by Steve Berry
But she’d tossed him a bone. He now knew where to look. And she knew what he’d do.
“Cleaning up loose ends?” he asked.
She laughed. “Let’s just say I can be quite generous when I want to be. Call it a demonstration of my good faith.”
The hell with Stephanie Nelle. Maybe she was more valuable dead. “Give me the key. Once I have those two pages in hand, your problem will go away.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
WHITE HOUSE
CASSIOPEIA ENTERED A CASUAL SPACE ADJACENT TO THE PRESIDENTIAL master bedroom, the room decorated as a cozy den. Perched on a settee, upholstered in a bright chintz print, sat Pauline Daniels.
The female Secret Service agent outside had closed the door behind her.
They were alone.
The First Lady’s dull blond hair fell in wisps over dainty ears and a short brow. Her features cast a more youthful appearance than the early to midsixties she had to be. Octagonal glasses without rims fronted attractive blue eyes. She sat in an unnatural pose, back straight, veined hands folded in her lap, wearing a conservative wool suit and flat-soled Chanel ballet slippers.
“I understand you want to question me,” Mrs. Daniels said.
“I’d prefer we just talk.”
“And who are you?”
She caught the defensive edge in the question. “Someone who doesn’t want to be here.”
“That makes two of us.”
The First Lady motioned and Cassiopeia sat in a chair facing the sofa, two meters separating them, like some sort of demilitarized zone. This was uncomfortable on a multitude of levels, not the least of which was what Edwin Davis had just told her about Mary Daniels.
She introduced herself, then asked, “Where were you when the attempt on the president’s life happened?”
The older woman stared down at the rug on the wood floor. “You make it sound so impersonal. He’s my husband.”
“I have to ask the question, and you know that.”
“Here. Danny went to New York without me. He said he’d only bea few hours. Home by midnight. I didn’t think a thing about it.”
The voice remained distant, far off.
“What was your reaction when you heard?”
The First Lady glanced up, her blue eyes focused. “What you’re really asking is, was I glad?”
She wondered about the bluntness, searching her memory, recalling nothing in the press about any animosity, whether perceived or real, between the first couple. Their marriage had always been regarded as strong. But if this was the direction the woman wanted to go, then, “Were you glad?”
“I didn’t know what to think, especially during those first few minutes after it happened, before we were told he was okay. My thoughts were … confused.”
An uneasy silence passed between them.
“You know, don’t you?” the older woman asked her. “About Mary.”
She nodded.
The face remained frozen, a mask of indifference. “I never forgave him.”
“Why did you stay?”
“He’s my husband. I swore for better or worse. My mother taught me those words meant something.” The First Lady sucked in a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “What you really want to know is, did I tell anyone about the trip to New York.”
She waited.
“Yes. I did.”
MALONE DOVE BEHIND HIS PARKED CAR AND REACHED FOR THE semi-automatic the Secret Service had provided. He’d expected something, but not necessarily this fast. The car speeding toward him slowed as the gun projecting from the open window fired three rounds. The weapon was sound-suppressed, the shots popping more like those of a cap pistol than the bangs of a high-caliber weapon.
The car wheeled to a stop fifty yards away.
Two men emerged, one from the driver’s side, the other from the rear passenger door. Both armed. He decided not to give anyone time to think and shot the man closest to him in the thigh. The body dropped to the ground, his victim crying out in pain. The other man reacted, assuming a defensive position behind the vehicle.
The rain quickened, drops stinging his face.
He glanced around to see if there were any more threats and spotted none.
So instead of aiming for the man with the gun, he pointed his weapon at the open driver’s-side door and fired into the car.
HALE HUNG UP THE PHONE. OF COURSE, HE DID NOT BELIEVE A word Andrea Carbonell had said. She was buying time.
But so was he.
He was bothered by the fact that she knew about the earlier murder at sea. There was indeed a spy among them.
Which had to be dealt with.
He mentally assessed Adventure’s crew. Many of them performed other tasks around the estate, some in the metallurgy workshop where Knox had surely fashioned his remote-controlled weapons. Each man derived a designated share of the Commonwealth’s annual spoils, and it pained him to think that one of them had betrayed the company.
Justice must be done.
The Articles provided an accused a trial before his peers with the quartermaster presiding and crewmen, captains included, serving as jury. A simple majority vote would determine his fate, and if he was found guilty, the punishment was not in doubt.
Death.
Slow and painful.
He recalled what his father had told him about a convicted traitor from decades ago. They’d resorted to the old ways. About a hundred of the crew assembled to deliver one blow each from a cat-o’-nine-tails. But only half were able to inflict the punishment before the man died.
He decided not to wait for the quartermaster.
Though it was approaching midnight, he knew his secretary was down the hall. Never would he retire before Hale.
He called out and a few moments later the door opened.
“I want the crew of the sloop assembled at once.”
CASSIOPEIA STAYED CALM. APPARENTLY, DANNY DANIELS’ INSTINCTS had proven correct.
“Are you married?” the First Lady asked her.
She shook her head.
“Someone special in your life?”
She nodded, though it felt strange to actually admit the fact.
“Do you love him?”
“I told him I did.”
“Did you mean it?”
“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”
A sly grin came to the older woman’s thin lips. “I wish it were that simple. Does he love you?”
She nodded.
“I met Danny when I was seventeen. We married a year later. I told him I loved him on our second date. He told me on the third. He always was a little slow. I’ve watched him rise up the political ladder. He started as a city councilman and ended up president of the United States. If he hadn’t killed our little girl, I do believe I would worship him.”
“He didn’t kill her.”
“But he did. I begged him not to smoke in the house and to be careful with his ashes. Back then nobody knew anything about secondhand smoke, all I knew was that I didn’t want him smoking.” The words had come fast, as if they needed to be said. “I relive that night every day. Earlier, when they told me somebody had tried to kill Danny, I thought about it again. I hated him for tossing me out the window. Hated him for being stubborn. Hated him for not saving Mary.” She caught herself. “But I also love him.”
Cassiopeia sat silent.
“I bet you think I’m a crazy person,” the First Lady said. “But when I was told someone would be coming to interrogate me, someone from outside the White House, I knew that I had to be honest. You do believe that I’m being honest?”
That was the one thing she was sure of.
“Who did you tell about the New York trip?” she asked, trying to get back on point.
Pauline Daniels’ face cast an expression of profound sympathy. Her blue eyes seemed on the verge of tears, and Cassiopeia wondered at the thoughts swirling through this troubled woman’s mind. From everything she knew the First Lady was a poised,
well-respected figure, never a cruel word uttered about her. At all times she conducted herself in a proper manner, but apparently this woman kept her emotions bottled inside, the relative safety of these walls, home to her for the past seven years, the only place where they might be exposed.
“A friend of mine. A close friend. That’s who I told.”
The eyes conveyed more.
“A friend I don’t want my husband to talk to.”
TWENTY-NINE
MARYLAND
WYATT WATCHED AS COTTON MALONE FENDED OFF THE ATTACKERS, firing at the car stopped a hundred and fifty feet away.
Carbonell had been right about the others coming, too.
“What’s happening out there?” Voccio said, stepping toward the window.
Wyatt turned to face him. “We have to go.”
More shots rang out from below. Concern filled the other man’s face, the anxious eyes like those of a cornered animal.
“We need to call the police,” Voccio said.
“Do you have all the data?”
The man nodded and produced a flash drive. “On here.”
“Give it to me.”
The academician handed over the device. “Why are you even here to get it?”
A strange question.
“I emailed it to the NIA director several hours ago.”
Really? A point Carbonell had failed to mention. But he should not be surprised. “Do you have a car downstairs?”
“In the rear parking lot.”
He gestured for the door. “Bring the keys and let’s go.”
The room suddenly went dark.
Every light extinguished with a loud bang, except for the three computer monitors. Even the rumble of the ventilation system stopped. Wyatt’s alert level moved from orange to red.
Seemed they might be the subject of this attack, too.
“The computers are on a battery backup,” Voccio said, the uneven light from the screens washing over them. “What in the world is going on?”
He couldn’t say that men were probably coming to kill them both.
So he kept it simple.
“We need to leave.”
MALONE AIMED NOT TO HIT ANYONE, BUT TO SPUR THE DRIVER to move the car, and bullets close enough to feel should do the trick.
And they did.
The engine revved, the wheels spun, and the vehicle sped away.
The gunman on the other side suddenly realized that his only cover had vanished. Now he stood in the center of an empty parking lot, awash in light from the overhead lamps, nowhere to go. So he laid down a spread from his automatic weapon, indiscriminate rounds tearing through Malone’s car, shattering glass.
Malone huddled close, listening to the thumping report of lead ripping through metal, and waited for his moment. When the firing stopped, he rose, aimed, and brought the gunman to a wavering halt with a bullet to the shoulder.
He rushed over and kicked the rifle away.
The man writhed in pain on the wet pavement, and blood poured from the wound.
The storm freshened as gusts of wind molested the trees. His eyes swept the darkness, and he noticed something.
All the lights in the building that had been illuminated were now out.
KNOX STEPPED OFF THE PLANE AT THE GREENVILLE, NORTH Carolina, airport. He’d flown to New York aboard the Commonwealth’s jet, piloting the twelve-seater himself. He’d learned to fly while in the air force. His father had encouraged him to join, and the six years he’d spent on active duty had been good for him. His sons had followed suit, one of them just finishing a Middle Eastern tour, another planned to enlist. He was proud that his children wanted to serve. They were good Americans, as was he.
The small, regional airport lay forty minutes west of Bath, and he quickly made his way to a Lincoln Navigator parked beside the Commonwealth’s private hangar. Ostensibly, both the plane and the building belonged to one of the Hale business concerns, used by executives for corporate travel. Three pilots stayed on the payroll, but Knox never used them. His trips were private, the fewer witnesses the better. He was still concerned about New York and all that had gone wrong. But at least he’d managed to escape in one piece.
He unlocked the rear door and tossed his travel bag inside. The place was quiet and still for late on a Saturday night. Movement out of the corner of his eye diverted his attention. A form emerged from the darkness and said, “I’ve been waiting.”
He stared at the faceless shadow, an inkblot on the night, and said, “I should kill you.”
The woman chuckled. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“Our deal is over.”
Andrea Carbonell stepped forward. “Hardly. We are far from through with each other.”
MALONE RETRIEVED THE WEAPONS FROM THE TWO DOWNED men then ran toward the building’s entrance. He saw that its glass doors had been shattered, the electronic latch destroyed. He entered the lobby, immediately finding cover behind a sofa grouping with chairs. A reception counter fronted one wall, two elevators another. Three sets of glass doors lead into what he assumed were other offices, but they were dark. Another set of glass doors at the far end opened out to the rear of the building. His gaze found the stairway, an EXIT sign burning a dull crimson from battery power.
He crept close and eased the door open.
He heard movement.
Footsteps.
Above him.
WYATT LED VOCCIO OUT OF THE OFFICE AND DOWN THE HALL, passing both open and closed doorways. Emergency lighting indicated where the stairs waited and, in the soft glow from the illuminated panel, he caught sight of the exit door.
Which was being eased open.
He grabbed Voccio by the arm, signaling for quiet, then diverted them both into the first open space. Some sort of conference room, the opposite wall lined with windows, the plate glass smeared with rain and lit from the outside by lamps below. He motioned for the doctor to wait in one of the corners, then peered out into the hall, his eyes struggling to define shapes.
Two forms disturbed the darkness, both moving ahead toting automatic rifles. He thought he caught the silhouette of night goggles around their heads. It would make sense that these men would have come equipped.
Thank goodness he’d also thought ahead.
KNOX WAS IN NO MOOD FOR CARBONELL’S THEATRICS. HE’D sold his soul to her, doing something that ran counter to every fiber in his being.
But she’d made a convincing case.
The Commonwealth was finished.
All four captains would spend a decade or more in federal prison. Every penny they’d made and every tangible asset they owned would be seized by the government. No more crews. No more letters of marque. No more quartermasters.
Knox could either survive the calamity or become part of it.
God help him, he chose survival.
The NIA knew about the assassination attempt because he’d told them. That had been his bargaining chip, the one piece of information that neither NIA nor anyone else had known.
His ticket out.
Carbonell had listened to him intently.
“They’re going to kill Danny Daniels?” she asked.
“Three captains think that’s the solution.”
“And what do you think?”
“They’re crazy and desperate. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
“What do you want?”
“To see my children graduate from college. To enjoy my grandchildren. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison.”
“I can make that happen.”
Yes, she could, he thought.
“Keep their plan moving forward. Do nothing out of the ordinary. But keep me informed.”
He hated himself for selling out. He hated the captains for forcing him into the position.
“One thing,” she said to him. “If you hold out or give me one shred of bad information, the deal is off. But you won’t go down with them.”
&nb
sp; He knew what she’d do.
“I’ll tell them that you sold out, and let them handle you for me.”
Of which he was sure.
So he’d fabricated the weapons, delivered them to New York, then provided Carbonell with card keys to both rooms, per her request. She’d then told him to carry out the attempt, as planned, with no stops.
He’d wondered about that.
“You cut that close,” he said to her. “I wasn’t sure you were going to end it or not. The guy dangling out the window. Yours?”
“An unplanned complication, but it worked out. Good work on Scott Parrott.”
He’d killed Parrott only because that’s what the captains would have expected from their quartermaster. Duplicity could never be tolerated. Anything less than direct force would have been suspect.
“You gave him up easily,” he said to her.
“Would you have preferred one more live witness around who could sell you out?”
No. He wouldn’t. Which was another reason why he’d acted. “Were you going to kill me in New York?”
She laughed. “Far from it. That was a favor from me to you. In the event that, for some reason, you didn’t move on Parrott.”
He didn’t understand.
She said, “How better to shield the fact that you’re a traitor to all those you once held dear than to place your life in dire jeopardy, from which you manage to escape?”
“That whole thing was an act?”
“Not from the agents’ perspectives. They knew nothing, except to stop you. But I knew you could handle yourself.”
“So you sacrificed them, too? Do you care anything for the people who work for you?”
She shrugged. “They had a better-than-fair shot at besting you. Five against one. It’s not my fault they failed.”
Damn her. None of that had been necessary.
Or had it?
Both incidents would indeed provide him with excellent cover.
“Captain Hale,” she said, “and the rest of the Commonwealth are surely in a panic. But it seems the captains work together about as efficiently as the intelligence community.”
He could not argue with that conclusion. They were all becoming more combative, more irrational. He knew about what Hale had done earlier, killing his long-term accountant. Who was next?