So when had the notion of a perpetual union taken hold?
He knew exactly when.
Lincoln.
And only a handful of historians had ever grasped the truth that Lincoln fought the Civil War not to preserve an indivisible union . Instead, he fought that war to create one, coining the notion that the union was somehow perpetual.
But Lincoln was wrong.
The Declaration of Independence was an act of secession, executed in direct conflict with British law. The ratification of the new Constitution was a secession from the Articles of Confederation, even though those articles, as first drafted and approved in 1781, expressly stated that the union shall be perpetual.
The issue was crystal clear.
States had never lost their right to secede.
And history supported that belief.
The union of Soviet Socialist Republics dissolved in 1991 when fifteen of its states seceded. Maine formed when it seceded from Massachusetts. The same thing happened when Tennessee left North Carolina and West Virginia emerged from Kentucky and Virginia. And in 1863, when Lincoln created West Virginia, he did so without the consent of its people. International law proclaimed that sovereignty cannot be surrendered by implication, only expressly, which means the Constitution’s silence on the issue of secession is significant. The Tenth Amendment itself stated that the powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.
Nowhere in the Constitution were states prohibited from seceding.
“I like where we are,” he said. “You’ve done a great job. But keep prepping.”
“Are things progressing on your end?” one of the lawyers asked. He knew what he’d promised to deliver. The most important ingredient.
“We’re closer every day. It could happen anytime. I’m heading back to Washington when I leave here to follow up on a new lead, which could be significant.”
He felt a surge of excitement.
A civil war was coming.
But not like 1861.
This time there would be no troops on the battlefield. Hundreds of thousands would not lose their lives. No bloodshed at all, in fact. The only weapons would be words and money.
The words seemed to be coming together. Perhaps the final piece of the puzzle awaited him in Washington. And he had access to plenty of money. Soon he might even have the entire Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—with its billions—at his disposal.
If Charles R. Snow would just go and meet Heavenly Father.
All was right.
He stood from the table and faced his associates, like a general with his colonels.
“Gentlemen, just remember one thing. Unlike the first attempt at secession and the failed Confederacy, we’re going to win our war.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
SALZBURG, AUSTRIA
5:20 P.M.
MALONE HAD VISITED SALZBURG BEFORE. GUARDED ON ITS flanks and rear by the towering Mönchsberg cliffs, the ancient town occupied both sides of the swift-moving Salzach River. A forest of church spires pierced the evening sky, gathered about cobbled squares and a maze of streets that, four hundred years ago, had formed a religious mecca. First a Roman trading center then a Christian outpost, it became a bishopric in the 8th century. Called the German Rome, its cathedrals and palaces were built to satisfy the lavish tastes that princes of the church had then demanded. Salt gave the province, the town, and the river its identity—culture, music, and art had provided its heritage.
He’d arrived on a flight from Copenhagen and taken a taxi into town. He chose a hotel near the Mozartplaz, a small establishment away from where he thought Salazar and Cassiopeia would be staying. He knew little about his adversary but enough to conclude that the Spaniard was at either the Hotel Sacher or the Goldener Hirsch. The Sacher sat across the river, near the Mirabell Palace, in what many called new town. The Goldener Hirsch occupied a more central locale in old town on Getreidegasse, one of the most famous shopping streets in the world. He decided that the Goldener Hirsch was the best bet and walked there, following the pedestrian-only routes. Narrow houses rose on both sides, the fronts washed with green, tawny, or a rusty pink. Each was a backdrop for a canopy of black ironwork filigree, cantilevered signs announcing each business with an image depicting the appropriate guild. The one for the Goldener Hirsch was particularly fitting—a lacy grillwork supporting a leaping golden stag.
He entered through dark green wooden doors into a lobby filled with rural Bavarian furniture. A long mahogany desk ran its length toward a staircase and elevator. He decided the best way to handle matters was to act like he knew what he was doing.
“I’m here to see Senor Salazar,” he told the young woman behind the counter. She had a broad face and unblinking eyes and was dressed in a staff uniform, like the other two attendants standing nearby. He kept his gaze focused on her, as if expecting action on his request.