The Lincoln Myth(38)

“Hard to fault a boy who calls his mother every Sunday,” she said.

His own mother still lived in middle Georgia, on the sweet onion farm her family had owned for over a century. But unlike Luke Daniels, he did not call every week. Major holidays, birthdays, Mother’s Day. That was the extent of his contact. She never complained, but that was her way. A negative word never came from her mouth. How old was she now? Seventy? Seventy-five? He wasn’t sure. Why didn’t he know his mother’s age?

“And I made a call to Copenhagen,” she said. “The locals won’t be bothering you.”

He’d wondered why the bookshop had not been overrun with police.

“They broke my front door glass.”

“Send me the bill.”

“I just might.”

“I know you’re pissed,” she said. “I can’t blame you. But, Cotton, you’re going to leave Cassiopeia alone, right? We can’t risk her. Leave her be, until this is over. Like you say, she’s a big girl. There are no more agents backing her up. She’s on her own.”

“Whatever you say.”

He ended the call and stared down at the travel bag.

He was being played again.

No question.

He slipped the Beretta back into the knapsack and slid the bag beneath his bed. Unfortunately, he could not tote the weapon with him. Not allowed on planes, and checking it raised questions he preferred not answering. That was another perk that had come from carrying government credentials.

No matter. He’d adapt.

The U. S. government employed thousands of agents whose job it was to guard the national interests. He once worked as one. His job now was more personal. What had Stephanie just said about Cassiopeia? No more agents backing her up. She’s on her own.

Not exactly.

And Stephanie knew it.

He needed to hurry.

His flight to Salzburg left in two hours.





TWENTY-THREE





KALUNDBORG


CASSIOPEIA FINISHED PACKING HER BAG. SHE’D BROUGHT PRECIOUS little, just a few outfits, the ensembles interchangeable for a variety of looks. She’d expected to be gone only a few days. Now her trip had been extended. The French doors were swung open, offering a spectacular view of the fjord and the Great Belt Strait, the gray-brown waters stirred by a stiff easterly breeze. Josepe had arranged her accommodations at the seaside inn, purposefully not allowing her to stay at his estate. That could be because he preferred to keep their relationship on a proper level, or it could be because he did not want her there. She’d been in Denmark three days and last night was the first time he’d taken her for a visit.

Everything that happened last night disturbed her.

Kissing Josepe again, after so many years, had brought back memories she’d thought were gone. He’d been her first love, and she his. He’d always been a perfect gentleman toward her, their relationship loving but never passionate. Church doctrine forbade premarital sex. So her offer to stay the night with him had been risky, but not overly so. If nothing else, the gesture had further ingratiated her.

She still felt awful deceiving him, regretting more by the minute her participation in this charade. When she’d agreed to help she hadn’t known that he still harbored such deep feelings. Sure, Stephanie had told her of the photograph, but that could have been explained in many ways. Instead the actual explanation had become abundantly clear.

Josepe cared for her.

She arranged the last of her clothes in the bag and zipped it shut.

She should stop this farce. That was the right thing to do. But the allegation of murder counseled otherwise. Mormonism abhorred violence. Sure, once, long ago, things had been different and Saints had dished out their share. But that had been a matter of survival. An issue of self-defense, a sign of those times. Josepe was a devout believer in church doctrine, which forbade harm to others, so why would he venture away from principles so fundamental? There had to be another explanation. One that did not link him with murder.

She checked her watch: 9:30 A.M.

He would be here soon.

She walked to the open doors and listened to the rhythmic beat of the surf and the cries of birds.

Her cell phone chimed.

“We had an incident last night,” Stephanie said when she answered.

She listened to what had happened on the Øresund and in Copenhagen with one of Josepe’s associates.

“I had to involve Cotton,” Stephanie said. “He was all I had at the moment. He handled it, but he killed three men.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“Anything on your missing man?”

“Still missing. The men who came after Cotton were Danites in Salazar’s employ.”

Danites? She recalled reading about them as a teenager, but they no longer existed, extinct since the 19th century. “I’ve seen no evidence of that here.” Then she reported what had happened between her and Josepe. “He cares for me a great deal. I feel like a cheat. I should get out of this.”