The Lincoln Myth (Cotton Malone 9)

And one other thing. “The Constitution actually is hanging by a thread, and the Mormon Church holds the key.”

“We followed Rowan this morning to a meeting with the Utah congressional delegation and listened in. They’re ready to move on Utah’s secession. They have the votes and the political support. The people themselves may well sanction the move. All they need is that document signed in Philadelphia.”

But that wasn’t the only thing dangling.

“Any word from Cassiopeia?” he asked.

“Nothing. You’re going to have to lasso her in. She could screw all this up.”

“She’s a pro, Stephanie. No matter what, if she realizes the implications, she’ll handle it.”

“That’s just it, Cotton. We have no idea what Salazar has shared with her. It might not be enough for her to know what’s at stake. We need her out of this.”

He knew what that meant. “I’ll take care of that. No need to involve other agents. Let me handle her.”

“Can you?”

“What is it with you and Frat Boy? Both of you seem to think I’m some lovesick puppy. I can deal with Cassiopeia.”

“Okay. You get first crack. If she doesn’t stand down, then it’s my turn.”

LUKE DROVE HIS RENTAL CAR THROUGH THE STREETS OF DES Moines. The day was overcast, temperatures in the midsixties. He’d slept nearly the entire flight west on a military transport from Andrews Air Force Base to an Air National Guard facility outside town. His body was seriously jet-lagged, but he was accustomed to that feeling.

Stephanie had already informed him that they thought a place called Salisbury House may be Salazar’s destination, so he was driving there to give the locale a quick once over. She’d told him that Malone was on his way, but she’d yet to say when and where he was to meet the old-timer.

He followed the map app on his phone and entered a quiet neighborhood west of downtown. Salisbury House sat on the crest of a hill among a forest of oaks. The manor looked like something from the English countryside, built of flint, stone, and brick, with gables and a tiled roof. A placard out front detailed how it had once been a private residence, built by a wealthy Des Moines family. Now it was owned by a foundation.

Nobody was around.

But it was just after 10:00 A.M. He knew the Lincoln exhibit inside did not open until 6:00 P.M., this its last day before moving on to its next location.

He wheeled the car past the house. He was hungry and decided some pancakes and sausage would be good.

But first he had to make a call.

He eased the car onto the street’s grassy shoulder, trees casting the pavement in deep shadows. He found his phone and dialed his mother. When she answered he said, “I need to know something. Were Dad and Danny okay when Dad died?”

“I’ve wondered when we would have this talk.”

“Seems everyone was in the know but me and my brothers.”

He told her about the envelope.

“I made sure your father and his brother made their peace.”

“Why?”

“Because I did not want him to go to his grave with that unresolved. And neither did he, by the way. He was glad it was done.”

“Why didn’t he tell us himself?”

“There was too much happening. My God, Luke, he died so quickly. We decided to leave that till later.”

“It’s been thirteen years.”

“It was for your uncle to decide the time. We all agreed on that.”

“Why were Dad and Danny never close?” He truly wanted to know.

“Since childhood, they never were like brothers. Just not close. No one thing kept them apart. Over time, the distance between them grew and they both became accustomed to it. Then Mary died. Your father and your aunt blamed Danny.”

“But not you.”

“That would have been wrong. Danny worshiped Mary. She was everything to him. He didn’t kill her. It was a terrible accident. And Danny dealt with his pain by ignoring it. That’s not healthy, but it’s Danny’s way. I know, though, how much he’s suffered.”

He recalled what his uncle had said. “Danny said you dumped him.”

She laughed. “That I did. He and I dated a few times. But once I met your father that was it for me. Another man never entered my thoughts. I always understood Danny, though. I may be one of the few who do. Your cousin’s death sucked the life from him. Then he watched as his brother raised four strapping boys in a happy family. That had to be tough. Jealousy is not Danny’s style, but every time he looked at us he had to think of what might have been—if he’d just smoked outside.”

He could only imagine that guilt.

“Danny chose to deal with his loss by looking the other way. That’s why he never went to the grave. He simply couldn’t. Your father came to understand that. God bless him. He was such a good man. I was there when he wrote the note. There when he and Danny said their goodbyes. That happened just before we told you boys that your father was dying.”

His contact with his uncle had always been minimal, little to nothing in fact, the talk earlier their first since he was a boy.

“Luke, Danny is not a bad man. He’s looked after us, made sure everyone got what they wanted.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s helped out with your brothers, when needed, though they have no idea. You wanted to be an intelligence agent. He’s the one who had you steered to where you are. He and I spoke. He told me the Justice Department was the best place for you and he’d take care of it.”

“Sonovabitch,” he whispered. He never knew that.

“Don’t get the wrong idea. He didn’t order anybody to hire you. That was earned, by you. And he and I both agreed that if you couldn’t cut it then out you went. No favors. No special privileges. Nothing. Yes, he got you in the door, but you kept yourself there.”

“Does that mean I owe him or you?”

“Y

ou only owe yourself, Luke. Do your job. Make us all proud.”

She’d always known exactly what to say to him.

“I’m glad you called,” she told him.

“So am I.”

FIFTY-THREE

DES MOINES, IOWA

6:40 P.M.

CASSIOPEIA SETTLED INTO THE DRIVER’S SEAT WHILE JOSEPE climbed into the passenger side. His two associates occupied the rear seat. Josepe had arranged for a rental car to be waiting for them at a private terminal adjacent to the main airport. Before landing, she’d changed into a dark pantsuit with comfortable shoes, ready for what might lie ahead. The Learjet had been equipped with sophisticated communications equipment, so she was able to learn all about Salisbury House.

It was built by Carl and Edith Weeks in the 1920s, after an overseas trip ignited their passion to re-create an English manor house. They bought fourteen acres of timberland and built 28,000 square feet of house, 42 rooms, for them and their four boys. Inside they decorated with 10,000 pieces of art, statuary, tapestries, relics, and rare books, collected from their many travels. There were Tudor fireplaces, 15th-century oak paneling, and ceiling beams from a demolished British inn. Title to the house had been lost during the Depression, then passed through a succession of owners, until a foundation finally took control. Now it was a cultural center, museum, and rental space, a local landmark that was currently hosting a traveling Smithsonian exhibit that dealt with Abraham Lincoln.

She was able to download a PDF brochure on the house, which included a map of the two floors open to visitors. The exhibit was spread out between the Great Hall and the Common Room, both on the ground floor and near each other. She’d reserved a ticket online for the exhibition, then studied Google Maps to learn the local geography. Salisbury House was situated in a quiet residential neighborhood, surrounded by winding streets and older houses. Trees and gardens enclosed it on all sides. The plan was to drop Josepe and his men off at a hotel, then head for the exhibit, arriving after sunset, giving her the opportunity to reconnoiter the site and decide how best to accomplish her task.