The Lincoln Myth (20 page)

If Charles R. Snow would just go and meet Heavenly Father.

All was right.

He stood from the table and faced his associates, like a general with his colonels.

“Gentlemen, just remember one thing. Unlike the first attempt at secession and the failed Confederacy, we’re going to win our war.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

S
ALZBURG, AUSTRIA

5:20
P.M
.

M
ALONE HAD VISITED
S
ALZBURG BEFORE
. G
UARDED ON ITS
flanks and rear by the towering Mönchsberg cliffs, the ancient town occupied both sides of the swift-moving Salzach River. A forest of church spires pierced the evening sky, gathered about cobbled squares and a maze of streets that, four hundred years ago, had formed a religious mecca. First a Roman trading center then a Christian outpost, it became a bishopric in the 8th century. Called the German Rome, its cathedrals and palaces were built to satisfy the lavish tastes that princes of the church had then demanded. Salt gave the province, the town, and the river its identity—culture, music, and art had provided its heritage.

He’d arrived on a flight from Copenhagen and taken a taxi into town. He chose a hotel near the Mozartplaz, a small establishment away from where he thought Salazar and Cassiopeia would be staying. He knew little about his adversary but enough to conclude that the Spaniard was at either the Hotel Sacher or the Goldener Hirsch. The Sacher sat across the river, near the Mirabell Palace, in what many called new town. The Goldener Hirsch occupied a more central locale in old town on Getreidegasse, one of the most famous shopping streets
in the world. He decided that the Goldener Hirsch was the best bet and walked there, following the pedestrian-only routes. Narrow houses rose on both sides, the fronts washed with green, tawny, or a rusty pink. Each was a backdrop for a canopy of black ironwork filigree, cantilevered signs announcing each business with an image depicting the appropriate guild. The one for the Goldener Hirsch was particularly fitting—a lacy grillwork supporting a leaping golden stag.

He entered through dark green wooden doors into a lobby filled with rural Bavarian furniture. A long mahogany desk ran its length toward a staircase and elevator. He decided the best way to handle matters was to act like he knew what he was doing.

“I’m here to see Senor Salazar,” he told the young woman behind the counter. She had a broad face and unblinking eyes and was dressed in a staff uniform, like the other two attendants standing nearby. He kept his gaze focused on her, as if expecting action on his request.

“He has only recently arrived,” the woman said. “And did not mention any guests were expected.”

He feigned annoyance. “I was told to be here now.”

“He’s in the restaurant,” one of the young men in uniform said.

He smiled at the attendant, then found a wad of cash he’d purposefully stuffed into his pant pocket and handed over twenty euros.

“Danke,”
he said, as the offering was accepted.

The woman threw him a look, as she realized her lost opportunity. He nearly smiled. Even in supposed highbrow accommodations with centuries-old traditions, money talked.

He’d stayed at the Goldener Hirsch before and knew that its restaurant was on the ground floor, on the opposite side of the building. He followed a narrow corridor through arches, past the bar, to its entrance. Once a blacksmith’s shop, it was now regarded as Salzburg’s swankiest place to eat, though he imagined there were other establishments that might challenge the assertion. Austrians tended to dine after seven o’clock, so the clothed tables with sparkling china and crystal were empty.

Except for one, near the center.

Where Salazar sat facing toward him and Cassiopeia away.

He stayed short of the doorway, concealing himself, and studied the Spaniard.

Whatever he chose to do next came with risk.

But he’d come this far.

S
ALAZAR WAS PLEASED
.

He and Cassiopeia had flown by private jet from Denmark to Salzburg, then checked into their suites. The auction was set to begin at 7:00
P.M.
, so they’d decided to have an early dinner. The event was to be held within the Hohensalzburg, a grim hulk of a fortress resting 120 meters above the city on a pine-clad granite mound. The castle was first built in the 11th century, but another six hundred years had been needed for its completion. Today it was a museum and tourist attraction that offered lovely panoramas. He thought a walk along its parapets before the auction would be perfect, especially considering the evening’s clear skies and seasonable air.

Cassiopeia looked lovely. She’d chosen a black silk pantsuit, low heels, moderate jewelry, and a gold belt that wrapped loosely around her trim waist. He had to catch himself from noticing her décolletage, framed by a low-cut blouse. Her dark hair hung in curled layers past her shoulders, her face cast in muted tones from only a touch of color. Some of the auctions he attended were formal affairs. This one tonight not so much, but he was glad that she’d nonetheless dressed for the occasion.

“Would it be inappropriate to say that you look stunning?”

She smiled. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

He’d asked the waiter to give them a few moments before offering anything to drink.

“We have time for a leisurely dinner,” he said. “Then I thought
we’d take the funicular up the mountainside to the castle. It’s the easiest way to get there.”

“That sounds perfect. Is the book the only thing you’re after at the auction?”

They’d discussed the sale on the plane. The greatest acquisition any collector of Saints’ artifacts could hope for was an original Book of Mormon. An 1830 American edition had been found among the personal effects of an Austrian who’d recently died. Auctions and private sales had been how most of his collection had been acquired, only a few items gifts or heirlooms. He’d known of this sale for some time, wanting to come, then the appearance of the Americans had added a new purpose.

The first agent in the cell had proven tight-lipped.

The second stole his plane and escaped.

The third was some sort of bookseller, working with his enemy, who killed at least two of his men.

And just now entered the restaurant.

Thank you.

“You’re welcome,”
the angel said.

M
ALONE CAUGHT
J
OSEPE
S
ALAZAR
’
S INTENSE SCRUTINY. BUT IF
the Spaniard recognized him, nothing in the man’s countenance betrayed the fact. The brown eyes remained expressionless. The Danites had surely reported his involvement, but that did not mean Salazar knew his face.

He approached and Salazar said, “May I help you?”

He slid a wooden chair from the adjacent table and, not waiting for an invitation, sat at their table.

“Name’s Cotton Malone.”

C
ASSIOPEIA HAD BEEN IN TIGHT SPOTS, A FEW EVEN LIFE
threatening, but she could not recall one more uncomfortable than this. Her first thought was wondering how Cotton had managed to be here, in Austria, at the Goldener Hirsch. The second was if Stephanie knew. Surely not. Or she would have warned her of the possibility, especially considering the consequences. The third was guilt. Had she betrayed Cotton? Did he think she had? What
did
he know?

“Is your name supposed to mean something to me?” Josepe asked.

“It should.”

“I’ve never met anyone with the name Cotton. I’m sure there’s a story there. Am I right?”

“A long one.”

She noticed that Cotton had not offered his hand to shake, and she did not like the hard look in his green eyes.

“And who are you?” he asked her.

“I’m not sure that matters, considering that neither one of us seems to know who you are.”

She kept her voice curt.

Face cold.

“I’
M AN AGENT FOR THE
U.S. J
USTICE
D
EPARTMENT
,” M
ALONE
said.

He hadn’t said those words in four years, not since he tendered his resignation and moved to Denmark.

“Is that said to frighten me?” Cassiopeia asked.

“Ma’am, you’ll have to excuse us. I’m here to talk with Mr. Salazar.”

“Are you telling me to mind my own business?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. It might be better if you waited outside.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Salazar said, a definite edge to his voice.

Keeping her here was fine by him. He’d missed seeing her. Hearing her voice. But, like her, he had to stay in character, so he asked, “Are you the lady’s protector?”

“What is your business with me?” Salazar asked.

He considered the question a moment, shrugged, and said, “Okay. If you want her here, then we’ll do this your way. Things have changed. Our investigation of you is no longer covert. It’s wide open, in your face. And I’m here to get the job done.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“Should I have the hotel call the police?” Cassiopeia asked Salazar.

“No, I can handle this.” Salazar faced him. “Mr. Malone, I have no idea what you are talking about. Are you saying the U. S. Justice Department is investigating me? If so, that is news. But if that is true, I have lawyers who look after my interests. If you’ll leave your card, I’ll have them contact you.”