The Lincoln Myth (42 page)

L
UKE KEPT BACK, AMONG THE VISITORS, EVEN CHATTING WITH
a few as if he belonged there. But he kept one eye on Cassiopeia Vitt, who was clearly scoping things out. He’d lingered inside while she explored the terrace, then drifted out into the garden.

She was noticing something.

He reentered the house and twisted on the radio in his pocket.
He’d brought with him from D.C. communications equipment, which came with a lapel mike and ear fob, Malone wearing its counterpart.

“You there?” he whispered.

“No, I left,” Malone said in his ear.

“She’s casing the joint.”

“Let me guess. She’s outside, checking the roof.”

“You do know your girl.”

“Get ready, ’cause things are about to go dark.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.”

M
ALONE STOOD IN THE SHADOWS OF THE TREES BEHIND
Salisbury House. He’d parked their car a hundred yards away on a side street that paralleled the estate’s rear property line. The lack of fencing had made it easy to hike back to a place from which he could spy the house’s illuminated terrace and the people milling about, enjoying the cool night. Soft lights burned in the ground-floor windows. He’d watched as Cassiopeia exited and casually strolled the gardens. She’d have to improvise, and the best way to gain an advantage was to take away the other side’s ability to see.

Just for a few minutes.

Which was all she’d need.

He, too, had spotted the electrical wires on the roof, their path leading to an outbuilding. If he was right, that was where she’d head.

The trick was to figure out how far to allow this to go.

He needed her to steal the watch, but he could not allow her to escape. He studied the woman he loved. She looked great, as usual, strolling confidently. They’d saved each other’s hides more times than he could count. He trusted her. Depended on her. And he’d thought she felt the same toward him.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Interesting how his life had turned 180 degrees over the course of two days.

For what?

And why?

No answer would come until he and Cassiopeia could sit down and talk. But what was about to happen would surely stick a spur in that.

She would not be glad to see him.

But see him she would.

FIFTY-FIVE

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

8:50
P.M
.

R
OWAN APPROACHED
B
LAIR
H
OUSE
. S
INCE THE TIME OF
Franklin Roosevelt the property had been owned by the United States, used exclusively by presidential guests. Now the government also owed the three adjacent town houses, and many foreign dignitaries had stayed within the 70,000 square feet of elegance. Truman had lived here while the White House had been extensively renovated, walking each day across the street to his office. Just outside the front door, on November 1, 1950, an attempt to assassinate Truman had been foiled by a Secret Service agent, who lost his life in the process. A bronze plaque adorned the iron fence in that agent’s honor, and Rowan had taken a moment to pay his respects to the hero.

The call had come to his Senate office two hours ago. The president of the United States wanted to see him. How quickly could he be there? One of his aides had found him and passed along the message. He realized that there was no way to dodge such a summons, so he’d agreed on 9:00
P.M
.

Interesting, though, the choice of location.

Not the White House.

Instead, the guesthouse. Off premises. As if Daniels was saying that he was not welcome. But maybe he was reading too much into
things. Danny Daniels had never been regarded as a great thinker. Some feared him, others ridiculed him, most just left him alone. But he
was
popular. His approval ratings remained surprisingly high for a man in the twilight of a political career. Daniels had won both presidential elections with solid majorities. If truth be known the opposition was just glad to see him go, content to allow the old man to simply fade away. Unfortunately, Rowan did not have the same option. His presence had been commanded.

He was shown inside and through a maze of rooms into a space with yellow-striped walls, anchored by a portrait of Abraham Lincoln, which hung above a mantel adorned with red Bohemian crystal lamps. He knew the room. This was where officials were ushered before calling on foreign leaders staying at Blair House. A few years ago he’d waited here while paying his respects to the queen of England.

He was left alone inside.

Apparently the president was showing him who was in charge. Which was fine. He could indulge such pettiness, at least for a while longer. Once the state of Deseret came into being, with him as its secular head, presidents would wait on him. No longer would Saints be ignored, repudiated, or ridiculed. His new nation would be a shining example to the world of how religion, politics, and sound management could mesh into one.

The door opened and Danny Daniels offered him a fiery gaze.

“It’s time you and I speak,” the president said, his voice low.

No hand was offered to shake.

No seat offered.

Instead they stood, Daniels a foot taller, dressed in an open-collared, long-sleeved shirt, no jacket, and dress trousers. Rowan had worn his customary suit.

Daniels closed the door. “You’re a traitor.”

He was ready with his response. “Quite the contrary. I’m a patriot. You, sir, and all the presidents who came before you, back to that man himself”—he pointed at Lincoln’s portrait—“are the traitors.”

“How would you know that?”

Time for truth.

“Within the church we have long known that there was more to the Constitution of the United States than what Lincoln wanted us to know.”

“Lincoln trusted the Mormons, as Brigham Young trusted Lincoln.”

He nodded. “And look what it got us. When the war was over, the threat past, Congress passed the Edmunds-Tucker bill that criminalized polygamy and this government prosecuted hundreds of church members. What happened to all that trust?”

“Polygamy was contrary to our society,” the president said. “Even your own leaders finally realized that.”

“No, we were forced to realize that, as such was the price of our statehood. At that time all believed statehood was the route to safety and prosperity. That is no longer the case.”

Thinking about what happened so long ago disgusted him. The 1887 Edmunds-Tucker Act had literally dissolved the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Never before or since had the Congress directed such venom toward a singular religious organization. The bill provided not only for the end of the church, but a confiscation of all its property. And the devil-ridden Supreme Court of the United States in 1890 validated those acts as constitutional.

“What are you after?” Daniels asked.

“I only want what’s best for the people of Utah. I personally could not care less about the federal government. It has outlived its usefulness.”

“I’ll remind you of that when your borders are attacked.”

He chuckled. “I doubt anyone, besides you, would ever want to invade Deseret.”

“Is that the name you’ve decided on?”

“It means something to us. It’s what the land should have been called in the first place. But this government insisted on Utah.”

All part of the despicable concessions demanded and provided. The day still disgusted him. September 25, 1890. When a declaration
was issued by the then-prophet accepting obedience to all federal law and announcing the end of plural marriage. Six years later, statehood was granted. Property was slowly returned, including the Salt Lake temple. But the church had taken a beating. Heavily in debt and divided over both theology and finances, it would take decades to recover.

But recover it did.

Now it was worth billions. No one outside a handful of apostles and a few high-level administrators knew the exact amount.

And he’d keep it that way.

“We will be able to buy and sell every remaining state in your Union,” he said, “and many of the nations of the world.”

“You’re not out yet.”

“It’s only a matter of time. Obviously you know what the founders left behind, what they signed in 1787.”

“I do. But I also know things you don’t know.”

He could not tell if Daniels was serious or merely posturing. The president was known as an excellent poker player, but something told him this was not a bluff—instead, this was the reason he’d been summoned.

“Your church,” Daniels said, “was trusted with something that could have, at that time, destroyed this nation. Instead the United States survived, partly thanks to what Brigham Young did not do with what he had. Thankfully, after Lincoln was killed, and no one contacted him for the document, Young still did nothing.”

“He foolishly trusted that the federal government would continue to leave us alone. But it didn’t. Twenty years later you all but destroyed us.”

“Yet no one within the church brought out the document. Quite a bargaining chip to never use.”

“No one knew. Young was dead by then, and he took the secret to his grave.”

“That’s not true. People
were
aware.”

“How would you know that?”

Daniels stepped back and opened the door.

Charles R. Snow appeared, standing on his frail legs, dressed in a suit and tie, looking every bit the head of Zion. The prophet stepped inside, his steps short but firm.

Rowan was taken aback, unsure what to say or do.

“Thaddeus,” Snow said. “I can’t express in words how disappointed I am in you.”

“You
told
me to search.”

“That I did. The disappointment is with your motives and judgment.”

He was not in the mood for any criticism from this imbecile. “You’re so weak. We cannot afford any more like you.”

Snow crept over to a pale green sofa and sat. “What you are about to do, Thaddeus, will destroy a hundred years of hard work.”

FIFTY-SIX

D
ES
M
OINES
, I
OWA

C
ASSIOPEIA STUDIED THE COTTAGE, WHICH REMINDED HER OF
something from the English countryside. Everything else at Salisbury House carried a similar look and feel. No one had paid her any attention as she drifted from the garden, following a pebbled path that wound through autumn grass and fall flowers. A couple of times she’d stopped to admire the foliage, checking to see if she was alone. The cottage stood about thirty meters from the main house, electrical wires entering through a conduit projecting from a gable. Thankfully the entrance was away from the terrace and garden, where the darkness was nearly absolute.

The wooden door was secured by a single pin-and-tumbler lock mounted above the knob, an obvious addition. Luckily, she’d come prepared, picks always at the ready in her makeup bag. Cotton had found that so amusing—traveling with burglary tools—but he was just as bad—a small pick stayed hidden inside his wallet. She liked that about him. Always prepared.

She found the picks in her clutch bag and worked them into the lock. No need to see anything, more a matter of feel. Both hands had to sense the inner workings and feel for the tumblers.