{"product_id":"the-lincoln-myth-isbn-9780345526588","title":"The Lincoln Myth","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • A Cotton Malone adventure involving a flaw in the United States Constitution, a mystery about Abraham Lincoln, and a political issue that’s as explosive as it is timely—not only in Malone’s world, but in ours\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eSeptember 1861: \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eAll is not as it seems. \u003c\/i\u003eWith these cryptic words, a shocking secret passed down from president to president comes to rest in the hands of Abraham Lincoln. And as the first bloody clashes of the Civil War unfold, Lincoln alone must decide how best to use this volatile knowledge: save thousands of American lives, or keep the young nation from being torn apart forever?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eThe present: \u003c\/b\u003eIn Utah, the fabled remains of Mormon pioneers whose nineteenth-century expedition across the desert met with a murderous end have been uncovered. In Washington, D.C., the official investigation of an international entrepreneur, an elder in the Mormon church, has sparked a political battle between the White House and a powerful United States senator. In Denmark, a Justice Department agent, missing in action, has fallen into the hands of a dangerous zealot—a man driven by divine visions to make a prophet’s words reality. And in a matter of a few short hours, Cotton Malone has gone from quietly selling books at his shop in Denmark to dodging bullets in a high-speed boat chase.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e All it takes is a phone call from his former boss in Washington, and suddenly the ex-agent is racing to rescue an informant carrying critical intelligence. It’s just the kind of perilous business that Malone has been trying to leave behind, ever since he retired from the Justice Department. But once he draws enemy blood, Malone is plunged into a deadly conflict—a constitutional war secretly set in motion more than two hundred years ago by America’s Founding Fathers.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e From the streets of Copenhagen to the catacombs of Salzburg to the rugged mountains of Utah, the grim specter of the Civil War looms as a dangerous conspiracy gathers power. Malone risks life, liberty, and his greatest love in a race for the truth about Abraham Lincoln—while the fate of the United States of America hangs in the balance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for Steve Berry and his Cotton Malone series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “In Malone, [Steve] Berry has created a classic, complex hero.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Malone, a hero with a personal stake in the proceedings, is a welcome respite from the cold, calculating superspies who litter the genre.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Steve Berry gets better and better with each new book.”\u003cb\u003e—The Huffington Post\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Savvy readers . . . cannot go wrong with Cotton Malone.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Berry raises this genre’s stakes.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I love this guy.”\u003cb\u003e—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Lee Child\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for Steve Berry and his Cotton Malone series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “In Malone, [Steve] Berry has created a classic, complex hero.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Malone, a hero with a personal stake in the proceedings, is a welcome respite from the cold, calculating superspies who litter the genre.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Steve Berry gets better and better with each new book.”\u003cb\u003e—The Huffington Post\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Savvy readers . . . cannot go wrong with Cotton Malone.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Berry raises this genre’s stakes.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I love this guy.”\u003cb\u003e—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Lee Child\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSteve Berry\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e and #1 internationally bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Lincoln Myth, The King’s Deception, The Columbus Affair, The Jefferson Key, The Emperor’s Tomb, The Paris Vendetta, The Charlemagne Pursuit, The Venetian Betrayal, The Alexandria Link, The Templar Legacy, The Third Secret, The Romanov Prophecy, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e The Amber Room\u003c\/i\u003e. His books have been translated into 40 languages with more than 18,000,000 copies in 51 countries.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e History lies at the heart of every Steve Berry novel. It’s this passion, one he shares with his wife, Elizabeth, that led them to create History Matters, a foundation dedicated to historic preservation. Since 2009 Steve and Elizabeth have traveled across the country to save endangered historic treasures, raising money via lectures, receptions, galas, luncheons, dinners, and their popular writers’ workshops. To date, nearly 2,500 students have attended those workshops. In 2012 their work was recognized by the American Library Association, which named Steve the first spokesman for National Preservation Week. He was also appointed by the Smithsonian Board of Regents to serve on the Smithsonian Libraries Advisory Board to help promote and support the libraries in their mission to provide information in all forms to scientists, curators, scholars, students, and the public at large. He has received the Royden B. Davis Distinguished Author Award and the 2013 Writers for Writers Award from \u003ci\u003ePoets \u0026amp; Writers\u003c\/i\u003e. His novel \u003ci\u003eThe Columbus Affair\u003c\/i\u003e earned him the Anne Frank Human Writes Award, and his historic preservation work merited the 2013 Silver Bullet from International Thriller Writers.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Steve Berry was born and raised in Georgia, graduating from the Walter F. George School of Law at Mercer University. He was a trial lawyer for 30 years and held elective office for 14 of those years. He is a founding member of International Thriller Writers—a group of more than 2,600 thriller writers from around the world—and served three years as its co-president.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e For more information, visit www.steveberry.org.ONE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOff the coast of Denmark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWednesday, October 8\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e7:40 p.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne glance and Cotton Malone knew there was trouble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’d noticed the craft just after they’d left the dock at Landskrona 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe heard the urgency in her request.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I can’t. But you’re the closest to him. He’s across the water in Sweden, waiting for someone to come get him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sounds like trouble.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I have an agent missing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe hated to hear those words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll take care of it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One more thing, Cotton. Take your gun.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gun now nestled against the small of his back, beneath his jacket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They’re getting closer,” Barry Kirk said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike he didn’t know that. Two engines were always better than one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis just kept getting better and better.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey 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 cheaper to rent than to own a boat, especially considering how little he ventured out on the water. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What do you plan to do?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOdd choices.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do you know who those men are?” he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They want to kill me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe kept the boat pointed toward Denmark, its hull breasting the waves with jarring lunges, throwing spray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And why do they want to kill you?” he asked over the engine’s roar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who are you, exactly?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe cut a quick glance at Kirk. “The guy who’s going to save your sorry ass.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe other boat was less than thirty yards way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe scanned the horizon in every direction and spotted no other craft. Dusk was gathering, the azure sky being replaced by gray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA pop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe whirled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe second man in the pursuing boat was firing at them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Get down,” he yelled to Kirk. He ducked, too, keeping their course and speed steady.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo more shots.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne thudded into the fiberglass to his left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe other boat was now fifty feet away. He decided to give his pursuers a little pause. He reached back, found his gun, and sent a bullet their way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe other boat veered to starboard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey were more than a mile from the Danish shore, nearly at the Øresund’s center. The second boat looped around and was now approaching from the right on a path that would cut directly in front of them. He saw that the pistol had been replaced with a short-barreled automatic rifle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnly one thing to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe adjusted course straight for them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTime for a game of chicken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA burst of gunfire cut across the air. He dove to the deck, keeping one hand on the wheel. Rounds whizzed by overhead and a few penetrated the bow. He risked a look. The other boat had veered to port, swinging around, preparing to attack from the rear, where the open deck offered little cover.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe decided the direct approach was best.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut it would have to be timed just right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe kept the boat racing ahead at nearly full throttle. The second craft’s bow still headed his way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Keep down,” he told Kirk again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo worry existed that his order would be disobeyed. Kirk clung to the deck, below the side panels. Malone still held his Beretta but kept it out of sight. The other boat narrowed the distance between them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd fast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFifty yards.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThirty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe yanked the throttle back and brought the engine to idle. Speed vanished. The bow sank into the water. They glided for a few yards then came to a stop. The other boat kept coming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eParallel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man with the rifle aimed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut before he could fire, Malone shot him in the chest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe other boat raced past.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe reengaged the throttle and the engine sprang to life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInside the second craft he saw the driver reach down and find the rifle. A big loop brought the boat back on an intercept course.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis feint worked once.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut would not again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNearly a mile’s worth of water still lay between them and the Danish coast, and he could not outrun the other vessel. Maybe outmaneuver, but for how long? No. He’d have to stand and fight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stared ahead and grabbed his bearings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was five miles or so north of Copenhagen’s outskirts, near the spot where his old friend Henrik Thorvaldsen had once lived.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Look at that,” he heard Kirk say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe turned back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe other boat was a hundred yards away, bearing down. But out of an ever-dimming western sky a high-wing, single-engine Cessna had swooped down. Its trademark tricycle landing gear, no more than six feet clear of the water’s surface, raked the other craft, its wheels nearly smacking the driver who disappeared downward, his hands apparently off the wheel as the bow lurched left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMalone used the moment to head for his attacker.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe plane banked high, gained altitude, and swung around for another pass. He wondered if the pilot realized that there was an automatic weapon about to be aimed skyward. He headed straight for the trouble, as fast as his engine allowed. The other boat had now stopped in the water, its occupant’s attention totally on the plane.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich allowed Malone to draw close.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was grateful for the distraction, but that assistance was about to turn into disaster. He saw the automatic rifle being aimed at the plane.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Get up here,” he screamed to Kirk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man did not move.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t make me come get you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKirk rose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hold the wheel. Keep us going straight.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Me? What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKirk grabbed hold.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMalone stepped to the stern, planted his feet, and aimed the gun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe plane kept coming. The other man was ready with his rifle. Malone knew he’d have only a few chances from a bumpy deck. The other man suddenly realized that the boat was coming at the same time as the plane.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBoth a threat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat to do?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMalone fired twice. Missed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA third shot hit the other craft.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man darted right, deciding the boat now posed the greater problem. Malone’s fourth shot found the man’s chest, which propelled the body over the side and into the water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe plane roared by, its wheels low and tight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBoth he and Kirk ducked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe grabbed hold of the wheel and slowed the throttle, turning back toward their enemy. They approached from the stern, his gun ready. A body floated in the water, another lay on the deck. Nobody else was on board.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Aren’t you a ton of trouble,” he said to Kirk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eQuiet had returned, only the engine’s throaty idle disturbing the silence. Water slapped both hulls. He should contact some local authority. Swedes? Danes? But with Stephanie and the Magellan Billet involved, he knew partnering with locals was not an option.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe hated doing it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stared up into the dim sky and saw the Cessna, now back up to a couple thousand feet, making a pass directly over them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone jumped from the plane.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA chute opened, catching air, its occupant guiding himself downward in a tight spiral. Malone had parachuted several times and could see that this skydiver knew the drill, banking the canopy, navigating a course straight for them, feet knifing through the water less than fifty yards away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMalone eased the boat over and came up alongside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man who hoisted himself aboard was maybe late twenties. His blond hair appeared more mowed than cut, the bright face clean-shaven and warmed by a wide, toothy smile. He wore a dark pullover shirt and jeans, matted to a muscular frame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That water is cold,” the young man said. “Sure appreciate you waiting around for me. Sorry I was late.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMalone pointed to the fading sound of a prop as the plane kept flying east. “Someone on board?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nope. Autopilot. But there isn’t much fuel left. It’ll fall into the Baltic in a few minutes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Expensive waste.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe young man shrugged. “The dude I stole it from needed to lose it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who are you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, sorry about that. Sometimes I forget my manners.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA wet hand was offered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Name’s Luke Daniels. Magellan Billet.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTWO\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKalundborg, Denmark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e8:00 p.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJosepe Salazar waited while the man gathered himself. His prisoner lay semi-conscious in the cell, but awake enough to hear him say, “End this.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man lifted his head from the dusty stone floor. “I’ve wondered . . . for the past three days . . . how you can be so cruel. You are a believer . . . in the Heavenly Father. A man . . . supposedly of God.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe saw no contradiction. “The prophets have faced threats as great as or greater than those I face today. Yet they never wavered from doing what had to be done.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You speak the truth,” the angel told him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe glanced up. The image floated a few feet away, standing in a loose white robe, bathed in brilliance, pure as lightning, brighter than anything he’d ever seen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do not hesitate, Josepe. None of the prophets ever hesitated in doing what had to be done.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe knew that his prisoner could not hear the angel. No one could, save for him. But the man on the floor noticed that his gaze had drifted to the cell’s back wall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What are you looking at?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A glorious sight.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He cannot comprehend what we know.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe faced his prisoner. “I have Kirk.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe hadn’t received confirmation yet on what happened in Sweden, but his men had reported that the target was in sight. Finally. After three days. Which was how long this man had lain in this cell, without food or water. The skin was bruised and pale, lips cracked, nose broken, eyes hollow. Probably a couple of ribs broken, too. To increase the torment a bucket of water lay just beyond the bars, within sight but not reach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Press him,” the angel commanded. “He must know that we will not tolerate insolence. The people who sent him must know we will fight. There is much to be done and they have placed themselves in the middle of our path. Break him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe always accepted the angel’s advice. How could he not? He came directly from Heavenly Father. This prisoner, though, was a spy. Sent by the enemy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We have always dealt with spies harshly,” the angel said. “In the beginning there were many and they inflicted great harm. We must return that harm.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But am I not to love him?” he asked the apparition. “He is still a son of God.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who are you . . . talking . . . to?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe faced the prisoner and asked what he wanted to know, “Who do you work for?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo reply.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tell me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe heard his voice rise. Unusual for him. He was known to be soft-spoken, always projecting a placid demeanor—which he worked hard to maintain. Decorum was a lost art, his father had many times said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bucket of water lay at his feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe filled a ladle, then tossed its contents through the bars, soaking his prisoner’s bruised face. The man’s tongue tried to savor what little refreshment it could find. But three days of thirst would take time to quench.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tell me what I want to know.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“More water.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePity had long abandoned him. He was charged with a sacred duty, and the fate of millions depended on the decisions he would make.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There must be a blood atonement,” the angel said. “It is the only way.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoctrine proclaimed that there were sins for which men could not receive forgiveness in this world, or in the world to come. But if they had their eyes opened, made able to see their true condition, surely they would be willing to have their blood spilled in forgiveness of those sins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The blood of the son of God was shed for sins committed by men,” the angel said. “And there remain sins that can be atoned for by an offering upon an altar, as in ancient days. But there are also sins that the blood of a lamb or a calf or a turtledove cannot remit. These must be atoned for by the blood of the man.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSins such as murder, adultery, lying, covenant breaking, and apostasy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe crouched down and stared at the defiant soul on the other side of the bars. “You cannot stop me. No one can. What will happen is going to happen. But I am prepared to show you some consideration. Simply tell me who you work for and your mission, and this water is yours.”New York Times bestselling author of The King's Deception","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303190548709,"sku":"NP9780345526588","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345526588.jpg?v=1767740246","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-lincoln-myth-isbn-9780345526588","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}