The Lincoln Myth Read online

  He ended the call, hopped onto shore, and walked toward Luke, saying, “You got yourself a partner for the night.”

  “Do you have a pad and pen I could borrow so I can take notes on what I learn?”

  “You always such a smart-ass?”

  “You always so warm and friendly?”

  “Somebody’s got to see to it the kids don’t get hurt.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Pappy. I can take care of myself.”

  “Thought I told you not to call me that.”

  Luke’s back straightened. “Yeah. I heard you. And I gave you, per my orders, one free punch. There won’t be any more freebies.”

  His green eyes threw the kid a challenge.

  Which seemed to be accepted.

  But not now. Maybe later.

  He pointed at Kirk. “Let’s hear what this snitch has to say.”

  FIVE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  2:45 P.M.

  STEPHANIE NELLE GLANCED AT HER WATCH. HER DAY HAD started at 6:00 A.M.—noon in Denmark—and it was far from over. Of her twelve agents, nine were currently on assignment. The other three were cycled off on downtime. Contrary to spy novels and action movies, agents did not work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Most had spouses and children, lives outside of work. Which was good. The job was stressful enough without compounding it with maniacal obsession.

  She’d founded the Magellan Billet sixteen years ago. This was her baby, and she’d nursed it through both adolescence and puberty. Now it was a fully grown intelligence team, credited with some of America’s most recent successes.

  Right now, though, only one thought filled her mind.

  The agent missing in Denmark.

  She glanced at the clock on the corner of her desk and realized she’d skipped both breakfast and lunch. Her stomach was growling so she decided to grab a bite in the building’s cafeteria, three floors below.

  She left her office.

  Everything was quiet.

  By design, the Magellan Billet was sparsely staffed. Besides her twelve operatives, the division employed five office staff and three aides. She’d insisted it be kept small. Fewer eyes and ears meant fewer leaks. Never had the Billet’s security been compromised. None of the original twelve agents remained on the payroll—Malone was the last to leave four years ago. On average she replaced a person a year. But she’d been lucky. All of her recruits had been excellent, her administrative problems few and far between.

  She exited through the main door and walked toward the elevators.

  The building was located in a quiet north Atlanta office park, home also to divisions of the Departments of the Interior and Health and Human Services. At her insistence the Magellan Billet had been intentionally tucked away, nondescript letters on its door announcing JUSTICE DEPARTMENT TASK FORCE.

  She pressed the button and waited for the elevator to arrive.

  The doors opened and a thin man, with a long sharp face and bushy silver hair, strolled out.

  Edwin Davis.

  Like her, he was career civil service, starting two decades ago at the State Department where three secretaries had used him to whip their ailing departments into line. He possessed a doctorate in international relations and was blessed with an uncanny political sense. A folksy, courteous man people tended to underestimate, he’d been working as a deputy national security adviser when President Danny Daniels elevated him to White House chief of staff.

  She instantly wondered what was important enough for Davis to fly five hundred miles from Washington, D.C., unannounced. Her boss was the U.S. attorney general, and protocol mandated that he be included in any chain of communication from the White House.

  Yet that had not happened.

  Was this business? Or a social call? Davis was a close friend. They’d endured a lot together.

  “Were you going somewhere?” he asked.

  “To the cafeteria.”

  “We’ll both go.”

  “Am I going to regret this?”

  “Possibly. But it has to be done.”

  “You realize the last time you and I stood right here, at this same spot, and had a conversation just like this, we both were almost killed.”

  “But we won that fight.”

  She smiled. “That we did.”

  They descended to the cafeteria and found an empty table. She munched on carrot sticks and sipped cranberry juice while Davis downed a bottled water. Her appetite had vanished.

  “How is the president?” she asked.

  She and Danny Daniels had not spoken in three months.

  “He’s looking forward to retirement.”

  Daniels’ second term ended soon. His political career was over. But he’d had quite a ride from a small-town Tennessee councilman to two terms as president of the United States. Along the way, though, he lost both a daughter and a wife.

  “He’d like to hear from you,” Davis said.

  And she’d like to call. But it was better this way. At least until his term was over. “I will. When the time is right.”

  She and Daniels had discovered that feelings existed between them, an attachment perhaps born from the many battles they’d endured. Neither of them was sure of anything. But he was still the president of the United States. Her boss. And it was better they keep some distance. “You didn’t come here just to pass that message along. So get to the point, Edwin.”

  A crease of amusement touched her friend’s face. She knew he was nearly old enough for Social Security, but his youthful physique cast the pose of a much younger man.

  “I understand you’ve drawn some interest from Capitol Hill.”

  That she had.

  Six written requests for classified data from the Senate Committee on Appropriations had arrived last week. Which wasn’t uncommon. Congress routinely sought information from the intelligence community. If the particular department or agency was uncooperative, the “requests” were followed by subpoenas, which could not be ignored without a court fight. Public brawls over classified information were rare. Congress had to be placated. After all, they held the purse strings. So usually disputes were privately compromised. These six, though, had not left room for negotiation.

  “They want anything and everything to do with my agency,” she said. “Top-to-bottom. Financial, field reports, internal analysis, you name it. That’s unprecedented, Edwin. Nearly all of that stuff is classified. I passed it on to the attorney general.”

  “Who passed it to me. I’ve come to tell you that those requests relate to that favor I asked of you on Josepe Salazar.”

  Six months ago a call from Davis had started a Billet inquiry into Salazar. The White House wanted a complete dossier, including all financial, business, and political associations. From the cradle to the present. Salazar held both a Danish and a Spanish passport, thanks to his parents who’d hailed from different countries. He lived half of the year in Spain, the other in Denmark. He was an international businessman who’d turned over everyday control of his multibillion-euro ventures to others so he could devote himself solely to his duties as an elder in the Mormon church. By all accounts he was devout, possessed no criminal record, and had lived an exemplary life. That he’d earned the attention of the White House had raised a multitude of questions in her mind. But being the loyal public servant she was, she hadn’t asked a single one.

  A mistake.

  Which she’d finally realized three days ago, when her man sent to Europe to compile the Salazar dossier disappeared.

  And even more so after just talking with Malone.

  “My agent working on Salazar has disappeared,” she said. “I’ve got people on the ground, right now, tracking him down. What have you gotten me into, Edwin?”

  “I had no idea. What happened?”

  “The situation escalated. One of Salazar’s associates, a guy named Barry Kirk, made contact with my man. He had inside information and even claimed that his boss might have kille
d someone. We couldn’t ignore that. We now have Kirk in custody, though two of Salazar’s men were killed in the process. Cotton shot them.”

  “How’d you manage to get him involved?”

  Davis and Malone had worked together before, too.

  “He was nearby and doesn’t like our men going missing, either.”

  “There’s a connection between Josepe Salazar and Senator Thaddeus Rowan.”

  “And you’re just now telling me this?”

  Rowan was chairman of the Senate Committee on Appropriations. All six of the requests for information bore his signature.

  “It wasn’t my idea to withhold it.”

  She knew what that meant. Only one person could overrule the White House chief of staff.

  “The president should understand that you can’t hold back information and expect me to do my job,” she said. “This has become a circus. One of our own could be dead.”

  He nodded. “I realize that.”

  But there was something else.

  True, she had two assets on the ground—Luke and her missing man. Malone had now joined the fray, at least for the night, making for three.

  But there was actually a fourth.

  One she hadn’t mentioned to Malone.

  SIX

  KALUNDBORG, DENMARK

  8:50 P.M.

  SALAZAR SMILED AS HE ENTERED THE RESTAURANT AND SPOTTED his dinner companion. He was late but had called and asked that his apologies be passed on, along with a glass of whatever his guest might like to enjoy.

  “I am so sorry,” he said to Cassiopeia Vitt. “Some important matters detained me.”

  They were childhood friends, he two years her senior, their parents lifelong companions. In their twenties they’d become close, dating five years before Cassiopeia apparently realized that the attraction between them may have been more for their parents’ benefit than her own.

  Or at least that’s what she told him at the time.

  But he knew better.

  What really drove them apart was more fundamental.

  He was born a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. So was she. That meant everything to him, but not so much to her.

  Eleven years had passed since they were last together. They’d kept in touch, seeing each other on occasion at social functions. He knew she moved to France and started constructing a castle, using only 13th-century materials and technology, which was slowly rising, stone by stone. He’d seen photographs of it and her country château.

  Both were remarkable and picturesque.

  Like the woman herself.

  “It’s all right,” she said to him. “I’ve been enjoying the view.”

  Kalundborg began as a Viking settlement on the west coast of Zealand and remained one of Denmark’s oldest towns. Its cobbled square was anchored by the unique Church of Our Lady, a 12th-century masterpiece comprising five octagonal towers. The café sat on one side of the square, its candlelit tables crowded with diners. Theirs, at his request, nestled against the front window where the brick church could be seen lit for the night.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this dinner all day,” he said to her. “I so enjoy it here. I’m glad you could finally come for a visit.”

  His mother had been an introverted Danish woman totally committed to her husband and their six children, himself the youngest. When church missionaries arrived in the late 19th century, her family had been one of the first in Denmark to become Latter-day Saints. His maternal grandfather helped organize Scandinavia’s first ward, and more followed. Those wards eventually were formed into stakes. The same thing happened in Spain, where his father’s family had lived. Eventually, both grandfathers headed large stakes. He’d inherited his mother’s Danish estate in Kalundborg and spent May to October here each year, escaping Spain’s summer heat.

  Their waiter appeared, and he ordered a glass of mineral water. Cassiopeia made it two. Menus were produced, and they both scanned the house selections.

  “Are you still leaving tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes. I have some business that requires my attention.”

  “I hate that. We were just beginning to become reacquainted.”

  “And you’ve been so coy, which I’ve allowed. But it’s time you tell me. Why have you returned? Why did you come here?”

  She’d first made contact about five months ago with a phone call. Several more calls and emails followed. Another call last week led to an invitation here.

  Which she’d accepted.

  “I’ve decided I may have been wrong about things.”

  Her words intrigued him. He set the menu aside.

  “As I’ve become older,” she said, “I’ve realized that the beliefs of my parents may not have been so wrong.”

  He knew that, like himself, she’d been schooled from an early age in the Book of Mormon, taught the Doctrine and Covenants and encouraged to read the Pearl of Great Price. Those would have taught her all of the revelations provided to the prophets who’d led the church, along with a full understanding of its history. Every Latter-day Saint was required to study the same.

  But he knew she’d rebelled.

  And rejected her heritage.

  Which, luckily, neither of her parents had lived to see.

  “I’ve waited a long time to hear you say those words,” he said. “Your negativity about the church was the source of our estrangement.”

  “I remember. And look at you. Back then you were about to lead a ward. Now you’re a member of the First Quorum of Seventy, one step away from the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. Maybe the first man from Spain to achieve such a great honor.”

  He heard the pride in her voice.

  The First Presidency rested at the top of the church leadership, consisting of the prophet and two hand-chosen counselors. Below that were the Twelve Apostles, who served for life and helped establish policy. Then came the various quorums of Seventy, each member a respected elder, charged with aiding organization and administration, holding their apostolic authority as special witnesses of Christ. Many apostles came from the Seventies, and every prophet had emerged from the apostles.

  “I want to rediscover what I lost,” she told him.

  The waiter returned with their water.

  Salazar reached across and lightly grasped her hand. The gesture seemed not to surprise her. “I would be most happy to help you rediscover your faith. To lead you back would be my honor.”

  “That’s why I contacted you.”

  He smiled, his hand still atop hers. Dedicated Latter-day Saints did not believe in premarital sex, so their relationship had never been physical.

  But it had been real.

  So much that it had survived eleven years inside him.

  “I’m hungry,” he said, his eyes focused on her. “Let’s enjoy dinner. Then I’d like to show you something. Back at the estate.”

  She smiled. “That would be lovely.”

  SEVEN

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  STEPHANIE WAS A CAREER LAWYER. SHE’D STARTED AT THE State Department right out of law school, then moved to Justice and worked her way up through the ranks to deputy attorney general. Eventually she might have garnered the top spot from some president, but the Magellan Billet changed everything. The idea had been to cultivate a special investigative unit, outside the FBI, the CIA, and the military, directly responsive to the executive branch, its agents schooled in both law and espionage.

  Independent. Innovative. Discreet.

  Those were the ideals.

  And the idea had worked.

  But she wasn’t oblivious to politics. She’d served presidents and attorneys general from both parties. Though elected and reelected on a pledge of bipartisan cooperation, for the past seven and a half years Danny Daniels had been locked in a fierce political war. There’d been treacherous incidents with his vice president, one attorney general, and a former deputy national security adviser. Even an assassi
nation attempt. She and the Billet had been involved with all of those crises. Now here she was again. Right in the thick of something extraordinary.

  “Ever wonder what you’ll do when your time here is over?” Davis asked.

  They still sat in the cafeteria, empty in the midafternoon.

  “I plan to work forever.”

  “We could both write tell-all books. Or maybe go on TV. CNN or CNBC or Fox. Be their resident expert, spouting zingers. Pointing out how stupid the new administration is. It’s so much easier to Monday-morning-quarterback than play the game on Sunday.”

  She wondered about Davis’ fatalism, most likely a case of the last-term blues. She’d seen it before. During Daniels’ first term there’d actually been a strong push to replace her, but the effort had fizzled. Maybe because nobody wanted her job. Not much glamour in working out of a quiet Georgia office, away from the D.C. limelight. Careers were woven from much thicker thread. One thing, though, was clear—Edwin Davis was absolutely loyal to his boss. As was she. And one other thing. Usually, no one at Justice or Congress or the White House ever gave her or the Billet much thought. But now she’d materialized on the radar screen of the senior senator from Utah.

  “What does Rowan want from me?”

  “He’s after something that we thought was only a myth.”

  She caught the tone of his voice, which signaled trouble.

  “I need to tell you a story.”

  On January 1, 1863, Abraham Lincoln issued his Emancipation Proclamation. History notes it as a momentous achievement. The reality, though, is far different. The proclamation was not law. Congress never enacted it, and no state adopted it. Lincoln issued it on his supposed authority as commander in chief of the military. But it freed no one. Its mandate applied only to slaves held in the ten states then in rebellion. It did not outlaw slavery, and granted no citizenship to those freed. In the federally held parts of the South, which included much of Tennessee and Virginia, where blacks could have actually been freed and made citizens, the proclamation had no applicability. Maryland and Kentucky were likewise exempted, as were parts of Louisiana. In short, the Emancipation Proclamation was but a political gimmick. It freed slaves only where Lincoln had no authority. William Seward, Lincoln’s secretary of state, said it best. “We show our sympathy with slavery by emancipating slaves where we cannot reach them and holding them in bondage where we can set them free.”