The Lincoln Myth(51)
Arm in arm, they’d wandered the ramparts and taken in the labyrinth of spires, towers, and domes in the streets below. Beyond Salzburg, in the gray dusk, lay undulating hills and green meadows dotted with farmhouses. A placid, rural scene, much like where she lived in southern France. She missed her house and her castle. Being here, inside this ancient fortress, appreciating what it had taken to build it so long ago, had made her think of her own building project. The reconstruction was progressing, three of the outer walls now standing. Her engineers had told her that another decade would be required to finish the 13th-century structure.
She’d thumbed through the catalog for the estate sale, the offered items impressive. Apparently the deceased was a person of means. Porcelain, china, silverware, three paintings, and several books, one an original edition of the Book of Mormon. Josepe had seemed excited about the prospect of owning that treasure. The local ward had alerted him to the sale, and he’d voiced a hope that not many serious collectors would come. Normally telephone bids were allowed at a Dorotheum sale, but this one had specifically omitted that possibility, which meant bidders had to be in the hall, with money, to claim their prize. She was still troubled by what had happened in the restaurant. She’d caught the look in Cotton’s eyes. Half wary, half pleading, angry.
No. More hurt.
Waves of doubt flowed through her.
So she told herself to stay alert.
No telling what was about to happen.
MALONE STOOD OUTSIDE THE HALL, LISTENING TO THE bidding on other items, taking inventory. About fifty people filled the chairs that faced a small stage. The room was aglow from gold carvings, gilded walls, and the enormous tile stove that filled one corner. Red marble dominated the twisted columns. A rich coffered ceiling was adorned with gold buttons that twinkled like stars. Princes had once entertained here, and now it was a tourist attraction and rental space.
He’d spotted Salazar and Cassiopeia, sitting near the front, both focused on the auctioneer, who was accepting bids on a porcelain vase. He studied the catalog. The Book of Mormon was three items away.
He checked his phone.
A message from Stephanie indicated that the money had been transferred and more would be added, if needed.
He smiled.
Never a bad thing to have the president of the United States as your banker.
SALAZAR WAS BECOMING ANXIOUS. ALL OF HIS LIFE HE’D dreamed of holding something that perhaps the Prophet Joseph himself may have touched. He knew the drama involved when the first 5,000 copies of the Book of Mormon were printed. For a small shop in upstate New York, the task had been enormous. It had required eight months to produce the nearly three million pages needed for the complete first edition. On March 26, 1830, the books finally went on sale. Initially they sold for $1.75 but because of poor response the price was dropped to $1.25. An early Saint, Martin Harris, eventually sold 150 acres of his farm and raised the $3,000 owed the printer.
“Thou shalt not covet thine own property, but impart it freely to the printing. That is what Elder Harris was told,” the angel said inside his head. “His sacrifice made it all possible.”
Eleven days after the book was available for sale, believers in the word met in Fayette, New York, and legally organized what eight years later was renamed the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“This is your moment, Josepe. The prophets are watching. You are their Danite, the one who understands what is at stake.”
He’d come to claim his prize.
And not just one.
He desired the book and Cassiopeia. The more he was around her, the more he wanted her.
He could not deny it.
Nor did he want to.
THIRTY-ONE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
STEPHANIE NIBBLED AT THE BREAKFAST THE STAFF HAD SERVED her and the president. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but the food offered her time to think. She’d been around long enough to know the lay of the land. Some of the games she was forced to play were silly. A few nonsensical. Others bothersome or a nuisance. Then there was the real thing.
“Edwin and I have been working this for over a year,” Daniels said. “Just the two of us, with a little help from the Secret Service. But things are escalating. When Rowan moved on you, we knew what he wanted.”
She laid down her fork.
“You don’t like the eggs?”
“Actually, I hate eggs.”
“It’s not that bad, Stephanie.”
“You’re not the one facing a congressional inquiry—which, apparently, you knew was coming.”
Daniels shook his head. “I was only hoping it would, but I didn’t know.”
“Hoping?”
Daniels shoved his plate aside. “Actually, I’m not all that fond of eggs, either.”