by Steve Berry
TWELVE
MALONE WAITED WITH EDWIN DAVIS INSIDE AIR FORCE ONE and watched the spectacle below. The press had been allowed onto the asphalt and were now crowded ten-deep behind a hastily erected rope barricade, cameras pointed toward a crop of microphones that sprouted before Danny Daniels. The president stood tall, his baritone voice booming to the world.
“What did he mean that we have a problem?” Malone asked Davis.
“The past few months have actually been a little boring. The last year or so of a president’s second term is like the last few months of a pope’s life. Everybody’s waiting for the old guy to exit so the new guys can take over.” Davis pointed at the press. “Now there’s something to report.”
They crowded close to one of the plane’s windows, out of sight. A television to their right displayed what was being broadcast by CNN, the volume just high enough for Malone to hear Daniels reassure everyone that he was unhurt.
“You’re not answering the question.”
Davis pointed out the window. “He asked me to hold any explanations until he was finished.”
“You always do as he says?”
“Hardly. As you well know.”
Malone turned toward the monitor and heard Daniels proclaim, “Let me say emphatically that I think the Secret Service and the law enforcement agents of New York City did a superb job, and I want to thank them for everything they did during this unfortunate incident. This was to be a personal trip to honor an old friend. This incident, under no circumstances, will prevent me from traveling throughout America and the world. It is regrettable that individuals still think murder or assassination is a way to effect change.”
“Mr. President,” one of the reporters shouted, “can you give us an idea what you saw or felt at the time?”
“I’m not sure that I ought to describe what I saw beyond the fact that the window shattered and a metal device appeared. I then saw the quick and effective actions taken by the Secret Service.”
“Your own thoughts, sir?”
“I was thankful to the Secret Service for doing a superb job.”
“You used the word individuals a moment ago when referring to the assassination attempt. Who do you mean by that in the plural?”
“Do any of you believe that one person manufactured all that hardware?”
“Do you have specific individuals in mind?”
“That will be the focus of an intense investigation, which is starting as we speak.”
Davis pointed at the flat screen. “He has to be careful. Just enough to send a message.”
“What the hell is going on?” he asked.
Davis did not answer. This punctilious man, with a knife-edge press to his trousers, simply stared at the television screen as Daniels retreated from the microphones and his press secretary fielded more questions. The president climbed the stairs back into the plane, camera lens following. In a few moments he would reenter through the door a few feet away.
“It’s Stephanie,” Davis whispered. “She’s the one who needs our help.”
CASSIOPEIA SAT IN THE REAR SEAT OF AN SUV, ONE AGENT BESIDE her, two more up front. They’d allowed her to dress, then to pack both her and Cotton’s belongings, bringing everything with them.
Apparently, they were going somewhere.
They’d left the St. Regis quietly and driven unescorted out of Manhattan, across the East River into Queens. No one had said a word, and she hadn’t asked anything.
No need.
The car radio told the story.
Someone had tried to assassinate Danny Daniels, and the president had just appeared before the press to assure everyone that he’d escaped unharmed. Cotton was somehow involved, and she wondered if this was what Stephanie Nelle had wanted to see him about.
Stephanie and Cotton were close—friends for fifteen years. He’d worked for her a dozen of those years at the Magellan Billet, a covert intelligence unit within the U.S. Justice Department. Cotton had been a navy commander, trained as both a pilot and a lawyer, personally recruited by Stephanie. While there, he’d handled some of her most sensitive assignments until retiring early three years ago. That’s when he’d moved to Copenhagen and opened an old-book shop.
She hoped Cotton was okay.
They’d both thought the email from Stephanie strange but ignored the warning signs. A weekend in New York had simply sounded like fun. Unfortunately, she wasn’t wearing her black Armani in a crowded theater. Instead she was in federal custody being driven who knew where.
Her long dark hair was still damp, curling as it dried. She wore no makeup, but rarely did anyway. She’d chosen a smart ensemble of brown leather trousers, a camel-colored cashmere shirt, and a double-breasted camel-hair blazer. Vanity had never been a weakness, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t conscious of her appearance.
“Sorry about the kick,” she said to the agent sitting beside her. He’d been the one to first rush into the apartment.
He acknowledged the apology with a nod but kept his thoughts to himself. She realized prisoners rarely had luggage brought with them to jail. Apparently, after her identity had been discovered, new instructions had been provided.
Up ahead she spotted the grand expanse of John F. Kennedy International Airport. They motored through an open gate and she caught sight of Air Force One parked on the tarmac. A swarm of people were being led away from the plane.
“We’ll wait until the press clears,” the agent in the front seat said.
“Then what?” she asked.
“You’re going on board.”
THIRTEEN
PAMLICO RIVER, NORTH CAROLINA
HALE CONTINUED TO WATCH THE TELEVISION COVERAGE. ADVENTURE was less than thirty minutes from home. They’d slowed to a crawl respecting the fact that the Pamlico, for all its vastness, was little more than twenty feet deep at best. He recalled what his grandfather had told him about the channel markers—once merely cedar saplings, they were routinely moved by the local pilots to encourage visiting boat captains to hire them. Thank God the days of tacking inland from the sand banks, dodging shoals that had not existed the day before, were over. Engines made quite the difference. He’d muted the TV and was listening to the slap-slap of the river’s flow against the ship’s smooth hull.
Waiting.
He’d placed a call twenty minutes ago and left a voice message.
Danny Daniels had been impressive before the press. Hale had caught the president’s unspoken message. The investigations were already starting. He wondered how good the quartermaster had been. Thankfully, Knox was thorough, that he’d give him. Knox’s father had been the same, serving Hale’s father. But this situation was unusual, to say the least.
His phone chimed.
When he answered, Knox said, “I told them not to do it, but they were insistent.”
“You should have told me.”
“It’s no different from what I did for you, and they have no idea of that. I’ve never violated your confidence, so you can’t expect me to violate theirs.”
True, only a few days ago Knox had indeed performed a clandestine mission for Hale. One of great importance.
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 appreci
ate 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.
FOURTEEN
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.
&nb
sp; 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.”
FIFTEEN
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.