The Lincoln Myth (Cotton Malone 9)

“Take it as a promise.”

Malone chuckled as he laid the book back inside the box and

sealed the lid. “I’ll do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

“Know that there are more treasures than one for you in this world,” the angel told Salazar. “Worry not over the loss of this one. But neither allow the enemy to walk easy.”

The auction house was holding a reception after the sale, one he’d originally planned to attend.

Not anymore.

He and Cassiopeia descended to the castle’s lower level and made their way to the funicular station. The route took them across another of the castle’s open terraces, past a restaurant busy with evening diners. He pointed beyond the parapets, eastward, where she could see the streets and building lights of Salzburg’s antiseptic suburbs.

“The local ward is headquartered down there. I should call and schedule a visit before we leave town.”

“We can do that tomorrow,” Cassiopeia said.

They entered the station and found the railcar. Inside stood Cotton Malone. The interior was claustrophobic, the car nearly full. A few more people trickled inside, then the doors shut and the steep descent began. He kept his attention out the forward windows for the entire minute of the journey.

At ground level, they exited and found the street.

Malone passed them and kept walking.

His two Danites were waiting where he’d directed them to be earlier.

“I thought we’d take a stroll through the streets of old town,” he said to Cassiopeia. “Before heading back to the hotel. It’s a lovely night.”

“I’d like that.”

“Let me speak a moment with my associates. I had asked them to be here so they might take charge of my purchase. Of course, I don’t have one now.”

He left her and walked to his men. With his back to Cassiopeia he stared at them both and said, “I assume you saw Malone?”

They nodded.

“Seize him. Call me when you have him. And retrieve that wooden box he’s holding.”

THIRTY-THREE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

1:00 P.M.

LUKE HAD NOT BEEN HOME IN SEVERAL WEEKS. HE LEASED AN apartment near Georgetown in an ivy-veined brick building brimming with tenants in their seventies. He liked the quiet and appreciated the fact that everyone seemed to mind their own business. He spent only a few days here each month, between assignments, on the downtime Stephanie Nelle required all her Magellan Billet agents to take.

He’d been born and raised in a small Tennessee town where his father and uncle were both known, particularly his uncle, who served in various local political offices, then as governor before becoming president. His father died when he was seventeen. Cancer. Fatal eighteen days after diagnosis. What a shock. He and his three brothers had been there for every moment of those final days. His mother took the loss hard. They’d been married a long time. Her husband was everything to her, and then, suddenly, he was gone.

That’s why he called her every Sunday.

Never missed.

Even when on assignment.

It might be late at night her time when he had the chance, but he called. His father always said that the smartest thing he ever did was marry her, proclaiming that even the blind-eyed biscuit thrower occasionally hits the target.

Both his parents were devoutly religious—Southern Baptists—so they’d named their sons to correspond with the books of the New Testament. His two older brothers were Matthew and Mark. His younger, John. He was the third in line and acquired the name Luke.

He would never forget his last conversation with his father.

“I’m going to die later today or tomorrow. I’m done. I can feel it. But I have to say this to you. I want you to make something of your life. Okay? Something good. You choose what works. Doesn’t matter. But, whatever it is, make the most of it.”

He could still feel the gentle grip of his father’s sweaty palm as they shook hands for the last time. All of the sons had been close to their father. And he’d known exactly what his dad had meant. School had never interested him, his grades barely passing. College was not in his future. So he’d enlisted right out of high school and was accepted for Army Ranger training. Sixty-one of the hardest days of his life. Not for the weak or fainthearted—that’s what it said right in the Ranger handbook. Kind of an understatement, considering the failure rate was way over 50 percent. But he’d made it, earning his lieutenant bars. Eventually he’d been deployed to some of the hottest spots on the planet, wounded twice, and received multiple commendations.

His father would have been proud.

Then he was chosen to work for the Magellan Billet, where he’d been involved in more high-stakes action.

He was now thirty years old, and the loss of his dad still hurt. What was the saying? Real men don’t cry. Bullshit. Real men bawl their eyes out, as he and his brothers had thirteen years ago when they watched the man they idolized take his last breath.

A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts.

He’d been sitting in the quiet for half an hour, shaking off jet lag, trying to re-acclimate himself to Eastern Daylight Time. He opened the door to find Stephanie Nelle. He was not aware that she knew where he lived.

“We have to talk,” she said. “May I come in?”

She stepped inside and he caught her taking in the décor.

“Not what I expected,” she said.

He prided himself on the warm look, most of which came with the unit but some of which he’d selected. Masculine, but not overly so. Wood furniture. Muted fabrics. Lots of greenery, all fake but looking real. Contrary to what people thought, he liked order.

“You were expecting a college dorm room?”

“I’m not sure. But this is lovely.”

“I like it here—the few days a month I get to enjoy it.”

She stood, arms at her sides. “You and Cotton part okay?”

“He nearly killed me. He shot Kirk right over my shoulder.”

“I doubt you were in any danger. Cotton knows how to handle a weapon.”

“Maybe so. But I was glad to be rid of the old-timer. He has a piss-poor attitude.”

“That old-timer was awarded every commendation we have, every one of which he refused.”

“Was. That’s the key word. He walked away. His time is done. And let me tell you, he didn’t like watching his girl kiss Salazar one bit. It messed him up, though he tried to hide it. But on that I can’t blame him. I did what you said, though. I aggravated him. Tried to keep him interested. Then I fed him the information about the Founding Fathers and the Constitution. Unfortunately, he didn’t take the bait and hang around.”

“He’s in Salzburg.”

That surprised him. “And you’re thinking that’s a good thing?”

“Cotton’s a pro. He’ll handle things right.”

“If you say so. I say his head isn’t screwed on for this one.”

“I just came from your uncle.”

“And how is dear Danny? I don’t think I’ve heard from him since my dad died.”

“He’s concerned.” She paused. “And I’m about to be fired.”

“Really now? What did you do?”

“Seems I’m a thief. A situation fabricated for the benefit of Thaddeus Rowan. It’s time for you to know some additional information, so listen up.”

STEPHANIE LIKED LUKE, THOUGH HE WAS A WILD SPIRIT. SHE envied that freedom. How liberating it must be to have so much life ahead of you. She’d been there once, intent on making the most of every opportunity. Some she maximized, others eluded her. She’d sat at the dining room table in the vice president’s mansion for over an hour and listened as Danny Daniels told her more of what was going on.

Thaddeus Rowan was planning a secession.

He wanted to dissolve the Union and end the United States of America.

Ordinarily, that would be treated as nonsense, but Rowan had a specific plan with specific objectives, all of which—thanks to James Madison, Abraham Lincoln, and Brigham Young—might be achievabl

e. She could not, and would not, reveal all that she knew to Luke, but she told him enough so that he could do his job.

“You’re going to Montpelier and into that ice pit,” she said. “I want to know what, if anything, is there.”

Luke stepped over to his Magellan Billet–issued laptop and she watched as he pecked at the keyboard. His fingertips then maneuvered the cursor and a couple of clicks led to Montpelier.org.

“That pit was dug in the early 1800s,” he said. “Twenty-three feet deep, brick-lined. Madison built the temple over it around 1810. How could there be anything secret down there? It’s surely been picked over for years.”

“Maybe not. I also checked. There’s not a single photograph of what the inside looks like posted anywhere on the Web. Kind of strange, wouldn’t you say? We don’t have a clue what’s down there.”

“How do you suggest I get in?”

“Break and enter.”

“Can’t we just ask to see it?”

She shook her head. “We can’t involve anyone. It’s just you and me. Not even Atlanta knows what we’re doing. Get in, find out if Madison left anything, and get out. But don’t. Get. Caught.”

“I can handle that.”

“I knew you could. I’ll be available by cell. Let me know the minute you’re done.”

“How did you know Malone would go to Salzburg?”

“Because he cares for Cassiopeia. He wasn’t going to allow her to fly blind, now that he knows she’s there and Salazar killed our man. He’s probably even a little jealous, which is good for him. He’ll give Salazar just what the bastard deserves.”

“Salazar needs taking down.”

“I agree. And we’ll get our shot. But not just yet.”

“Does my loving uncle know I’m working this?”

She nodded. “He approves.”

Luke chuckled. “I bet he does. He’d sooner bust my chops than look at me.”