The Jefferson Key cm-7

by Steve Berry

  “What about Daniels?”

  “You’ll see.”

  HALE WATCHED THE TELEVISION. ADVENTURE WAS NEARING home, now under engine power as they cruised west on the murky Pamlico River. He’d turned the volume down, tired of the anchors speculating in hope of holding viewers’ attention while the same grainy videos of two mechanical devices sprouting from the Grand Hyatt hotel played over and over. Twenty-four-hour news was good for the first thirty minutes of a crisis, but after that it was overkill.

  He shook his head, thinking of his fellow captains.

  The damn fools.

  He knew it was their right to do as they pleased-majority ruled in the Commonwealth-but he’d been excluded from their vote, and that ran contrary to the Articles. Unfortunately, desperate situations bred desperate acts, and he understood their frustration. They were all facing prison and the forfeiture of everything their families had accumulated for the past three centuries. Their only hope rested with the single sheet of paper he now held, encased within its own plastic sheath.

  The second page of Andrew Jackson’s scathing letter. Since you adore secrets and plot your life along a path in the shadows, I offer you a challenge that should suit you. The sheet attached to this letter is a code, one formulated by the esteemed Thomas Jefferson. I am told he thought it to be the perfect cipher. Succeed in learning its message and you will know where I have hidden what you crave. Fail and you remain the pathetic traitors that you are today.

  He stared at the page.

  Nine rows of random letters and symbols.

  Gibberish. My sincerest hope is that the unmanly course ascribed to you shall be your ruin and that I shall live to enjoy that day.

  For 175 years the failure to solve Jefferson’s cipher had been a source of concern. Four times that concern had risen to possible ruin, and four times the situations had been handled.

  Now a fifth scenario had arisen.

  But contrary to what his colleagues might think, he hadn’t sat idle. He was working on a solution to their problem. Two separate paths, actually. Unfortunately, his compatriots may have now endangered both of those efforts.

  On the television, something new appeared.

  The image of Air Force One on the ground at John F. Kennedy International Airport. A scrolling banner at the bottom of the screen announced that a suspect had been apprehended trying to flee the Grand Hyatt, but had been released.

  Mistaken identity.

  NO WORD AS YET ON THE CONDITION OF THE PRESIDENT, WHOM WE ARE TOLD

  WAS TAKEN DIRECTLY TO AIR FORCE ONE.

  He needed to speak with Clifford Knox.

  MALONE ENTERED AIR FORCE ONE. HE KNEW THE PLANE CONTAINED 4,000

  square feet of carefully designed space on three levels, including a suite for the president, an office, staff accommodations, even an operating room. Usually when the president traveled, an entourage tagged along with him including a doctor, senior advisers, Secret Service, and the press.

  But the deck was devoid of anyone.

  He wondered if Daniels had been brought here for treatment and everyone cleared out.

  He followed Davis, who led him through the empty mid-deck to a closed door. Davis turned the knob to reveal a plush conference room, its exterior windows shuttered closed. At the far end of a long table sat Danny Daniels. Unscathed.

  “I hear you tried to kill me,” the president said.

  “If I had, you’d be dead.”

  The older man chuckled. “On that you’re probably right.”

  Davis closed the door.

  “You okay?” he asked the president.

  “No holes. But I got my skull popped when they threw me back into the car. Luckily, as many people have noted through the years, I have a hard head.”

  He noticed the typewritten note from the hotel room lying on the table.

  Daniels stood from the leather armchair. “Thanks for what you did. Seems like I’m constantly owing you. But as soon as we learned who they had in custody, and I read that note you were carrying, supposedly from Stephanie, we knew the shit had really hit the fan.”

  He didn’t like the tone. This conversation was leading somewhere.

  “Cotton,” Daniels said. “We have a problem.”

  “We?”

  “Yep. You and me.”

  ELEVEN

  WYATT EXITED FROM THE SUBWAY AND STEPPED INTO UNION Square. Not as bustling as Times or Herald, or as high-toned as Washington, to him Union possessed its own personality, attracting a more eclectic crowd.

  He’d watched as Cotton Malone had been wrestled into custody inside Grand Central, then led from the terminal. But he wouldn’t stay a captive long. Not once Danny Daniels learned that one of his fair-haired boys had been involved-and Malone was definitely a member of that exclusive club.

  He crossed 14th Street and walked south, down Broadway, toward the Strand-four floors of overstock, used, rare, and out-of-print books. He’d chosen the location for the meeting in deference to his adversary, whom he knew loved books. Personally, he despised the things. Never read a novel in his life. Why waste time on lies? Occasionally he did consult a nonfiction volume or two, but he preferred the Internet or simply asking someone. What all the fascination was with words on paper he’d never understand. And why people would hoard the things by the ton, treasuring them as they would a precious metal, made no sense whatsoever.

  He caught sight of his contact.

  She stood on the sidewalk, perusing carts of dollar books that lined the Strand’s Broadway storefront. Her reputation was one for being sharp-eyed, distant, and coy. A bit difficult to work with. Which was in stark contrast with her physical appearance, her curvy figure, black hair, dark eyes, and swarthy complexion representative of a Cuban ancestry.

  Andrea Carbonell had commanded the NIA for more than a decade. The agency was a holdover from the Reagan years, when it had been responsible for some of the country’s best intelligence coups. CIA, NSA, and just about every other agency had hated them. But the NIA’s glory days were over, and now it seemed just another annoying multimillion-dollar line item in the black-ops budget.

  Danny Daniels had always preferred the Magellan Billet, headed by another one of his fair-haired favorites, Stephanie Nelle. Her twelve agents had accomplished many of the country’s recent successes-ferreting out the treason of Daniels’ first vice president, stopping the Central Asian Federation, eliminating the Paris Club, even effecting a peaceful transition of power in China. And all without ever contracting for any services from Wyatt. The Magellan Billet worked internally with no outside help.

  Except for Cotton Malone, of course.

  Nelle hadn’t seemed to mind recruiting her glamour boy when necessary. He knew that Malone had been involved with nearly all of the Billet’s notable efforts. And, according to his sources, had worked for free.

  The idiot.

  Wyatt had received his call from Andrea Carbonell three weeks ago.

  “Do you want the job?” she asked him.

  “What you’re asking may not be possible,” he told her.

  “For you? No way. Everything is possible for the Sphinx.”

  He hated the nickname, which referred to his tendency toward silence. He’d long ago acquired the skill of being in a conversation, saying nothing, yet appearing fully part of it. The tactic unnerved most listeners, nudging them to talk more than they ever would ordinarily.

  “Is my price acceptable?” he asked.

  “Perfectly.”

  He kept walking, passing the dollar carts, knowing that Carbonell would follow. He turned the corner and headed east on 12th Street for half a block, ducking inside the doorway of a closed business.

  “Daniels is fine,” Carbonell said as she drew close.

  He was glad to hear that. Mission accomplished.

  “How close were you going to cut that?” she asked.

  “Where is Daniels?”

  He saw she did not appreciate the inquiry, but then aga
in he didn’t appreciate her tone.

  “At JFK. Inside Air Force One. I heard before I got here he’s about to make a statement. Let the world see he’s okay.”

  He decided to answer her question now. “I did my job.”

  “And that meant involving Cotton Malone? The Secret Service grabbed him in Grand Central Station. They were led there by a radio alert. You wouldn’t know who provided that information, would you?”

  “Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?”

  “What if Malone had failed?”

  “He didn’t.”

  She’d hired him to stop the assassination attempt, telling him she could not trust the assignment to anyone in-house. She’d also told him that her agency was on the budgetary chopping block, the official word being that it would be eliminated in the next fiscal year. He had little sympathy for her. He’d been eliminated eight fiscal years ago.

  “I did what you asked,” he said.

  “Not exactly. But close enough.”

  “Time for me to go home.”

  “Don’t want to stick around and see what happens? You realize, Jonathan, that if NIA is hacked from the budget you’ll lose money, too. I think I’m the only one who still employs you on a regular basis.”

  No matter. He’d survive. He always had.

  She motioned at his wristwatch. A Rolex Submariner. “You like it?”

  What was not to like? Gilt-faced. Gold lettering. Accurate to a tenth of a second on a battery that lasted practically forever. A gift to himself a few years ago after a particularly lucrative assignment.

  He stared hard into her dark eyes.

  “Do you know how the Swiss rose to be such superb watchmakers?” she asked.

  He said nothing.

  “In 1541 Geneva outlawed jewelry on religious grounds, so the jewelers were forced to learn a new trade-watchmaking. Over time they became good at it. During World War I, when foreign competition had factories either seized or destroyed, the Swiss thrived. Today they produce half of the world’s watches. The Geneva seal is the gold standard by which all others are judged.”

  So what?

  “Jonathan, you and I are not the gold standard of anything any longer.”

  Her gaze bore into his eyes.

  “But just like those Swiss jewelers, I have an exit strategy.”

  “I wish you well with it. I’m done.”

  “Don’t want to play with Malone anymore?”

  He shrugged. “Since no one shot him, that will have to wait for another day.”

  “You really are nothing but trouble,” she said. “That’s what the other agencies say about you.”

  “Yet they seem to come my way when they get their asses stuck in deep cracks.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Go back to Florida, Jonathan. Enjoy yourself. Play golf. Walk on the beach. Leave this business to the grownups.”

  He ignored her insults. He had her money and he’d done his job. Winning a war of words meant nothing to him. What did interest him was that they were being observed. He’d spotted the man on the subway and confirmed his presence when the same face reappeared at street level in Union Square. He was currently positioned on the other side of Broadway, a hundred yards away.

  And not being all that subtle.

  “Good luck, Andrea. Perhaps you’ll fare better than I did.”

  He left her standing in the doorway and did not glance back.

  Twenty yards away a car wheeled around the corner and headed straight for him.

  It stopped and two men emerged.

  “Do you think you could be a good boy and come quietly?” one of the men asked.

  Wyatt was unarmed. Carrying a weapon around the city would have proved problematic, especially in the charged atmosphere he knew would be present after the assassination attempt.

  “Some people want to talk to you,” the man said.

  He turned back.

  Carbonell was gone.

  “We’re not with her,” one of the men said. “In fact, the chat is about her.”

  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 wit
hin 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.