The Lincoln Myth (Cotton Malone 9)

“The phone,” he said to Luke, who produced it.

He casually laid it inside the rear bumper.

The doors closed and the bus lumbered away, heading north toward the royal palace.

“That should keep whoever is coming occupied,” he said.

“You think he was tellin’ the truth about any of it?”

He nodded. “He took a chance showing his hand. But he thought he was in control and could handle things.”

“Yeah. Big mistake. He didn’t know he was dealing with a friggin’ wild cowboy.”

“We have to go see about where he mentioned, even though the whole thing smells like a trap.” He pointed south. “I have a car stored a few blocks over. Where is Salazar’s estate?”

“Kalundborg.”

THIRTEEN

KALUNDBORG, DENMARK

11:00 P.M.

SALAZAR WAS ENJOYING DINNER, THRILLED THAT CASSIOPEIA had, after all these years, returned to his life. Her calls a few months ago had been as welcome as they were unexpected. He’d missed her. She’d been his first love as a young man, the woman he’d come to believe might be his wife.

But sadly, their relationship ended.

“This is not going to work,” she said to him.

“I love you. You know that.”

“And I have deep feelings for you, but we have … differences.”

“Faith should not keep us apart.”

“But it does,” she said. “You’re a true believer. The Book of Mormon is sacred for you. The Words of Wisdom are a guide for your life. I respect that. But you have to respect that they are not the same for me.”

“Our parents believed, as I do.”

“And I didn’t agree with them, either.”

“So you’re willing to ignore your heart?”

“Before I grow to resent you, I think it’s better that we part friends.”

She was right on one count. His faith was important. No success can compensate for a failure in the home. That’s what David O. McKay taught. Only husbands and wives, acting together, can achieve eternal life in heaven. If either be proven unrighteous, both would be denied salvation. Marriage was an eternal bond—between a man and a woman—the family here a reflection of the family in heaven. Both had to be absolutely committed.

“I was so sorry to hear about your wife,” she said to him.

He’d married less than a year after he and Cassiopeia ended their relationship. A lovely woman from Madrid, born to the faith, devout in her following of the prophets. They’d tried to have children, but with no success, the doctors saying that the problem was most likely with her. He’d deemed it God’s will and accepted the prohibition. Then, four years ago, she was killed in a car accident. That, too, he’d accepted as God’s will. A sign, perhaps, for a change of direction. Now this vibrant, beautiful woman from his past had reappeared. Another sign?

“It had to be awful,” she said, and he appreciated her sentiment.

“I try to remember her carefully. The pain of her loss is still there. I can’t deny that. I suppose it’s why I have not sought another wife.” He hesitated a moment. “But I should be asking you this question. Did you ever marry?”

She shook her head. “Kind of sad, wouldn’t you say?”

He savored the cod he’d ordered and Cassiopeia seemed to like the Baltic shrimp that filled her plate. He noticed that she hadn’t ordered wine, preferring mineral water. Besides the clear religious prohibition, he’d always believed that alcohol made people say and do things they later regretted, so he’d never acquired the taste.

She looked terrific.

Her dark hair, twisted into curls, draped just below her shoulders and framed the same thin brows, brooding cheeks, and blunt nose he remembered. Her swarthy skin remained as smooth and unblemished as a bar of tan soap, her round neck sculpted like a column. The sensuality she projected was so calm and controlled, it might have been choreographed.

A true beauty from heaven.

“Love is that constant, never-failing quality that has the power to lift us above evil. It is the essence of the gospel. It is the security of the home. It is the safeguard of community life. It is a beacon of hope in a world of distress.”

That he knew.

He liked that the angel kept watch over him.

Never failing. Always right.

“What are you thinking?” Cassiopeia asked.

She drew his attention like a magnet.

“Just that it is truly wonderful to be back with you, if only for these few days.”

“Does it have to be limited to that?”

“Not at all. But I recall our last conversation from years ago, when you made clear how you felt about our faith. You have to know, nothing has changed for me.”

“But as I said earlier, things have changed … for me.”

He waited for her to explain.

“Recently, I did something I never did as a young girl.” She stared into his eyes. “I read the Book of Mormon. Every word. When I was done I realized that everything there was absolutely true.”

He stopped eating and listened.

“I then realized that my current lifestyle was not worthy of my birthright. I was born and baptized Mormon, but I’ve never been one. My father led one of the first stakes in Spain. Both my mother and father were devout believers. While they were alive, I was a good daughter and did as my parents asked.”

She paused.

“But I never really believed. So my realizations at reading it now were totally unexpected. Some unseen person kept whispering in my ear that what I was reading was true. Tears poured down my cheeks, as I finally recognized the gift of the Holy Ghost that I first received as a child.”

He’d heard similar stories from converts all across Europe. His own Spanish stake comprised nearly five thousand Saints scattered across twelve wards. As a member of the First Quorum of Seventy he oversaw stakes across the Continent. Every day new converts joined with the joy he now saw on Cassiopeia’s face.

Which was wonderful.

If it had been there eleven years ago, they would have surely been married. But perhaps heaven was offering them another chance?

“I was struck by the truthfulness of what I read,” she said. “I was convinced. I knew that the Holy Ghost had confirmed the truth of every page.”

“I recall my first time,” he said. “I w

as fifteen years old. My father read with me. I came to believe that Joseph Smith did see God and His Son in a vision, and was told to join no other religion. Instead, he was to restore the true church once again. That testimony has served me well over the years. It keeps me focused, willing to dedicate myself, with all my heart, to what has to be done.”

“I was foolish not to admire that,” she said, “all those years ago. I’ve wanted to tell you this. That’s why I’m here, Josepe.”

He was so pleased.

They ate in silence for a few moments. His nerves were alive, both from what had happened earlier and with what was happening now. He’d tried to call Elder Rowan and report what he’d learned from the captured agent, but had not been able to connect with him.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

Normally he’d ignore it, but he was waiting for a return call from Utah and a report from Copenhagen.

“Excuse me.”

He checked the display.

A text message.

FOLLOWING KIRK. ON THE MOVE.

“Problems?” Cassiopeia asked.

“On the contrary. Good news. Another successful business effort.”

“I’ve noticed that your family’s concerns have prospered,” she said. “Your father would be proud.”

“My brothers and sisters work hard in the company. They do the everyday work, and have for the past five years. They understand that the church now commands my full attention.”

“That’s not required for a member of the Seventy.”

He nodded. “I know. But I, personally, made that choice.”

“In preparation for the time when you’re sustained as an apostle?”

He smiled. “I have no idea if that will ever happen.”

“You seem ideal for the job.”

Maybe he was. He hoped so.

“You shall be chosen, Josepe. One day.”

“That,” he said, “will be a decision for Heavenly Father and the prophet.”

FOURTEEN

SALT LAKE CITY

ROWAN HELPED PROPHET SNOW UP THE STONE STEPS AND through the east entrance. Four days after the pioneers first entered the Salt Lake basin Brigham Young had stuck his cane into the ground and proclaimed, Here we will build a temple to our God. Construction began in 1853 and continued for forty years, most of the work donated by those first Saints. Only the finest materials had been used, the quartz monzonite for the two-hundred-foot-high walls carted by oxen from quarries twenty miles away. The finished walls were nine feet thick at the base, tapering to six feet at the top. Two hundred and fifty-three thousand square feet lay under the roof. Four stories, all topped by a gold statue of the angel Moroni that, together with its distinctive spires, had become the church’s most recognizable image.