The Lincoln Myth Read Free

Øresund, which separated the northern Danish island of Zealand from the southern Swedish province of Scania, usually one of the busiest waterways in the world, was light on traffic. Only two boats in sight across the gray-blue water—his and the fast-approaching profile of the one slicing toward them.
    He’d noticed the craft just after they’d left the dock at Lands-krona on the Swedish side of the channel. A red-and-white twenty-footer with dual inboards. His boat was a rental, secured at the Copenhagen waterfront on the Danish side, a fifteen-footer with a single outboard. The engine howled as he plowed through the moderate surf, the skies clear, the crisp evening air devoid of breeze—lovely fall weather for Scandinavia.
    Three hours ago he was working in his bookshop at Højbro Plads. He’d planned on dinner at the Café Norden, as he did almost every evening. But a call from Stephanie Nelle, his former boss at the Justice Department, changed all that.
    “I need a favor,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency. There’s a man named Barry Kirk. Short black hair, pointy nose. I need you to go get him.”
    He heard the urgency in her request .
    “I have an agent en route, but he’s been delayed. I don’t know when he’ll get there, and this man has to be found. Now.”
    “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why.”
    “I can’t. But you’re the closest to him. He’s across the water in Sweden, waiting for someone to come get him.”
    “Sounds like trouble.”
    “I have an agent missing.”
    He hated to hear those words .
    “Kirk may know where he is, so it’s important to secure him quickly. I’m hoping we’re ahead of any problems. Just bring him back to your shop and keep him there until my guy comes for him.”
    “I’ll take care of it.”
    “One more thing, Cotton. Take your gun.”
    He’d immediately gone upstairs to his fourth-floor apartment above his bookshop and found the knapsack beneath his bed, the one he always kept ready with identification, money, a phone, and his Magellan Billet–issued Beretta, which Stephanie had allowed him to keep when he retired.
    The gun now nestled against the small of his back, beneath his jacket.
    “They’re getting closer,” Barry Kirk said.
    Like he didn’t know that. Two engines were always better than one.
    He held the wheel steady, his throttle three-quarters of the way engaged. He decided to max out the power and the bow rose as the V-hull gained speed. He glanced back. Two men occupied the other boat—one driving, the other standing with a gun.
    This just kept getting better and better.
    They were not yet halfway across the channel, still on the Swedish side, heading diagonally southwest toward Copenhagen. He could have taken a car, crossing the Øresund Bridge that connected Denmark to Sweden, but that would have taken an extra hour. Water was faster and Stephanie was in a hurry, so he’d rented the bowrider runabout from the same shop he always used. Far cheaperto rent than to own a boat, especially considering how little he ventured out on the water.
    “What do you plan to do?”
    A stupid question. Kirk was definitely annoying. He’d located him pacing the docks, exactly where Stephanie had said he’d be waiting, anxious to leave. Code words had been arranged so they both would know they’d found the right person. Joseph for him. Moroni for Kirk.
    Odd choices.
    “Do you know who those men are?” he asked.
    “They want to kill me.”
    He kept the boat pointed toward Denmark, its hull breasting the waves with jarring lunges, throwing spray.
    “And why do they want to kill you?” he asked over the engine’s roar.
    “Who are you, exactly?”
    He cut a quick glance at Kirk. “The guy who’s going to save your sorry ass.”
    The other boat was less than thirty yards way.
    He scanned the horizon in every direction and spotted no other craft. Dusk was gathering, the azure sky being replaced by gray.
    A