, though, was his own destination.

  “Cassiopeia and Salazar have left,” he told Stephanie.

  “She failed to check in with me.”

  “She’s pissed. I imagine she’s gone off the grid.”

  He reported what happened with her visit to his room.

  “I lied to her,” Stephanie said. “I didn’t tell her about you.”

  “Which she clearly didn’t appreciate.”

  “I don’t have time to worry about her feelings. We have a situation here, and we need her help.”

  “She doesn’t give a damn about your situation. This is about her and dear Josepe. Or at least that’s how it appears. She’s managed to worm her way close. That I’ll give her. But I’m not sure she knows what to do now that she’s there. Her head’s screwed up.”

  “Cotton, I can’t afford her going Lone Ranger right now. I need a team, working together.”

  “I’m thinking about going home.”

  And he was. This wasn’t his fight, and he needed to butt out.

  “Salazar practically admitted to me he killed your man. I don’t think Cassiopeia heard that. If she did, then her head is beyond screwed up. I think she’s operating in the dark. She doesn’t want to believe that he’s a loose cannon. And she wants me out of this. Now.”

  “Where’s Salazar headed?”

  She knew him perfectly, knowing he would not have called until he had the answers to all her questions. He’d flashed his badge inside the terminal and obtained the flight plan.

  “Des Moines, Iowa.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My reaction, too. Not your usual destination.”

  “I need you to stay on this one,” she said.

  He didn’t want to hear that. “Salazar told me that this has to do with something he called the White Horse Prophecy. You need to find out what that is.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you already have?”

  He ignored her observation and asked, “Where’s Frat Boy?”

  “I’m sending him to Iowa, as soon as we’re through talking.”

  “I should go home.”

  “It was my mistake involving amateurs. I thought, based on past experience, Cassiopeia could handle this. She was actually the only one who could at the time. But this has changed. Salazar is dangerous. And like you say, she’s not thinking clearly.”

  “Stephanie, there comes a time when you have to leave it be. Cassiopeia wants to handle this her way. Let her.”

  “I can’t, Cotton.”

  Her voice had risen. Which was unusual.

  He’d debated this decision all night. He’d walked to the top of the Mönchsberg to take out his frustrations on one of the Danites. The plan had been to beat whatever information he needed out of the young man. But Salazar’s abrupt departure had quelled the urge. He could easily take a flight back to Copenhagen and sell books, waiting to see if Cassiopeia Vitt ever spoke to him again.

  Or he could stay involved—her wishes be damned.

  “I’ll need a fast lift to Iowa.”

  “Sit tight,” she said. “One’s on the way.”

  FORTY-NINE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  LUKE SAT SILENT AND WAITED FOR HIS UNCLE TO MAKE THE first move.

  “How have you been?” the president asked.

  “That the best you got?”

  “I speak to your mother regularly. She tells me she’s doing good. I’m always glad to hear that.”

  “For some reason she likes you,” he said, “I never could figure that one out.”

  “Maybe it’s because you just don’t know everything about everything.”

  “I know that my daddy thought you were a horse’s ass and, by the way, that’s my opinion of you, too.”

  “You talk awful tough to a man who could fire you in an instant.”

  “Like I give a crap what you do.”

&n
bsp; “You’re so much like him, it’s scary. Your brothers are more like your mother. But you.” His uncle pointed at him. “You’re a carbon copy of him.”

  “That’s about the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  “I’m not as bad as you think I am.”

  “I don’t think about you at all.”

  “Does all this resentment come from what happened to Mary?”

  They’d never had this conversation before. Danny’s only daughter, Mary, his cousin, was killed in a house fire when she was a little girl, her father helpless to do anything, listening as she pleaded to be saved. The fire had started from an ashtray where Danny had left a cigar. Luke’s aunt Pauline had repeatedly asked her husband not to smoke in the house, but Danny being Danny ignored her and did what he wanted. Mary was buried in the family plot, among the tall pines of Tennessee. The next day Danny had attended a city council meeting as if nothing had happened. He went on to be mayor, a state senator, governor, and finally president.

  “Never once has he visited that child’s grave,” Luke’s father had said many times.

  Aunt Pauline never forgave her husband, and after that their marriage became something only for show. Luke’s father never forgave Danny, either. Not for the cigar, and certainly not for the callous indifference.

  “You did good tonight,” Danny said to him. “I wanted you to know that I have confidence in you.”

  “Gee, I’ll sleep better knowin’ that.”

  “You’re a cocksure little thing, aren’t you.”

  His uncle’s voice had risen a few notches, the face scrunched tight.

  “Maybe I get that from you.”

  “Contrary to what you might think. I loved your daddy, and he loved me. We were brothers.”

  “My daddy thought you were an asshole.”

  “I was.”

  That admission shocked him. So long as it was confession night, he wanted to know, “Why is it my mama has a soft spot for you?”