by Steve Berry
“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.”
SIXTEEN
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-Chateau, 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 abo
ut 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.
SEVENTEEN
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.
He sucked a few deep breaths, straightened his clothes, then walked down the corridor, entering his library, a spacious rectangle with a vaulted ceiling and a wall of windows framing a view of the orchards. He’d remodeled the room a decade ago, removing most of his father’s influences and purposefully evoking the mood of an English country estate.
He closed the library doors and faced three men seated in tufted, burgundy velvet chairs.
Charles Cogburn, Edward Bolton, and John Surcouf.
Each was lean, two wore mustaches, all bore sun-squinted eyes. They were men of the sea, like him, signers of the Commonwealth’s current Articles, heads of their respective families, bonded to one another by a sacred oath. He imagined that their stomachs were tossing similar to Abner Hale’s in 1835 when he, too, had acted like a fool.
He decided to start with a question he already knew the answer to. “Where is the quartermaster?”
“In New York,” Cogburn said. “Doing damage control.”
Good. At least they planned to be reasonably honest with him. Two months ago he’d been the one to inform them of Daniels’ unannounced New York trip, wondering if perhaps an opportunity might present itself. They’d debated the proposed course at length, then voted. “I don’t have to say the obvious. We decided not to do this.”
“We changed our minds,” Bolton said.
“Which I’m sure you championed.”
Boltons had always displayed irrational aggression. Their ancestors had helped found Jamestown in 1607, then made a fortune supplying the new colony. On one of those voyages they imported a new strain of tobacco, which proved the colony’s saving grace, thriving in the sandy soil, becoming Virginia’s most valuable export commodity. Bolton descendants eventually settled in the Carolinas, at Bath, branching out into piracy, then privateering.
“I thought the move would solve the problem,” Bolton said. “The vice president would have left us alone.”
He had to say, “You have no idea what would have happened, if you’d been successful.”
“All I know, Quentin,” John Surcouf said, “is that I’m at risk of going to prison and losing everything my family has. I’m not going to sit by and allow that to happen. Even if we failed, we sent a message today.”
“To whom? Do you plan on taking responsibility for the act? Does someone in the White House know that you three sanctioned the assassination? If so, how long do you think it will be before you’re arrested?”
None of them spoke.
“It was foolish thinking,” he said. “This is not 1865, or even 1963. It’s a new world, with new rules.”
He reminded himself that Surcouf family history differed from the others. They’d started as shipbuilders, immigrating to the Carolinas just after John Hale founded Bath. Surcoufs eventually financed much of the town’s expansion, reinvesting their profits in the community and helping the town grow. Several became colonial governors. Others took to the sea, manning sloops. The early part of the 18th century had been piracy’s Golden Age, and Surcoufs reaped their share of those spoils. Eventually, like others, they legitimized themselves with privateering. One interesting story came at the dawn of the 19th century when Surcouf money helped finance Napoleon’s wars. Enjoying friendly relations, the Surcouf then living in Paris asked the emperor if he might build a terrace at one of his estates tiled of French coins. Napoleon refused, not wanting people traipsing across his image. Undaunted, Surcouf built the terrace anyway but with the coins stacked upright, edges to the surface, which solved the problem. Unfortunately, later Surcouf descendants had been equally foolish with their money.
“Look,” Hale said, softening his voice, “I understand your anxiety. I have my share as well. But we are in this together.”
“They have every record,” Cogburn muttered. “All my Swiss banks caved.”
“Mine, too,” Bolton added.
Combined, several billion dollars of their deposits lay overseas, on which not a dime of income tax had ever been paid. Each of them had received a letter from the U.S. attorney notifying him that he was the target of a federal criminal investigation. Hale assumed that four separate prosecutions-as opposed to one-had been chosen to divide their resources, pit one against the other.
But those prosecutors underestimated the power of the Articles.
The Commonwealth’s roots lay squarely within pirate society, a raucous, reckless, rapacious bunch for sure, but one with laws. Pirate communities had been orderly, geared to profit and mutual gain, always advancing the enterprise. They’d smartly adhered to what Adam Smith had observed. If there is any society among robbers and murderers, they must at least abstain from robbing and murdering one another.
Which pirates did.
What became known as the custom of the coast called for articles to be drawn before every voyage specifying the rules of behavior, all punishments, and dividing the booty among officers and crew. Each swore on a Bible to obey the articles. While swallowing a swig of rum mixed with gunpowder they would sign along the borders, nev
er beneath the last line, which demonstrated that no one, not even the captain, was greater than the whole. Unanimous consent was required for the articles’ approval, and any who disagreed were free to search elsewhere for more satisfactory terms. When multiple ships joined together additional articles were drawn for the partnership, which was how the Commonwealth had been formed. Four families united to further a singular goal.
To betray the Crew, or each other, desert, or abandon a battle is punished as the Quartermaster, and or the Majority, shall think fit.
None would turn on the other.
Or at least, none would live to enjoy the benefit.
“My accountants are under siege,” Bolton said.
“Deal with them,” Hale said. “Instead of killing a president, you should have been killing them.”
“It’s not that easy for me,” Cogburn said.
He stared at his partner. “Killing never is, Charles. But occasionally it has to be done. The skill is in choosing the right time and how.”
Cogburn did not reply. He and the others had clearly chosen the wrong time.
“I’m sure the quartermaster has done his job,” Surcouf said, attempting to break the tension. “Nothing will lead back to us. But we still have a problem.”
Hale stepped over to an English bamboo console table flanking one of the pine-paneled walls. None of this should be happening. But perhaps that had been the whole idea. Toss out the threat of prosecution, then wait and see what happened when fear set in. Maybe it was thought they would self-destruct and save everyone the trouble of trials and jail. But surely no one had assumed that the president of the United States would be attacked.
He’d tried his own form of diplomacy, which had failed. The humiliation of his White House trip remained fresh in his mind. Similar to a visit made in 1834 by Abner Hale, which also failed. But he intended to learn from his ancestor’s mistakes, not repeat them.
“What are we going to do?” Cogburn asked. “We’re about at the end of the plank.”