The Lincoln Myth (36 page)

“Much has happened here,” Rowan said.

He listened as his superior explained what was found last night in the Library of Congress.

“It was amazing,” Rowan said. “Lincoln himself left the map. Everything we suspected about the Prophet Brigham has now been confirmed. I’m convinced that what we’re after still exists.”

He could hear excitement, which was rare for the senator.

“The map is identical to the one Young left in the cornerstone,” Rowan said. “Except that Lincoln’s is labeled, save for the missing end piece. I suspect the reference to Romans 13:11 will fill in that blank.”

He knew the passage.

And that, knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer than we believed
.

“Any thoughts?” Rowan asked.

“The passage speaks of time and salvation.”

He stepped to his laptop and typed
LINCOLN
and
ROMANS
into the search engine. Nothing relevant appeared on the first few pages.

He knew Romans 13:11 taught that the journey for salvation was coming to an end. Time to make yourselves ready. The night was far spent, the day at hand. Time to cast off the sinful works of darkness.

So he tried
LINCOLN
and
TIME
.

More unimportant sites were referenced until he scanned the fourth page into the search engine and noticed a headline.
SECRET IN LINCOLN’S WATCH IS OUT
. He clicked on the link and discovered that for 150 years a story had circulated about some sort of hidden Civil War message inside Lincoln’s pocket watch. The timepiece was now part of the collection at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. Responding to the rumors, a few years ago curators allowed the watch to be opened and found a message.
APRIL 13 — 1861. FORT SUMTER WAS ATTACKED BY THE REBELS ON THE ABOVE DATE. J DILLON. THANK GOD WE HAVE A GOVERNMENT
.

It seemed that the watchmaker had worked on Pennsylvania Avenue, the only Union sympathizer in the shop. He was repairing Lincoln’s gold hunting-case, English-lever watch on April 12, 1861, the day the first shot was fired at Fort Sumter. Upset, he scrawled his message of hope inside. During the 18th and 19th centuries professional watchmakers often recorded their work inside a watch, but such messages were typically seen only by other craftsmen. No one knew if Lincoln was aware of the message. The president had purchased the watch in the 1850s, supposedly the first one he ever owned.

He read more from the site, which noted that the watch came to the museum as a gift from Lincoln’s great-grandson. But what appeared at the end of the article piqued his interest.

The watch was made in Liverpool, but the maker is unknown. Some sources reported that the watch never ran properly. Not surprising given that, once opened, the 3rd and 4th wheel jewels were missing. Lincoln also owned and carried an 18-size, 11-jewel, Waltham “Wm. Ellery” model, key wind, in a silver hunter case. That watch was also donated to the Smithsonian, where it is part of their American history collection.

He told Elder Rowan what he’d found.

“A fine gold watch was a symbol of success in Lincoln’s time,” Rowan said. “Both my father and grandfather carried one. Lincoln, as a prominent Illinois lawyer, would have, too.”

He found images of Lincoln, some of the earliest photographs ever taken, and noticed that in most a watch chain was visible. Then he searched for the second timepiece and discovered that it had never been opened, currently part of a traveling Smithsonian exhibit on Lincoln.

Now in Des Moines, Iowa.

“You think, perhaps, there’s a message inside that watch, too?” Rowan asked.

“Lincoln chose his biblical passage with care. There are distinct references to time in Romans 13:11. Salvation being near. And Lincoln would have worn his watch every day.”

“Brigham Young wrote in his message,” Rowan said, “that Lincoln kept the most important part of the secret close to him every day. Two days ago I would have said all of this was a far-fetched notion. But not anymore. It seems that both Brother Brigham and Mr. Lincoln reveled in their mysteries. Can you go to Iowa and see for sure?”

“It may require the theft of the watch.”

“Normally I would say no, but we’re reaching a critical juncture and need answers fast. Do whatever is necessary. But proceed with great caution.”

He understood.

“If it turns out to be a dead end,” Rowans said, “we will regroup in Salt Lake and decide what to do next.”

He abridged a report of what had happened the night before, saying only that he’d been able to determine that the Americans were intently focused on precisely what they were after.

“Though I’m still unclear as to how much they know,” he said.

“I believe I can determine that from this end,” Rowan said. “There’s no need for you to deal with them anymore. Can you slip away?”

“I’ll be in the air in the next two hours.”

C
ASSIOPEIA SAT IN SILENCE
. W
HAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN
next? How much worse could this get? A gentle rap brought her back to reality. She opened the door to find Josepe and invited him inside.

“We have to leave,” he said.

She caught the
we
.

“I need to travel to the United States. Iowa.”

She’d never visited that state before. “Why?”

“That project I told you about for Elder Rowan. There is an artifact I must examine.” He hesitated. “It might be necessary to steal the object, just temporarily, so it can be studied.”

“I can manage that.”

He seemed surprised at her complicity.

“Stealing is a sin,” he said.

“You said you were merely borrowing it for a short time. I assume it will be returned?”

He nodded.

“Then that’s not theft.”

“Elder Rowan says it’s necessary. This mission is of tremendous importance. As you’ve seen, the Americans are trying to stop us. So we need to leave quickly and quietly.”

She wondered about Cotton. He would not give up. And Stephanie. No retreat there, either.

“I’ll tell you more during the flight,” he said. “I promise. It’s another Great Trek. Perhaps the Saints’ greatest journey ever. More exciting than you can imagine.”

The first Great Trek had started in 1847. Wagons, handcarts, and, for many, their own two legs were used to make the thousand-plus-mile trip west. The route along the north bank of the Platte River, over the Continental Divide, through the valley of the Sweet-water River, then into the Salt Lake basin became known as the Mormon Trail. Her father had spoken of it many times with reverence. From 1847 to 1869, 70,000 of the faithful made the journey, each one labeled a pioneer.

He gently grasped her hand. “We, too, are pioneers. But in a new and exciting way. I’ll tell you everything on the way.”

He swept her into his arms and they kissed.

She felt his intensity.

“I love you,” he said.

His eyes confirmed his words.

“I have since we were young,” he said. “Our parting—broke my heart. But I respected your decision. I must confess something. I keep a photograph of us in my house in Spain. I found it a few years ago, after my wife died. When my heart was sad and empty, I found that the picture brought me joy.”

Why was it that every man who showed her interest came with his own assortment of problems? It had started with Josepe and his religion, then continued through a litany of suitors, all of them wonderful in one respect, awful in another. Now she seemed to have come full circle. Back to the beginning. Part of her cared for this man, part was repulsed. And she was not sure which side of her should prevail.

But she had to find out.

“This time I will not force a choice,” he said. “You can decide in your own way and in your own time. That lesson I did learn long ago.”

She appreciated that on a multitude of levels. “Thank you.”

“I need your help,” he said.

“It’s significant that you trust me enough to include me. I won’t let you down.”

He smiled.

“You never have.”

FORTY-EIGHT

S
ALZBURG

M
ALONE WAS FOUR HUNDRED FEET ABOVE
S
ALZBURG, ATOP
the pine-clad escarpment known as Mönchsberg. The air was cold, his exhales rising in white columns. Hohensalzburg’s gray hulk rose to his right, the local museum of modern art, clad in minimalist white marble, to his left. Beyond the museum stood the Mönchstein—a former castle, now a luxury hotel. Rays from the morning sun blazed off its shiny windows in brilliant reds, golds, and yellows. He knew this mound of rock, made of crushed river stone deposited for eons, liked to fall away in avalanches. One in the 17th century killed a couple hundred townspeople as they slept in their beds. Today there were inspectors who made sure the cliff face remained free of danger, and he’d spotted the mountaineers at work on his way up.

He’d risen early and walked from his hotel, approaching the Goldener Hirsch with caution. High above, among the trees on the Mönchsberg plateau, he’d caught sight of a man keeping watch. He’d thought at first it was simply another early riser, but when the tiny figure never moved from his perch he decided that one of the Danites had decided to make use of the high ground.

The Goldener Hirsch was directly below, the entrance to the restaurant visible, as was a busy boulevard with cars winding a path
around the pedestrian-only old town. He assumed the other Danite was watching the hotel’s second entrance onto Getreidegasse.

Tall lime and chestnut trees formed an unbroken canopy above him, providing shade. He’d made his way up using the same footpath as last night, rounding the fortress and walking the quarter mile across the top of the escarpment. Below him, cut through the rock, was the Sigmundstor, a four-hundred-foot-long tunnel with elaborate Baroque portals on both ends. Cars whizzed in and out of the entrance on this side of the Mönchsberg, stopping occasionally at a traffic signal directly in front of the Goldener Hirsch.

Surrounding him was a manicured wilderness park of trees, grass, and shrubs. He’d managed to close within fifty yards of the Danite, close enough to the edge that he could also see below. What happened last night surely had spooked Salazar, so he was apparently taking no chances, his men ready for anything. He was still in the dark as to what was going on, but none of that really mattered anymore.

Cassiopeia was the problem.

Her visit had haunted him.

She was not the same.

The last time they were together, three weeks back, had been so different. They’d spent the weekend in Avignon, enjoying the old city, dining at cafés lining its cobbled streets. They’d stayed in a quaint inn, an iron terrace offering stunning views of the former papal palace. Everything had been wonderful. Just like other times they’d spent together, outside some crisis.

Maybe that was it?

Too many crises.

That he could understand. Like him, Cassiopeia seemed to thrive on adventure.

But at what price?

He huddled close to the trunk of a massive chestnut tree, the young Danite’s attention remaining downward. He, too, glanced out at the city, preparing itself for another busy day. Salzburg was a town of walkers, each seemingly with little time for dawdling.

A siren wailed in the distance.

He spotted the footbridge that led from the old to the new city, spanning the river. He knew what adorned its railings. Tiny locks, all shapes and sizes, each clamped tight to metal fencing. On each was scrawled some form of affection signifying a union of two people. Usually initials joined with
and
surrounded by hearts. Symbols of love, hundreds of them. A local tradition. Like the way folks in the South carved hearts into trees.

He’d never really understood any of that sentiment—until recently.

He felt a strange uneasiness coupled with a touch of anger. He was glad to be alone, since he was not in a talkative mood. Silence enveloped him, which he welcomed. He liked to think that he wasn’t cynical. More pragmatic.