The Lincoln Myth(56)

“You’re going to Montpelier and into that ice pit,” she said. “I want to know what, if anything, is there.”

Luke stepped over to his Magellan Billet–issued laptop and she watched as he pecked at the keyboard. His fingertips then maneuvered the cursor and a couple of clicks led to Montpelier.org.

“That pit was dug in the early 1800s,” he said. “Twenty-three feet deep, brick-lined. Madison built the temple over it around 1810. How could there be anything secret down there? It’s surely been picked over for years.”

“Maybe not. I also checked. There’s not a single photograph of what the inside looks like posted anywhere on the Web. Kind of strange, wouldn’t you say? We don’t have a clue what’s down there.”

“How do you suggest I get in?”

“Break and enter.”

“Can’t we just ask to see it?”

She shook her head. “We can’t involve anyone. It’s just you and me. Not even Atlanta knows what we’re doing. Get in, find out if Madison left anything, and get out. But don’t. Get. Caught.”

“I can handle that.”

“I knew you could. I’ll be available by cell. Let me know the minute you’re done.”

“How did you know Malone would go to Salzburg?”

“Because he cares for Cassiopeia. He wasn’t going to allow her to fly blind, now that he knows she’s there and Salazar killed our man. He’s probably even a little jealous, which is good for him. He’ll give Salazar just what the bastard deserves.”

“Salazar needs taking down.”

“I agree. And we’ll get our shot. But not just yet.”

“Does my loving uncle know I’m working this?”

She nodded. “He approves.”

Luke chuckled. “I bet he does. He’d sooner bust my chops than look at me.”

“How about you don’t worry about the president of the United States. And that’s what he is. He’s the commander in chief. Our boss. He’s ordered us to do a job, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

Luke saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

He was impossible, just like Cotton once was.

“And you know I meant no disrespect,” he said. “But you’re not a Daniels, so you don’t know what I know.”

“Don’t be so sure about that.”

Never would she mention the turmoil that she and Danny Daniels had been through together. That was not this youngster’s business. A part of her understood Luke’s bitterness. The president could be a hard man. She’d seen that firsthand. But he was not made of stone, and she’d seen that, too. Right now, though, she was the one in the crosshairs. She’d told Luke to not get caught, but the same advice applied to her.

She turned to leave. “I’ve emailed you particulars on the security at Montpelier, which isn’t all that much. It’ll be a nearly moonless night, so you should be able to get in and out with no problem.”

“Where will you be?”

She grabbed the front doorknob. “No place good.”





THIRTY-FOUR





SALZBURG


MALONE KNEW THEY WERE COMING. HE’D ACTUALLY BE disappointed if they didn’t. He’d purposefully chosen to descend from the castle with Salazar and Cassiopeia, and immediately spotted the two young men waiting for their boss. Cassiopeia’s little show at the cashier’s desk had—he hoped—been for Salazar’s benefit. Nice touch, actually. Her anger had appeared genuine, her defense of Salazar entirely reasonable under the circumstances.

He walked at a leisurely pace down the inclined cobbled street, into an open square behind the cathedral, risking no surreptitious glances over his shoulder. The night was chilly, the sky cloudy and devoid of celestial glory. The shops were all closed, their fronts tightly shuttered with iron grilles. He picked once more through his many threads of recollection about these narrow streets. Most were pedestrian-only, connected by winding paths built under the close-packed houses that served as shortcuts from one block to another. He spotted one of the passageways ahead and decided to avoid it.

He passed the cathedral and crossed the domplatz. He’d once visited the Christmas market held here every year. How long ago was that? Eight years? Nine? No, more like ten. His life had changed immeasurably since then. Never had he dreamed of being divorced, living in Europe, and owning an old-book shop.

And being in love?

He hated even admitting that to himself.

He glanced up at the cathedral, parts of it reminiscent of St. Peter’s in Rome. The archbishop’s former residence, its 17th-century façade tinted green and white and gold, blocked the path ahead. The Residenzplatz, from which he’d called Stephanie earlier, spread out before the building, the lighted fountain still splashing water.