The Lincoln Myth (Cotton Malone 9)

“What exactly is she doing for you?”

“I can’t go into that on this phone.”

“Luke said there’s something going on that involves the Founding Fathers.”

“It’s my mess, not yours.”

He hesitated a second before saying, “I agree. I also agree that Cassiopeia is a big girl. She can handle herself.”

“I’m sure she can. The question of the day is, can you?”

He could not bullshit Stephanie. She knew him, as he knew her.

“You love her, Cotton. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

“She didn’t involve me here. So it’s not my business. Like you say, we’re not married.”

“I’ve recalled Luke. He should be back here in the States shortly. Salazar’s men saw him and you, so his effectiveness there has been compromised.”

“Do Frat Boy and the president get along?”

“Luke has no idea that his uncle intervened on his behalf. That was another presidential condition.”

He was impressed Stephanie had done the favor. Not necessarily her style. But he’d learned from Cassiopeia that feelings existed between his former boss and the current president. Which had surprised him. But never had he and Stephanie spoken on the matter. Neither one of them liked to talk about those kinds of things.

“Hard to fault a boy who calls his mother every Sunday,” she said.

His own mother still lived in middle Georgia, on the sweet onion farm her family had owned for over a century. But unlike Luke Daniels, he did not call every week. Major holidays, birthdays, Mother’s Day. That was the extent of his contact. She never complained, but that was her way. A negative word never came from her mouth. How old was she now? Seventy? Seventy-five? He wasn’t sure. Why didn’t he know his mother’s age?

“And I made a call to Copenhagen,” she said. “The locals won’t be bothering you.”

He’d wondered why the bookshop had not been overrun with police.

“They broke my front door glass.”

“Send me the bill.”

“I just might.”

“I know you’re pissed,” she said. “I can’t blame you. But, Cotton, you’re going to leave Cassiopeia alone, right? We can’t risk her. Leave her be, until this is over. Like you say, she’s a big girl. There are no more agents backing her up. She’s on her own.”

“Whatever you say.”

He ended the call and stared down at the travel bag.

He was being played again.

No question.

He slipped the Beretta back into the knapsack and slid the bag beneath his bed. Unfortunately, he could not tote the weapon with him. Not allowed on planes, and checking it raised questions he preferred not answering. That was another perk that had come from carrying government credentials.

No matter. He’d adapt.

The U. S. government employed thousands of agents whose job it was to guard the national interests. He once worked as one. His job now was more personal. What had Stephanie just said about Cassiopeia? No more agents backing her up. She’s on her own.

Not exactly.

And Stephanie knew it.

He needed to hurry.

His flight to Salzburg left in two hours.

TWENTY-THREE

KALUNDBORG

CASSIOPEIA FINISHED PACKING HER BAG. SHE’D BROUGHT PRECIOUS little, just a few outfits, the ensembles interchangeable for a variety of looks. She’d expected to be gone only a few days. Now her trip had been extended. The French doors were swung open, offering a spectacular view of the fjord and the Great Belt Strait, the gray-brown waters stirred by a stiff easterly breeze. Josepe had arranged her accommodations at the seaside inn, purposefully not allowing her to stay at his estate. That could be because he preferred to keep their relationship on a proper level, or it could be because he did not want her there. She’d been in Denmark three days and last night was the first time he’d taken her for a visit.

Everything that happened last night disturbed her.

Kissing Josepe again, after so many years, had brought back memories she’d thought were gone. He’d been her first love, and she his. He’d always been a perfect gentleman toward her, their relationship loving but never passionate. Church doctrine forbade premarital sex. So her offer to stay the night with him had been risky, but not overly so. If nothing else, the gesture had further ingratiated her.

She still felt awful deceiving him, regretting more by the minute her participation in this charade. When she’d agreed to help she hadn’t known that he still harbored such deep feelings. Sure, Stephanie had told her of the photograph, but that could have been explained in many ways. Instead the actual explanation had become abundantly clear.

Josepe cared for her.

She arranged the last of her clothes in the bag and zipped it shut.

She should stop this farce. That was the right thing to do. But the allegation of murder counseled otherwise. Mormonism abhorred violence. Sure, once, long ago, things had been different and Saints had dished out their share. But that had been a matter of survival. An issue of self-defense, a sign of those times. Josepe was a devout believer in church doctrine, which forbade harm to others, so why would he venture away from principles so fundamental? There had to be another explanation. One that did not link him with murder.

She checked her watch: 9:30 A.M.

He would be here soon.

She walked to the open doors and listened to the rhythmic beat of the surf and the cries of birds.

Her cell phone chimed.

“We had an incident last night,” Stephanie said when she answered.

She listened to what had happened on the Øresund and in Copenhagen with one of Josepe’s associates.

“I had to involve Cotton,” Stephanie said. “He was all I had at the moment. He handled it, but he killed three men.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“Anything on your missing man?”

“Still missing. The men who came after Cotton were Danites in Salazar’s employ.”

Danites? She recalled reading about them as a teenager, but they no longer existed, extinct since the 19th century. “I’ve seen no evidence of that here.” Then she reported what had happened between her and Josepe. “He cares for me a great deal. I feel like a cheat. I should get out of this.”

“I need you to hang with it a little longer. Things have escalated on this end, and I’ll be learning more today. Go to Salzburg with him and see what you might pick up. After that, you can leave. He’ll never know the difference.”

“But I will. I lied to Cotton, too. He would not be happy with what I’m doing.”

“You’re assisting a U.S. intelligence operation. That’s all. The Elder Rowan, Salazar mentioned, is Senator Thaddeus Rowan of Utah.”

She explained about the map in Josepe’s study. “Utah was highlighted in yellow. The other five states in pink.”

“Which ones?”

She told her.

“At the moment, Senator Rowan has me in his congressional sights. That great mission Salazar mentioned? That’s what we need to find out about. It’s important, Cassiopeia. And you’re our fastest way in.”

“I need to call Cotton.”

“Let’s not do that. He seems okay. He helped me out last night and now he’s back to work at his bookshop.”

But she wasn’t okay.

She felt alone.

And that bothered her.

She’d been thinking about Cotton all morning. Technically, what she’d done with Josepe wasn’t cheating. More a deception. Interesting the differences between the two men. Where Cotton was unassuming, reserved, and stingy with his emotions, Josepe was flamboyant, warm, and loving. His deep religious beliefs were both an asset and a curse. Both were strikingly handsome, alpha males, sure and confident. Both possessed flaws. She wasn’t sure why comparisons had become relevant, only that, ever since last night, she’d been making them.

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“Play this out a little longer,” Stephanie said.

“I’m not okay with this anymore.”

“I hear that, but there’s a lot at stake. And, Cassiopeia, no matter what you want to believe, Salazar is not an innocent.”

STEPHANIE 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.