by Steve Berry
“This place is popular,” the curator told him.
Cassiopeia, Edwin Davis, and the estate manager had come, too.
He spotted the replicated wheel. Three kids were spinning its tan-colored disks.
“It’s made of resin,” the curator said. “The original is far more fragile. Those disks are carved wood, over two hundred years old, about a quarter inch thick, and crack easily.”
He caught the concern in her voice. “I’m sure the thief is going to be careful.”
At least until he deciphers the message, he silently added.
The kids fled the wheel exhibit heading for something new. Malone walked over and examined the twenty-six disks threaded onto a metal rod. On the edge of each were black letters, separated by black lines.
“Do you have the sequence written down?” the curator asked.
“He doesn’t need it,” Cassiopeia said, adding a smile.
No, he didn’t.
His eidetic brain rattled them off.
GYUOINESCVOQXWJTZPKLDEMFHR
He spun the disks, assembling them in the correct order.
WYATT KEPT WALKING TOWARD THE CAR.
“I knew you’d read the message,” she called out.
He stopped and turned.
She stood in the sun, her face a mask. The nylon bag remained on the asphalt. He realized that her calculating brain had rattled through the options and quickly determined that there was no play left, except to deal with him. Destroying the disks had ensured his safety, since now only he knew the location.
She walked toward him and kept coming, stopping only when she was inches away. “Triple your fee. One-half deposited within the next two hours in the bank of your choice. The remaining part when you deliver the two documents to me intact.”
There was the obvious. “You realize the Commonwealth would pay far more for them.”
“Of course. But, like this morning, you apparently need something only I can provide. That’s why you’re talking with me right now instead a driving away in your new SUV.”
She was right. In order to do as Andrew Jackson directed he required a few items and had no time to procure them himself. “I need a clean passport.”
“And where would you be going?”
Since he doubted he could shield his movements from her anyway, he told her about Paw Island, Nova Scotia, then made clear, “Only you and I know this location. So only you and I can tell someone else.”
“Your way of keeping me honest?”
“If anyone else appears there, whatever I find goes up in flames. And you and the Commonwealth can go to hell.”
“This your way of showing that you’re better than me?”
He shook his head. “It’s just my way.”
She tossed him an understanding grin. “That’s what I like about you, Jonathan. You know exactly what you want. Okay. We’ll do this your way.”
CASSIOPEIA GLANCED OVER COTTON’S SHOULDER AS HE ARRANGED the disks. She and Edwin Davis had never finished their conversation, and there was much still to be said, but it would have to wait. And to think that she’d flown to New York simply to have a romantic weekend. Now she was embroiled in a true sticky wicket. She smiled at the phrase, one her father liked to use. He’d loved cricket, sponsoring several Spanish national teams. Sports had been important to him. Unfortunately, she hadn’t inherited his passion. But this was one sticky wicket, and just as hard crust atop wet soil caused a cricket ball to bounce in any direction, the same was true here. Lots of secrets, egos, and personalities. Not to mention the fact that two of the players were among the best-known people on the planet.
Cotton finished his task and said, “Those five symbols at the end of Jackson’s message are not on these disks. So they must be part of something else.”
He held all twenty-six disks in place and rotated them as a unit.
“There it is,” he said.
She focused on the black letters. One row, all the way across, formed words connected without spaces.
PAWISLANDMAHONEBAYDOMINION
“We need a computer,” Cotton said.
The curator led them to an office off the exhibit room where a desktop waited. Cassiopeia decided to do the honors and typed PAW ISLAND, MAHONE BAY.
The screen filled with sites. She selected one.
Mahone Bay was located at 44°30′N, 64°15′W, just off the coast of Nova Scotia, a respectable body of water that opened to the Atlantic Ocean. Named after the French mahonne, which was a type of boat once used by the locals. Dotted with nearly 400 islands, the most famous of which was Oak Island, where for more than two hundred years treasure hunters had excavated a deep pit into the bedrock, searching to no avail for gold. Paw Island was south of Oak, upon which lay a British fort, long abandoned, once called Dominion.
“Jackson chose his site with care,” Cotton said. “That’s about as out of the way as you can get. But it’s appropriate. That area has long been associated with piracy. It was a haven for pirates in the 18th century.” He faced Davis. “I’m going.”
“I agree. It’s the best thing for Stephanie. We need those pages.”
She already knew what Cotton wanted her to do. “I’ll slow them down through the phone tap. We can feed Hale whatever we like.”
He nodded. “Do it. Wyatt has the wheel and he’ll be headed north, too.”
“I’ll find Stephanie,” she told him.
He turned to the curator. “You said you created that duplicate wheel. Is the fact that it’s an exact duplicate of the original advertised anywhere?”
The woman shook her head. “The manufacturer and I are the only ones who know. I didn’t even tell the estate manager until a little while ago up in the house. It really wasn’t that important.”
But Cassiopeia realized exactly why that fact was critical. “Wyatt thinks he’s the only one who knows.”
Cotton nodded.
“Yep. Which means, for the first time, we’re ahead of the game.”
FIFTY-THREE
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
11:15 AM
KNOX PACED THE GRASS BENEATH A CANOPY OF OAKS AND pines. He’d been excused from the captain’s meeting just after Hale’s resurrection and told to wait outside. Not unusual for the four captains to discuss things without him, but he remained concerned about Hale’s private talk with the traitor.
Was that what the captains were discussing?
Adventure had, by now, made its way through the Ocracoke Inlet into the open Atlantic, heading out to dispose of the body.
What was he to do next?
The front door opened.
Bolton, Surcouf, and Cogburn emerged into the midday sun. They descended the veranda and headed for an electric cart. Bolton spotted him and walked over as the other two kept pace toward the vehicle.
“I wanted to thank you,” Bolton said.
“My job is to look after all of the captains.”
“What Hale is doing is wrong. It’s not going to work. I know, what we tried to do was desperate, or even worse than that. But he’s no better.”
Knox shrugged. “I’m not sure any of us knows what to do anymore.”
Defeat clouded the other man’s face. Bolton extended his hand, which Knox shook.
“Thanks again.”
Good to know that his move may have paid off. He might need Edward Bolton before this was done.
“Mr. Knox.”
He turned.
Hale’s private secretary waited on the porch.
“The captain will see you now.”
HALE POURED HIMSELF A DRINK AS KNOX REENTERED THE study. It held some of the same whiskey that had been used for the challenge. He tipped the glass to his quartermaster and said, “At least this one won’t kill me.”
The tumbler Knox had slapped from Bolton’s hand still lay on the hardwood floor, its liquid death soaked into the nearby planks.
“No one should touch that stain,” Knox made clear. “It will need to evaporate.”
“I’m keeping it there as a reminder of my triumph over idiocy. You should have let him die.”
“You know that I couldn’t.”
“Ah, yes. That duty of yours. The loyal quartermaster who walks the line between captain and crew. Elected by one group, yet dominated by the other. How do you do it?”
He made no attempt to mask his sarcasm.
“Did you make your point to them?” Knox calmly asked.
“What you really want to know is what we just discussed without you.”
“You’ll tell me when necessary.”
He threw the whiskey toward the back of his throat and swallowed.
He then banged the glass down on the table, reached for his gun, and pointed the weapon straight at Knox.
MALONE SETTLED INTO THE SEAT OF AN EXECUTIVE GULFSTREAM and fired up the LCD screen beside the white leather seat. He was alone in the spacious cabin, taxiing down the runway at Reagan National Airport, readying himself for what lay 800 miles to the north, across the Canadian border.
He needed the Internet and, thankfully, did not have to wait until 10,000 feet before using any approved electronic devices. He zeroed in on a few websites and learned what he could about Nova Scotia, a narrow Canadian peninsula barely connected to New Brunswick, surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean. Three hundred miles long, 50 miles wide, 4800 miles of coastline. A mix of old and new with craggy coves, sandy beaches, and fertile valleys. The south shore, from Halifax to Shelburne, contained countless inlets, the largest of which was Mahone. Though the French had discovered the bay in 1534, the British took control in 1713.
Something he hadn’t known came up on one site.
During the American Revolution colonial forces had occupied the region, attempting to make Canada the fourteenth colony. The idea had been to woo the many angry French still living there into becoming allies against the English, but the move failed. Canada remained British and, after the Revolution, became even more so, as Loyalists emigrated northward, fleeing the newly formed United States.
And he’d been right.
Mahone Bay became a haven for pirates.
Shipbuilding developed into an industry. Thick fogs and sinister tidal marshes provided ideal cover for several hundred islands. The locale was not all that dissimilar to Port Royal, Jamaica, or Bath, North Carolina, both of which had also once been notorious pirate dens.
Oak Island, which lay in Mahone Bay, appeared on many of the websites, so he read what he could. Its history began on a summer day in 1795 when Daniel McGinnis, a young man in his early twenties, discovered a clearing where oak trees had been felled, leaving only stumps. At the center of the clearing lay a circular indentation, maybe twelve feet wide. A large branch protruded over the depression. One version said that a ship’s pulley had been attached to the branch. Another stated there were strange markings on the tree. A third account noted that the clearing had been blanketed with red clover, which wasn’t native to the island. No matter which version was accepted as true, what happened next was beyond dispute.
People started digging.
First McGinnis and his friends, then others, then organized treasure consortiums. They bore down nearly two hundred feet and found layers of charcoal, timber, coconut fibers, flagstones, and clay. If their accounts could be believed, they unearthed a strange stone with curious markings. Two ingenious flood tunnels tied into the shaft, designed to ensure that anyone who dug deep enough would encounter nothing but water.
And that was exactly what they found.
Flooding had thwarted every attempt to solve the mystery.
Countless theories abounded.
Some said it was a pirate cache, dug by Captain William Kidd himself. Others gave ownership to the privateer Sir Francis Drake or the Spanish, as an out-of-the-way place to stash their wealth. More pragmatic people suggested military involvement—pay chests concealed by the French or English in their seesawing struggle to control Nova Scotia.
Then there were the far-outers.
Antediluvian Atlanteans, interplanetary travelers, Masons, Templars, Egyptians, Greeks, Celts.
Several men lost their lives, many their fortunes, but no treasure had ever been found.
Oak Island wasn’t even an island any longer. A narrow causeway, built to allow heavy digging equipment to easily pass back and forth, now connected it to the mainland. One recent Canadian news article mentioned that the provincial government was considering buying the land and turning the place into a tourist attraction.
Now that would yield a treasure, he thought.
He located a few mentions of Paw Island, a few miles southeast of Oak. About a mile long, and half that wide, shaped liked its name. Two coves indented its center facing north, while smaller ones cracked the remaining shoreline. Its rounded west side was covered with trees, while rocky cliffs dominated the east and south shores. The French had explored it in the 17th century looking for furs, but the English had built a fort, which they dubbed Wildwood, that faced the Atlantic and guarded the bay. He read how Nova Scotia was generally devoid of ruins. Nothing was ever wasted. Houses were dismantled timber by timber, the hinges, door handles, nails, bricks, mortar, and cement all reused. Twenty-first-century boards, driven by 18th-century nails, over 19th-century joists, was how one site described it.
But the limestone fort on Paw Island stood as an anomaly.
And history was the explanation.
In 1775 when the American Continental army invaded, seizing control of the British forts, Wildwood was taken early and renamed Dominion. But the Americans were soon defeated at the Battle of Quebec and withdrew from Canada in 1776. Before leaving Paw Island, though, they torched the fort. Nothing was ever rebuilt, the site abandoned to the elements, the fire-blackened walls left standing as a reminder of the insult.
Now only birds occupied them.
“Mr. Malone,” a voice said over the intercom. “We have a weather delay. They’re asking us to hold on the runway.”
“I didn’t think those rules applied to the Secret Service.”
“Unfortunately, there’s a nasty storm between here and Maine and even the Secret Service has to bow to that.”
“Keep in mind, we’re in a hurry.”
“It could be a little bit. They didn’t sound encouraging.”
He tapped the keyboard and found a map of Mahone Bay, deciding how best to arrive on Paw Island. They would be landing at a small airstrip to the south, specifically avoiding Halifax and its international hub, since Wyatt could be traveling through there. The Secret Service had run a check of all flights to Nova Scotia, but no seats had been booked in Wyatt’s name. No surprise. He was surely flying under an alias with a clean ID, or he may have chartered something.
It didn’t matter.
He wanted his adversary to have a clear run to the island.
There, they would get reacquainted.
FIFTY-FOUR
WHITE HOUSE
CASSIOPEIA FOLLOWED EDWIN DAVIS INTO A ROOM NOT MUCH larger than a closet. Inside was a small table that supported a console with an LCD monitor. The screen displayed a room dotted with oil portraits dominated by a conference table, whose seats were rapidly filling with men and women. She’d returned with Davis to Washington. Later, she’d head back south to Fredericksburg to make use of Kaiser’s phone tap.
“He had me order them here,” Davis said, pointing to the screen. “Heads of the eighteen largest intelligence agencies. CIA, NSA, NIA, Defense Intelligence, National Counter-Terrorism, Homeland Security, Foreign Terrorist Asset Tracking, National Geospatial, Underground Facility Analysis—you name it, we have somebody spending money on it.”
“Bet they’re wondering what’s going on.”
Davis smiled. “These people don’t like surprises, or one another for that matter.”
She watched on the screen as the president of the United States burst into the room and moved out of view to the head of the table. The camera had apparently been installed behind
where he sat so only the participants would be recorded.
Everyone sat.
“It’s good to see you’re okay,” one of the participants said to Daniels.
“It’s good to be okay.”
“Mr. President, we had little notice of this meeting so nothing has been prepared. We weren’t even told of the subject matter.”
“Head of Central Intelligence,” Davis told her. “The president owes me five dollars. I bet he’d be the first to probe. He said NSA.”
“You people love to tell me how good you are,” Daniels said. “That this country would be in dire jeopardy if we didn’t spend billions of dollars every year on what you do. You also like to hide behind that secrecy you so righteously demand. I don’t have the luxury of working in secret. I have to do what I do with a cadre of reporters camped out less than a hundred feet away from where I work. Hell, I don’t even know where half of your offices are located, much less what you do.”
“Do they know we’re watching?” she asked.
Davis shook his head. “Pinhole camera. The Secret Service installed it a few years ago. Nobody knows but senior staff.”
“This monstrosity of government called homeland security,” the president said, “is absurd. I have yet to find anyone who knows how much it costs, how many are employed, how many programs there are and, most important, how much duplication there is. Best I can tell there are nearly 1300 separate organizations working homeland security or foreign intelligence. That’s on top of nearly 2000 private contractors. Nearly 900,000 hold a top secret clearance. How could anything possibly be kept secret with that many eyes and ears?”
No one said a word.
“Everyone said they were going to streamline things after 9/11. You folks swore you were finally going to start working together. What you did was create 300 new intelligence organizations. You produce over 50,000 intelligence reports each year. Who reads them all?”