The Jefferson Key (8 page)

And never had he violated any of their confidences.

Of the four families, the Hales were by far the most prosperous, with a net worth equal to the remaining three combined. That superiority had often bred resentment, evidenced from time to time by bursts of independence, the others’ way of asserting themselves, so he should not be surprised by the day’s events.

“What happened?” he asked.

He listened as the quartermaster reported, including the NIA’s interference and the elimination of their agent.

“Why did they interfere?” he asked. “They are the only ones who have stood by us.”

“Apparently, we went a bit too far. Beyond that, their agent offered no explanation. He seemed intent on sending us a message. I thought it important for them to know that we received the message, and don’t appreciate what they did.”

He could not argue with that conclusion.

A sense of mission had always bound a pirate company, the team more important than any one individual. His father had taught him that missions required goals and rewards, the participants bound into a single purpose. That had been the way of his ancestors, and even today every good ship captain knew that a clearly defined mission transformed the hunted into hunters.

So he decided not to chastise Knox and simply said, “From this point on, I want to be kept informed.”

The quartermaster did not object. “I’m going to retrieve Parrott’s laptop.”

His heart quickened. The prospect that Jefferson’s cipher may have been solved excited him. Could it be? Still—

“I’d be careful.”

“I plan to.”

“Notify me the moment you have it. And, Clifford. No more moves like the ones today.”

“I assume you’ll be dealing with the other three?”

“As fast as I can get to shore.”

He ended the call.

At least something might have gone right today.

He glanced over at the two pages sheathed in plastic.

In 1835, when his great-great-grandfather had tried to assassinate Andrew Jackson, there’d been hell to pay. And just like now, divisions existed within the Commonwealth. Only then a Hale had ordered the quartermaster to kill the president of the United States.

Richard Lawrence, an unemployed house painter, had been covertly recruited. Prior to the assassination attempt Lawrence had tried to shoot his sister and openly threatened two others, eventually believing that Jackson had murdered his father. He also thought himself the king of England and fervently pronounced that Jackson was interfering with his royal inheritance. He held the president responsible for his unemployment and for an overall shortage of money in the country.

Not a difficult matter to encourage him to act.

The problem came from Jackson, who’d sequestered himself within the White House during the bitter winter of 1834. A funeral at the Capitol finally brought the president out, so Lawrence was nudged to Washington and provided two pistols. He’d secreted himself within the crowd on a cold, rainy day and confronted his adversary.

But fate intervened and saved Old Hickory.

Thanks to wet powder, both guns misfired.

Immediately Jackson had blamed Senator George Poindexter of Mississippi, alleging a conspiracy. The Senate launched an official inquiry, but Poindexter was exonerated. Privately, though, Jackson targeted his real vengeance.

Hale’s grandfather had told him the story.

The six presidents before Jackson had been easy to work with. Washington knew what the Commonwealth had done for the country during the Revolution. So did Adams. Even Jefferson tolerated them, and their help with America’s war on the Barbary pirates removed any bad taste that may have lingered. Madison, Monroe, and the second Adams never presented a problem.

But that damn fool from Tennessee was determined to change everything.

Jackson fought with Congress, the Supreme Court, the press—anybody and everybody. He was the first president nominated by a political party, not political bosses, the first who campaigned directly to the people and won thanks solely to them. He hated the political elite and, once in office, made sure their influence waned. Jackson had even dealt with pirates before, as a general during the War of 1812 when he made a deal with Jean Lafitte to save New Orleans from the British. He actually liked Lafitte, but years later, as president, when a dispute arose with the Commonwealth, one that should have been an easy matter to resolve, Jackson refused to capitulate. The other captains at the time had wanted to maintain the peace so they voted to let it go.

Only the Hales said no.

And they’d sent Richard Lawrence.

But just like today, that assassination attempt failed. Thankfully, Lawrence was declared insane and locked away. He died in 1861, never uttering an intelligible word.

Could a similar good fortune emerge from today’s fiasco?

Outside the salon’s windows Hale spotted the Bayview car ferry making another of its daily runs across the Pamlico, south to Aurora.

Home was not far away.

His mind continued to churn.

The path his great-great-grandfather had chosen remained bumpy. Andrew Jackson had left a scar on the Commonwealth that, on four previous occasions, had festered into an open wound.

My hope is that the unmanly course ascribed to you shall be your ruin
.

Maybe not, you sorry
SOB
.

His secretary entered the salon. Hale had tasked him with finding the three other captains.

“They are in the compound at Cogburn’s house.”

“Tell them that I want to see them in the main house within the hour.”

His secretary left.

He stared back at the choppy river and caught sight of a shark fin just beyond the boat’s wake. An interesting sight fifty miles inland from the open sea. Of late he’d noticed more and more predators plying these waters. Just a few days ago one had snatched the bait from his fishing line, nearly yanking him into the river.

He smiled.

They were tough, aggressive, and relentless.

Like him.

AIR
FORCE
ONE

MALONE
WAS
BECOMING
IMPATIENT
.
THE
COMMENT
ABOUT
Stephanie Nelle being in trouble concerned him. And he hadn’t missed what the president had first said.

I read that note
supposedly
from Stephanie
.

Stephanie was not only his former boss, she was his close friend. Twelve years they’d worked together. When he’d retired out early, she’d tried to talk him out of it. Ultimately, she’d understood and wished him well. But over the past three years they’d come to each other’s aid more than once. He could count on her, and she on him.

Which was the sole reason why he’d responded to her email.

The president reentered the plane and marched toward where he and Davis stood. They followed Daniels into the conference room. The cabin remained empty. Three
LCD
screens displayed images from Fox,
CNN
, and a local New York station of the 747’s exterior as the press was being herded away. Daniels removed his suit jacket and yanked loose his tie, unbuttoning the collar.

“Have a seat, Cotton.”

“I’d rather you tell me what’s going on.”

Daniels sighed. “That could be a tall order.”

Davis sat in one of the chairs.

Malone decided to sit and listen to what they had to say.

“The planet should now be at ease knowing that the leader of the free world is still alive,” Daniels said, the sarcasm clear.

“It had to be done,” Davis made clear.

Daniels dropped himself into a chair. He was in the final sixteen months of his presidency, and Malone wondered what this man would do when he no longer occupied the head of the table. Being an ex-president had to be tough. One day the weight of the world rested on your shoulders. Then, at noon on the 20th day of January, nobody gave a rat’s ass if you were even alive.

Daniels rubbed his eyes and cheeks. “The other day I was thinking about a story somebody once told me. Two bulls were sitting atop a hill, staring down at a mess of pretty cows. The young one said, ‘I’m going to run down there and have me one of those beauties.’ The old bull didn’t take the bait. He just stood there. The young bull egged him on, questioning his ability to perform, saying again, ‘Let’s run on down there and have us one of ’em.’ Finally the old bull cocked his head and told his young friend, ‘How about we just walk down there and have ’em all?’ ”

Malone smiled. He could empathize with that young cow.

On the television screens a fuzzy, distant image of the plane and two cars approaching the stairway leading up inside could be seen. Three agents stepped out of the cars wearing
FBI
jackets like the one he still had on, along with caps.

One of them climbed the stairs.

He’d sensed they were waiting for something but, thinking about the story and its metaphor, he wanted to know, “Who are you planning on sticking it to?”

The president pointed a finger at him and Davis. “You two get reacquainted?”

“Like family,” Malone said. “I feel the love. Do you, Edwin?”

Davis shook his head. “Believe us, Cotton. We wish this wasn’t happening.”

The conference room door opened and Cassiopeia stepped inside. She removed a navy jacket and cap, exposing damp, dark hair.

She looked great, as always.

“It’s not exactly dinner and a show,” he said. “But it is Air Force One.”

She smiled. “Never a dull moment.”

“Now that the gang’s all here,” Daniels said. “We can get down to business.”

“And what might that be?” Cassiopeia asked.

“It’s so good to see you again, too,” the president said to her.

Malone knew Cassiopeia had worked with Daniels before—on something she and Stephanie had teamed up on. The two women were close friends. Their connection stretched as far back as Stephanie’s late husband, Lars. So she, too, would be concerned that Stephanie was in trouble.

Cassiopeia shrugged. “I don’t know how good it is. I’m accused of trying to kill you. Since you’re obviously not dead, why are we here?”

Daniels’ face turned hard. “It’s not good. Not good at all.”

BATH
,
NORTH
CAROLINA

HALE
STEPPED
FROM
ADVENTURE
AND
MARCHED
DOWN
THE
dock. The crew was busy securing the sloop to the end of the two-hundred-foot expanse. The late-summer sun faded to the west, the air acquiring a familiar chill. All the land along the river, nearly twenty square miles, belonged to the Commonwealth—the tracts allocated centuries ago among the four families, the riverbank divided equally. Bath lay a couple of miles east, now a sleepy village of 267 residents—mostly weekend homes and river cottages—none of its former glory remaining. The Hales’ quarter of the estate had always been meticulously maintained. Four houses dotted the surrounding woods, one for each of the Hale children and one for himself. He lived here most of the time, occupying apartments in New York, London, Paris, and Hong Kong only when necessary. The other clans were the same. It had been that way since 1793, when the Commonwealth formed.

An electric cart awaited him and he drove through groves of oak, pine, and cypress to his home, a mansion erected in 1883 in Queen Anne style, flush with irregular forms and dramatic rooflines. Balconies and porches wrapped each of its three levels, opening off twenty-two rooms. Warmth and character sprang from olive walls, shingles mixed in pale red and gray slate, glittering diamond-paned windows, and mahogany-stained doors. Its elaborate woodwork had been crafted in Philadelphia, then shipped south and hauled from the river by oxcart.

His ancestors had certainly known how to live. They’d built an empire, then passed it down to their children. Which made his current predicament even more compelling.

He was not going to be the last in a long line.

He stopped the cart and surveyed the grounds.

The grove beyond was quiet as a church, dotted with shadows, the dwindling open patches whitened by the setting sun. Crew kept the estate in superb working order. What was once a hip-roofed dairy had been remodeled into a workshop. The old smokehouse contained a communications and security center. The privies were long gone, but the saddle-notched log barns remained, each housing farming equipment. He was particularly proud of the grape arbors, his scuppernongs some of the state’s sweetest. He wondered if any of his children were back on the property. They were all grown and married, but none, as yet, with children of their own. They worked in the legitimate family enterprises, aware of their heritage but ignorant of his responsibilities. That had always been kept between father and the singular chosen offspring. To this day his sister and brother knew nothing of the Commonwealth. The time was coming when he’d have to choose his successor and start the grooming process, just as his father had done with him.

He imagined what was happening a mile away as the other three captains, heads of their respective families, responded to his summons. He told himself to control his temper. In 1835 Hales had acted unilaterally to the detriment of the others. Now it was the other way around.

He depressed the accelerator and drove on.

The gravel road paralleled one of his most productive soybean fields, the thick woods on the opposite side loaded with deer. The deep alto of a blackbird, singing the last strophes of a ballad, could be heard in the distance. His life had always been about the outdoors. Hales first came to America from England in 1700, on a voyage across the Atlantic that took so long the pet rabbits had bred three times.

He’d always liked how that first Hale had been described.

A vigorous, intelligent man of wit and charm and diverse abilities
.

John Hale arrived at Charles Town, in South Carolina, on Christmas Day. Three days later he plunged northward along trails known only to Natives. Two weeks after that he found the Pamlico River and a blue, tree-ringed bay where he built a house. He then founded a port, sheltered from attack by water, but navigable on an easterly course to the sea. He named it Bath Town, and five years later its incorporation was formally approved.