The Jefferson Key (9 page)

Always ambitious, John Hale built ships and made his fortune in the slave trade. As his wealth and reputation grew, so did Bath, the town becoming a center of nautical activity and a hotbed for piracy. So it was only natural that Hale became a pirate, preying off British, French, and Spanish shipping. In 1717, when King George announced his Act of Grace, granting absolution for men who swore they would not resume buccaneering, Hale pledged his oath and, openly, became a respected planter and Bath councilman. Secretly, his ships continued to wreak havoc, but he targeted only the Spanish, which the British would care little about. The colonies became an ideal market for the buying and selling of illegal goods. Under British law American exports could be shipped only on English ships with English sailors—a nightmare relative to cost and supply. Colonial merchants and governors greeted pirates with open arms since they could supply what was needed at the right price. Many American ports became pirate dens, Bath the most notable and productive. Eventually the Revolutionary War changed allegiances and led to the formation of the Commonwealth.

Ever since, the four families had been bound.

To pledge our Unity and assert our Cause, every Man has a Vote in Affairs of Moment; has equal Title to the fresh provisions, or strong Liquors, at any Time seized, and may use them at Pleasure. No man is better than Another and each Shall rise to the Defense of the Other
.

Words from the Articles, which he took to heart.

He stopped the cart before another of the estate’s buildings, this one with a hipped roof, gables, dormers, and a tower at one end. It rose two stories with a cantilevered stairway. The delightful nature of its exterior concealed the fact that it acted as a prison.

He punched in a code for the heavy oak door and released the latch. Once the walls had been fashioned of only brick and timber. Now they were soundproofed with the latest technology. Inside were eight cells. Not a horrible prison, but a prison nonetheless. One that came in handy.

Like a few days ago, when Knox moved on the target.

He climbed to the second floor and approached the iron bars. The prisoner on the other side rose from a wooden bench and faced him.

“Comfortable?” he asked. The cell was ten feet square, roomy actually considering what his ancestors had been forced to endure. “Anything you need?”

“The key to the door.”

He smiled. “Even if you had that, there would be no place to go.”

“They were right about you. You’re no patriot, you’re a thieving pirate.”

“That’s the second time today I’ve been called that.”

The prisoner stepped close to the bars. Hale stood just on the other side, a foot or so away. He noted the dingy clothes, the tired face. He’d been told that his captive had eaten little over the past three days.

“Nobody gives a damn that you have me,” he was told.

“I’m not so sure about that. They don’t, as yet, realize the danger you’re in.”

“I’m expendable.”

“Caesar was once captured by Sicilian pirates,” he said. “They demanded a ransom of 25 gold talents. He thought himself worth more and demanded they raise the ransom to 50, which was paid. After he was freed, he hunted his captors down and slaughtered them to a man.” He paused. “How much do you think you are worth?”

Spit flew through the bars and splattered on his face.

He closed his eyes as he slowly reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped it away.

“Stick it up your ass,” his captive said to him.

He reached into his other pocket and found his lighter, plated with German silver and engraved with his name, a gift from his children two Christmases ago. He ignited the handkerchief and tossed the flaming cloth through the bars, straight at his prisoner.

Stephanie Nelle reeled back and allowed the burning bundle to drop to the floor where she extinguished it with her shoe, never taking her gaze off him.

He’d snatched her as a favor for someone else, but over the past couple of days, he’d been thinking how to make use of her for his own purposes. She might even become expendable if Knox’s news from New York—that the cipher may be solved—proved true.

Considering what just happened he hoped that was the case.

“I assure you,” he said to her. “You will regret what you just did.”

MALONE
HELD
TIGHT
IN
HIS
CHAIR
AS
AIR
FORCE
ONE
ROSE
from the runway and vectored south back to Washington, DC. Everyone still occupied the conference room.

“Tough day at the office, dear?” Cassiopeia asked him.

He caught the playful look in her eyes. Any other woman would be highly irritated at the moment, but Cassiopeia handled the unexpected better than any person he’d ever known. Cool, calculated, focused. He still recalled the first time they’d encountered each other—in France, at Rennes-le-Château, one dark night when she’d taken a shot at him then sped away on a motorcycle.

“Just the usual,” he said. “Wrong place, right time.”

She smiled. “You missed out on a great dress.”

She’d told him before he left the hotel about the stop at Bergdorf Goodman. He’d been looking forward to seeing her purchase.

“Sorry about our date,” he told her again.

She shrugged. “Look where we ended up.”

“It’s good to finally meet you,” Edwin Davis said to Cassiopeia. “We missed each other in Europe.”

“This trip to New York was a lark,” Danny Daniels said. “Or as much of a lark as a president is allowed to have.”

Malone listened as Daniels explained how a close friend and lifetime supporter was having a retirement gathering. Daniels had been invited but had not decided to attend until a couple of months ago. No one outside the White House was told of the journey until yesterday, and the press was informed only that the president would be visiting New York. No location, time, or extent of the visit had been provided. Once inside Cipriani, attendees would have passed through a metal detector. By not forewarning anyone, and keeping even the press in the dark until the last minute, the Secret Service thought they had the trip reasonably secure.

“It’s always the same,” Daniels said. “Every assassination, or attempted one, happened because of screwups. Lincoln, McKinley, and Garfield had no guards. Just walk right up and shoot ’em. Kennedy’s protection was waved off for political reasons. They wanted him as close to the people as possible. So they announced that he’d be parading down a crowded street in an open car. ‘Come on out and see the president.’ ” Daniels shook his head. “Reagan took a bullet solely because his layers of protection broke down. Always some screwup. This time it was mine.”

Malone was surprised to hear the admission.

“I insisted on the trip. Told everyone it would be fine. They took some precautions, and wanted to take more. But I said no.”

The plane leveled off from its climb. Malone popped his ears to the altitude.

“When you decided to go,” Cassiopeia said. “Who knew?”

“Not enough people,” Daniels said.

Malone thought the response curious.

“How did you get into that hotel room?” the president asked him.

He explained about Stephanie’s email, the key card waiting for him at the St. Regis, and what he found. Cassiopeia was handed the note from the envelope, which she read.

Daniels motioned to Davis, who produced a pocket tape recorder and slid it across the table.

“This is a recording of secured radio traffic, after the shooting, while you were trying to get out of the Hyatt,” Davis said.

Daniels activated the unit.

Alert to all agents. Suspect is wearing pale blue buttondown shirt, light trousers, no jacket at this time, presently exiting Grand Hyatt hotel from main lobby into tunnel that accesses Grand Central Terminal. I’m headed in that direction
.

The president stopped the machine.

“There’s no way anyone could have known that,” Malone said.

“None of our agents posted that alert,” Davis said. “And as you know, those frequencies are not available to the general public.”

“You recognize the voice?” Daniels asked.

“Hard to say. The static and the radio mask a lot. But there is something familiar about it.”

“Seems you have an admirer,” Cassiopeia said.

“And you were set up,” Daniels made clear. “Just like we were.”

WYATT
WAS
DRIVEN
PAST
COLUMBUS
CIRCLE
TO
MANHATTAN’S
Upper West Side, an area less commercial, less congested, and loaded with quaint shops and brick-faced apartments. He was escorted to the second floor of one of the many brick buildings and into a spacious dwelling, sparsely decorated, wooden blinds covering the windows. He assumed it was some sort of safe house.

Two men waited for him.

Both deputy directors—one for the
CIA
, the other
NSA
. The National Security Agency face he knew, the other he simply recognized. Neither man seemed glad to see him. He was left alone with them, as the two who brought him waited outside in the elevator foyer.

“You want to tell us what you were doing today?”
CIA
asked. “How you happened to be at the Grand Hyatt?”

He hated anything and everything related to
CIA
. He’d only worked for them, on occasion, because they paid well.

“Who says I was there?”

CIA
was antsy, pacing the room. “Don’t screw with us, Wyatt. You were there. Why?”

Interesting that these two clearly knew at least some of his business.

“You responsible for Malone showing up?”
NSA
asked.

“Why would you think that?”

CIA
produced a pocket tape recorder and flicked it on. He heard his voice, over the radio, informing the Secret Service about Malone heading for Grand Central Station.

“I’ll ask you again. Was Malone your idea?”

“Seems it was fortunate he was there.”

“And what if he’d failed to stop things?”
NSA
asked.

He gave them the same response he’d provided Carbonell. “He didn’t.” And he wasn’t about to explain anything more to these idiots. But he was curious. “Why didn’t you stop things? You were obviously there.”

“We didn’t know spit,”
CIA
hollered back. “We’ve been playing catch-up all day.”

He shrugged. “Seems you caught up.”

“You cocksure
SOB
,”
CIA
said, his voice still loud. “You and Carbonell are interfering in our business. You’re both trying to save that stinking Commonwealth.”

“You’re confusing me with someone else.”

He’d decided to take Carbonell’s advice and play golf tomorrow. He’d actually come to enjoy the game, and the course inside his gated community was spectacular.

“We know all about you and Malone,”
NSA
spit out.

This man was a degree calmer than
CIA
, but still anxious. Wyatt knew
NSA
represented billions in the annual intelligence budget. They were into everything, including the covert monitoring of nearly every overseas phone call made to and from the United States.

“Malone was the chief witness against you at your admin hearing,”
NSA
said. “You coldcocked him so you could order three men into a shoot-out. Two of whom died. Malone brought charges against you. What was the finding?
Unnecessary risks taken in disregard of life
. You were sectioned out. A twenty-year career gone. No pension. Nothing. I’d say you owe Cotton Malone.”

CIA
pointed a finger at him. “What did Carbonell do, hire you to help out with the Commonwealth? To try and save their hides?”

He knew little about the Commonwealth besides the meager information contained in the dossier she’d provided, all of which related to the assassination attempt, little in the way of broad background. He’d been briefed about Clifford Knox, the organization’s quartermaster, who would be directing the threat on Daniels’ life. He’d watched as Knox moved about the Grand Hyatt the past few days, preparing the guns, waiting for him to leave so that he could inspect their handiwork and leave Malone the note.

“Are those pirates the ones who tried to kill Daniels?”
NSA
asked. “You know who planted those guns, don’t you?”

Since he doubted the trail of those automatic weapons led anywhere past the Grand Hyatt, he was not about to become their chief accuser. His immediate problem, though, was even more substantial. Obviously, he’d managed to insert himself into some sort of spy civil war.
CIA
and
NSA
apparently were at odds with
NIA
, and the Commonwealth was at the center of the dispute. Nothing new. Intelligence agencies rarely cooperated with one another.

Still, this feud felt different.

More personal.

And that concerned him.

BATH
,
NORTH
CAROLINA

HALE
ENTERED
HIS
HOUSE
,
STILL
SEETHING
FROM
STEPHANIE
Nelle’s insult. Just the latest example of America’s continued ingratitude. All that the Commonwealth had done for the country, during and since the American Revolution, and he got spit on.

He stopped in the foyer at the base of the main staircase and gathered his thoughts. Outside, his secretary had told him the other three captains were there. He had to handle them carefully. He stared up at one of the canvases that dotted the oak-paneled walls—his great-great-grandfather, who’d lived on this same land and attacked a president, too.

Abner Hale.

But surviving had been a lot easier in the mid-19th century, as the world was a much larger place. You could actually disappear. He’d often imagined what it would have been like to sail the oceans back then, going about, as one chronicler had written,
like roaring lions seeking whom you might devour
. An unpredictable life on a rolling sea, no home, no bounds, few rules save for those all aboard had agreed upon in the articles.