The Lincoln Myth (9 page)

“I don’t know what
this
is. But your guys came for a fight. All I did was give them one.”

“We want him,” the man said, pointing at Kirk.

“Can’t get everything you want in this world.”

“We’ll have him, one way or another.”

He brushed past, and they kept walking toward the café.

He’d guessed right.

These two did not want a scene.

Around him almost everyone’s attention was on the police and what was happening at his shop. Luckily, there were four floors for them to search.

Tables dotted the pavement outside the Café Norden’s ground-floor windows, all filled with diners enjoying a late dinner. He was usually one of them, a habit developed after he moved from Georgia to Denmark.

But not tonight.

“How many more you think are lurking?” Luke asked.

“Hard to say. But you can bet they’re here.”

“Be smart, Barry,” one of the men called out.

Kirk stopped and turned.

“You will be shown respect,” the younger man said, “if you show the same. You have his word. Otherwise, there will be an atonement.”

Fear filled Kirk’s face, but Luke led him away.

Malone stepped forward. “Tell Salazar that we’ll be seeing each other real soon.”

“He’ll look forward to it.” A pause. “As will I.”

The two officers emerged from his bookshop. The search had not taken long. Malone pointed at one of the young men and shouted,
“Jeg ringede til dig. Zdet er Malone. Det er ham, du er efter, og han har en pistol.”
I called you. This is Malone. He’s the one you’re after and he has a gun.

The effect was instant.

The officers bolted toward their target.

Malone retreated into the Café Norden.

“What did you do?” Luke asked.

“Slowed our minders down a little.”

He ignored the stairs that led up to the second-floor dining room and wove a path around the crowded tables toward the rear of the ground floor. The restaurant was doing its usual brisk business. Through the outer windows he saw people sauntering back and forth on the cobblestones. He was a regular and knew the staff and owner. So when he entered the kitchen no one paid him any mind. He found the door at the far end and descended a wooden staircase into the basement.

Three exits appeared at the bottom. One for the lift that moved to the building’s upper floors, another that opened into an office, and a third that led into a storage room.

He flipped on an incandescent bulb in the storage room. The space was littered with cleaning equipment, empty fruit and vegetable crates, and other restaurant supplies. Cobwebs clouded the corners and a tang of disinfectant floated on the chilly air. On the far side was a metal door. He carefully made his way over and unlocked it. Another room spanned ahead and he flicked on a new bulb. Ten feet above him was a narrow street that ran parallel to the Café Norden on its back side. The cellars beneath the buildings had long ago merged, forming a subterranean level that extended from one block to another, the shopkeepers sharing the space. He’d been down here several times before.

“I assume,” Luke said, “we’re going to leave where they can’t see us.”

“That’s the plan.”

Past the second cellar he found a set of wooden stairs that led up to ground level. He took them two at a time and entered an empty retail space that had once hosted an upscale clothing store. Shadowy islands of boxes, cellophane garbage bags, counters, mannequins, and bare metal racks lay scattered about the dark interior. Through uncovered windows he saw the lighted trees of Nikolaj Plads, which sat a block behind the Café Norden.

“We go out and to the right,” he said, “and we should be fine. I have a car parked a few blocks over.”

“I don’t think so.”

He turned.

Barry Kirk stood behind Luke Daniels, a gun nestled at the younger agent’s right temple.

“It’s about time,” Malone said.

ELEVEN

S
ALT
L
AKE
C
ITY
, U
TAH

R
OWAN HAD FLOWN DIRECTLY BACK FROM THE SOUTHERN
part of the state via the same government helicopter that had ferried him to Zion National Park. He was accustomed to such perks. They came from being a man with national power. He was careful, though, never to abuse it. He’d seen too many colleagues fall from grace. His fellow senator from Utah was a perfect example. Not a Latter-day Saint, just a gentile who thought little of his office and even less of the people who elected him. He was currently under investigation by the Senate Ethics Committee, and privately the word was that he would be censured for gross misconduct. Luckily, this was an election year and strong opposition had already announced, so the voters should put him out of his misery.

A popular misconception held that Utah was nearly exclusively Latter-day Saints. But that was not the case. Only 62.1% were according to the latest census, dropping every year. He’d started in politics forty years ago as mayor of Provo, then served a short stint as a state representative, and finally moved on to Washington as a U.S. senator. Not a hint of scandal had ever been associated with either his name or anything with which he’d ever been involved. He’d been married to the same woman for fifty-one years. They’d raised six children—two lawyers, a doctor, and three teachers—who were
now married with children of their own. All of them had been nurtured in the church and remained faithful, living in various parts of the country, active in their wards. He visited them often, and was close with his eighteen grandchildren.

He lived the Words of Wisdom. He did not drink alcohol, smoke, or consume coffee or tea. The first prophet, Joseph Smith, proclaimed those prohibitions in 1833. A few years back a fourth was added, encouraging a limitation on meat consumption in favor of grains, fruits, and vegetables. He knew of an outside study on members who practiced all four abstentions and the results were not surprising. Rates of lung cancer were low and heart disease even lower. Overall, the health of devout Latter-day Saints was significantly better than the population as a whole. The lyrics to a children’s hymn he’d many times heard sung in church rang true.

That the children may live long
And be beautiful and strong
,
Tea and coffee and tobacco they despise
,
Drink no liquor, and they eat
But a very little meat;
They are seeking to be great and good and wise
.

He’d telephoned from the helicopter and made arrangements for a private meeting. Twenty-three years ago he’d been called to serve on the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. Originally, they’d acted as traveling counselors, in charge of new missions, but they’d evolved into the church’s primary governing body. It was a lifetime job. Members were expected to devote their entire energy to their duties, but exceptions had been made.

As with him.

Having an elder as a member of the U.S. Senate came with advantages.

And there was precedent.

Reed Smoot had first served with distinction in both capacities. But it had taken a four-year battle to ensure that, the argument
being that his “Mormon” religion disqualified Smoot from office. A congressional eligibility committee eventually recommended that he be removed, but in 1907 the Senate as a whole defeated the proposal and allowed him to serve, which he did, until 1933.

Rowan’s tenure had not been as arduous.

Times had changed.

No one today would dare challenge the right of a person to serve in government based on their religion. In fact, to suggest such would be offensive. A Saint had even managed to become the Republican party’s presidential nominee.

But that did not mean prejudice had disappeared.

On the contrary, Saints still encountered resistance. Not the beatings, robberies, and killings of 150 years ago.

Prejudice nonetheless, though.

He entered a multistory residential building that stood east of Salt Lake’s Temple Square, a modest location that housed a church-owned condominium where the current prophet lived. The lobby was staffed with two security guards, who waved him through.

He stepped into the elevator and entered a digital code.

As not only an elder but president of the Quorum of the Twelve, the man who would almost certainly become the next leader, his access to the current prophet was unfettered.

The church thrived on loyalty.

Seniority was rewarded.

As it should be.

He hadn’t changed from his dusty clothes, having driven straight from the airfield. The man waiting had told him formalities were not necessary. Not today. Not with what had been discovered.

“Come in, Thaddeus,” the prophet called out as Rowan stepped inside the sunlit residence. “Please, have a seat. I’m anxious to hear.”

Charles R. Snow had served as prophet for nineteen years. He was sixty-three then, eighty-two now. He walked only when outside the residence, otherwise he utilized a wheelchair. The apostles had been informed of his various afflictions including chronic anemia, low blood pressure, and progressive kidney failure. Yet the old man’s
mind remained sharp, as active as forty years ago when he first became an elder.

“I envy you,” Snow said. “Dressed in hiking clothes, able to enjoy the desert. I miss those walks through the canyons.”

Snow had been born near Zion National Park, a third-generation Saint, descended from one of the pioneer families who’d made the original trek west in 1847. While most immigrants settled in the Salt Lake basin, Brigham Young had dispatched vanguards to various parts of the new land. Snow’s family had headed south and prospered in the stark, barren environment. He was an economist, with degrees from Utah State and Brigham Young University, where he taught for two decades. He’d served as an assistant stake clerk, then clerk, bishop, and high councilor before being called for the First Quorum of Seventy, finally sustained as an apostle. He’d acted for many years as president of the England mission, a responsibility eventually bestowed by the brethren on Rowan. His tenure as prophet had been quiet, with little controversy.

“I’ve offered to take you into the mountains anytime,” Rowan said as he sat across from the older man. “Just ask and I’ll make the arrangements.”

“As if my doctors would allow that. No, Thaddeus, my legs barely work anymore.”

Snow’s wife had died ten years ago, and his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren all lived outside of Utah. His life was the church, and he’d proven to be an active manager, overseeing much of its everyday administration. Yesterday Rowan had called Snow and briefed him about the find inside Zion, which raised many questions. The prophet had asked Rowan to go and see if there were any answers.

He reported what he’d found, then said, “It’s the right wagons. There’s no doubt.”

Snow nodded. “The names on the wall are proof. I never believed I would hear from those men again.”

Fjeldsted. Hyde. Woodruff. Egan
.

“Damnation to the prophet
. They cursed us in death, Thaddeus.”

“Maybe they had a right to? They were all murdered.”

“I always thought the whole thing a story fabricated at the time. But apparently it’s a true one.”

One Rowan knew in detail.

By 1856 war seemed inevitable between the United States and the Latter-day Saints. Differences over plural marriage, religion, and political autonomy had festered to the breaking point. Brigham Young ran his isolated community as he saw fit, with no regard for federal law. He minted his own money, passed his own rules, created his own courts, educated the young as he thought best, and worshiped as he believed. Even what to label the newly settled land had been a matter of dispute. Locals referred to it as Deseret. Congress called it the Utah Territory. Finally, word came that a Union army was marching west to subdue the rebels everyone in the east called Mormons.

So Young decided to collect the community’s wealth, hiding it until the expected conflict ended. Every hard asset was converted into gold bullion, church members willingly divesting themselves of almost all their worldly goods. Twenty-two wagons were requisitioned to relocate the gold to California, where other Saints waited to receive it. To avoid detection a circuitous route bypassing populated settlements was chosen.

Little is known of what happened after that.

The official story said the caravan set off with the gold across the uncharted badlands of the south-central part of Deseret. The men soon ran short of water and all efforts to find a source were fruitless. A decision was made to retrace their path back to the last water hole, more than a day’s ride behind them. Teamsters were instructed to manage the horses and watch over the gold while forty militiamen set out for the water hole. Upon their return several days later, they found the wagons’ charred and blackened hulks, all of the teamsters dead, the horses and gold gone.

Paiutes were blamed for the attack.

The militiamen spent days reconnoitering the region, tracks fading out on rocky scarps or stopping abruptly in dry, meandering
riverbeds. Eventually they gave up and returned empty-handed to report their failure to Brigham Young.