The Jefferson Key cm-7

by Steve Berry

  Before landing a few miles south of town, they’d overflown and he’d studied the island-strewn bay. They’d found Paw Island and reconnoitered it from the air, a mass of dark rock, tumbled grass, oaks, and spruce. Limestone cliffs dominated the shore that supported the ruined fort. He’d noted several places to beach a boat on the south shore and also saw the birds. Thousands of them scattered across the decaying walls, on the cliffs, in trees. Gannets, kittiwakes, gulls, terns, and murres massed so thick they obscured the ground in places.

  He parked near a cluster of shops, art galleries, and cafes. Though it was late on a Sunday afternoon, he was glad to see that most of the businesses remained open. A bakery drew his attention and he told himself to pay it and a nearby fruit market a visit before heading out. Food would be good. He had no idea how long he’d be on the island.

  Buildings backed to the bay above boulders that protected the shore from a restless tide. Kayaks, motorboats, and sailboats were all available for hire, and he decided that a fast and sturdy powerboat would do the trick. Paw Island was about six miles away by water.

  Some local knowledge could also help.

  So he decided to make a few inquires about the fort before heading for the island.

  CASSIOPEIA STUFFED HER DIRTY CLOTHES INTO THE SHOULDER bag. She’d packed light for the New York weekend, bringing only a few items. Davis had offered her use of what he called the Blue Bedroom on the White House’s second floor. It came with its own bath, so she’d been able to shower. While she bathed and rested-a lack of sleep had caught up with her-the staff had laundered her clothes. There was no rush to head back to Fredericksburg. Shirley Kaiser would not be home for another four hours. They’d told Kaiser to do nothing out of the ordinary. Stay as long as usual. Be herself.

  A light knock drew her across the room.

  She opened the door to see Danny Daniels standing outside.

  Her guard immediately went up.

  “I need to speak with you,” he said in a soft voice.

  He came in and sat on one of the twin beds. “I’ve always liked this room. Mary Lincoln lay in shock here following ol’ Abe’s assassination. She refused to enter their bedroom down the hall. Reagan used it as a gym. Other presidents had their small children live here.”

  She waited for what he wanted.

  “My wife betrayed me, didn’t she?”

  She wondered about the question. “In what way?”

  “I listened to Edwin when he told me what happened with Shirley. He’s convinced that Pauline’s motives were innocent.” The president paused. “But I wonder.”

  She had no idea how to respond to that comment.

  “Edwin told you about Mary?”

  She nodded.

  “I asked him to do that. I don’t speak of her. I can’t. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Why are telling me this?”

  “Because I can’t tell anyone else.”

  “You should tell your wife.”

  Daniels’ eyes seemed distant. “I’m afraid there’s little left to say between us. Our time has come and gone.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Not anymore.”

  The admission shocked her.

  “I haven’t in a long time. It’s not malice, or hate, or anger. Just nothing.”

  His mellow tone unnerved her. She was accustomed to the booming voice.

  “Does she know?”

  “How could she not?”

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked again.

  “Because the one other person I could speak to about this is in trouble and needs your help.”

  “Stephanie?”

  Daniels nodded. “Last Christmas, with all that happened with Cotton’s father, she and I began to talk. She’s an extraordinary woman who’s led a tough life.”

  Cassiopeia had known Stephanie’s late husband and had been there, in the Languedoc, a few years ago when the tragic events finally played out.

  “She told me about her husband and son. I think she wanted me to tell her about Mary, but I couldn’t.”

  Pain clouded the president’s face.

  “Stephanie went out there because of me. Now she’s gone. We have to find her. My gut wants to send a hundred FBI agents into that pirate compound at Bath. She could be there. But I know that’s foolishness. What you’re planning is the better way.”

  “Are you and Stephanie… involved?”

  She hoped the question would not offend him, but she had to ask. Particularly considering what she already knew.

  “Not at all. I doubt she even gave our talks a thought. But I liked that she listened. Stephanie has a great respect for you. I don’t know if you know that. That’s why I agreed with Edwin. We need you both on this.”

  A moment of strained silence passed between them.

  “Stephanie told me that you and Cotton are an item. Is that true?”

  Strange, having this conversation with the president of the United States. “It looks that way.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  Speaking of which, “What do you think is going to happen in Nova Scotia?”

  “Cotton and Wyatt will be there. It remains to be seen if the Commonwealth appears. If Carbonell is in league with them, that’s a definite possibility. But Cotton is tough. He can handle things.” Daniels stood from the bed. “A little advice from an old fool?”

  “Of course. Not that you’re a fool.”

  “Actually, I’m one of the biggest. But follow your heart. It rarely leads you astray. It’s thinking that gets us into trouble.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  MAHONE BAY

  MALONE CHOSE TO RENT A TEN-FOOT V-HULLED WITH A SINGLE outboard and two spare gas tanks. The time was approaching five PM. He was running behind, thanks to the weather delay back in DC, but he hoped Wyatt was, too. He’d been told that flights all along the eastern seaboard had been affected.

  He’d visited the bakery and the market. The boat came equipped with a heavy-duty flashlight and spare batteries. It definitely appeared that he’d be spending the night on Paw Island. Thankfully, he was armed, the benefit of arriving on a Secret Service jet with official Canadian clearance. No questions from anybody. Wyatt would not have that luxury if he’d flown commercial, or even a charter, as customs would search both the plane and his belongings.

  Before leaving town he decided to visit a bookstore that’d caught his eye. When he’d worked for Stephanie Nelle at the Justice Department, after assignments ended he’d always found one wherever he was in the world. This shop was located inside a brightly colored clapboard house with nautical touches that included maps, knots, even a ship’s figurehead. The shelves lining the walls were crowded with tales about the bay, the towns, and Oak Island. Davis had explained a possible connection between the five symbols in Jackson’s message and a mysterious slab found ninety feet belowground by treasure seekers on Oak Island. He located the slab in one of the books and showed it to the woman behind the counter. She was older, with brown hair streaked by waves of red.

  “This drawing,” he asked her. “The stone, with writing on it. Where is this located?”

  “Not far. It’s a replica of the original, on display. You into the Oak Island thing?”

  “Not really. Seems like the only real treasure there is the money made from people who come to visit.”

  “No reason to be so cynical. You never know. There could be something to it.”

  He could not argue with that.

  “The symbols are unique. Is there any explanation where they might have come from?

  “You’ll find them on several islands in the bay.”

  That was news.

  “They’re common around here. Carved into rocks, trees. But, of course, nobody knows when they were put there.”

  He caught her drift. Which came first, the Oak Island slab that no one had ever seen or the other symbols? Davis had told him that the stone was supposedly found in 1805 so, if the slab ac
tually existed, symbols in other places could have appeared after. He recalled Rennes-le-Chateau, in France, and the mystique associated with that place, nearly all of it manufactured by a local hotel owner to generate business.

  “Is Paw Island one of those places where the symbols can be found?” he asked.

  She nodded. “There are a few scattered around near the fort.”

  “I flew over coming in. Quite a few birds live there.”

  “You could say that, and they don’t like visitors. You headed there?”

  He closed the book. “I don’t know. Thought I’d just tour the bay and see what’s out there.”

  “Paw’s restricted,” she said. “National preserve. You have to get permission to go there.”

  “Since I can’t go,” he said. “You have any books on it?”

  She pointed to a shelf across the store. “Two or three. Picture books, some stuff on the fort. What’s your deal?” She apprised him with suspicious eyes. “You’re one of those bird-watchers, aren’t you? We get a lot. Paw Island is like Disneyland to them.”

  He smiled. “Guilty. How much trouble will I get into if I go?”

  “Plenty, and the Coast Guard Auxiliary patrol it all the time.”

  “You know where I can find those symbols on the island?”

  “You’re going to end up in jail.”

  “I’ll take the chance.” He handed her three hundred-dollar bills. “I’d like an answer to my question.”

  She accepted the money and handed him a card for the shop.

  “I’ll tell you about the symbols. But I also know a lawyer. You’re going to need one after you get to jail.”

  WYATT MADE HIS WAY THROUGH THE TREES ON PAW ISLAND, heading south from where he’d hidden his boat on the north shore.

  He’d finally arrived in Halifax after several delays. He’d then rented a car and driven south to Chester, a quaint town that extended out into the northern reaches of Mahone Bay, its two natural harbors dotted with expensive sailboats and yachts. More wealth appeared in the form of brightly colored clapboard houses, meticulously maintained, that clung to a rocky shore, the streetscape right out of the 18th century.

  It was after six when he arrived and most of the businesses were closed. He’d walked the empty docks and spied the moored motorboats. One, a twelve-footer with a respectable outboard, seemed right. So he’d used some of his old skills-how to start an engine without a key-and stolen transportation.

  The trip across the bay had been quick, the water calm. So far he’d seen or heard nothing on the island, except birds. He was hoping that whatever there was to find could be located quickly. True, it had stayed hidden a long time, but he was the first person to look with the right information.

  The oak forest ended and a grassy meadow stretched before him.

  On the far side, a hundred yards away, stood Fort Dominion in all of its solitary neglect. Birds stood guard. He spotted what was its main gate, surrounded by decaying walls, and tightened the backpack on his shoulders.

  He wondered.

  Who else would be here?

  HALE DROVE ACROSS THE ESTATE, ENJOYING ANOTHER LOVELY late-summer evening in North Carolina. He’d decided to do a little fishing from the dock and relax for a couple of hours. Little could be accomplished until he heard from Knox. Usually, this time of day had proven lucky, when the gray-brown waters settled for the night, before the predators appeared. He’d dressed in stout boots, loose-fitting pants, a leather jacket, and a cap. He needed some bait, but there should be some on the dock.

  His cellphone rang.

  He stopped the cart and checked the display.

  Shirley Kaiser.

  He should not ignore her, so he answered and said, “I planned to call you later. I thought you were at a fund-raiser this evening.”

  “I skipped it.”

  “Feeling poorly?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I feel great. So much so I took a trip. I’m here, in North Carolina, parked at the gate to the estate. Do you think you could let me in?”

  SIXTY

  NOVA SCOTIA

  KNOX WAS PLEASED.

  He’d arrived on Paw Island before Wyatt and, with two associates, assumed strategic positions atop the crumbling walls of Fort Dominion. They’d stolen a boat from a private dock at an unoccupied home along the bay’s north shore, specifically avoiding the town of Chester, where Wyatt might appear. The craft came with flashlights and he’d smuggled in three weapons aboard the corporate jet-Canadian customs asking few questions on his arrival.

  The island locale was both isolated and deserted, save for thousands of stinking birds. Night’s ever-hastening arrival should provide them with more than enough privacy. All in all, this should be an easy kill. Hopefully, finding the missing pages would not take long, though the information Carbonell provided to Hale was obscure at best. Five symbols. She’d said that was all she possessed and, hopefully, their significance would become evident once he was on the ground. He’d be glad when this nightmare was over. He was actually looking forward to spending next weekend with his wife at the beach. A little relaxation would be a good thing.

  He’d brought a pair of binoculars and used them to survey where the forest ended and a grassy meadow began. About a hundred yards of open terrain stretched from the trees to the fort’s main gate, none of it fenced or restricted. Their arrival inside earlier had caused an uproar from the residents, but all was calm once again in bird land.

  He caught movement in the dimming light.

  Through the binoculars he spotted a man emerging from the trees.

  He focused on the face.

  Jonathan Wyatt.

  He grabbed the attention of one of his men, stationed on another rampart, and tossed him a signal.

  Their target had arrived.

  HALE WELCOMED SHIRLEY KAISER INTO HIS HOME. SHE’D VISITED twice before, and each time he’d ensured that nothing unusual occurred on the grounds. They called it visitor mode. Of course, guests were never taken to certain areas, like the prison building, whose exterior looked like nothing more than a two-story barn, and were not encouraged to roam at will.

  He wondered what she was doing here.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise?” he asked her.

  She looked great. Though pushing sixty-or maybe even sixty-five, he really wasn’t sure-she cast the appearance of a woman in her midfifties. He’d enjoyed seducing her and she’d seemed to enjoy it, too. Their relationship, though cultivated by him for an ulterior motive, had not been unpleasant. Passion stirred within her, and she was surprisingly uninhibited for a woman of her generation. She was also a wealth of information on the First Family and liked the fact that he seemed sincerely interested in her life. That was the key to women, his father had always said. Make them think you care.

  “I missed you,” she said to him.

  “We were planning on seeing each other in a few days.”

  “I couldn’t wait, so I chartered a flight and flew down.”

  He smiled. Her timing was not all bad. The evening was quiet. He’d already checked on the other three captains. Each had returned to his home, enough excitement for one day.

  “As you can see,” he said, “I was going fishing. I assume you don’t want to join me.”

  “Hardly.” She motioned to a small overnight bag. “I brought some special garments.”

  He’d seen a sampling of those before.

  “Wouldn’t they be more interesting than fishing?”

  WYATT THOUGHT FORT DOMINION LOOKED BETTER SUITED TO Scotland or Ireland, its limestone walls splayed at the base and once reinforced by towers, its bastions decaying but still relatively intact. Eroded earthworks and a dry moat barred any approach from the north, west, or east, and the ocean guarded the south. The setting sun cast the gray stone in a rose-colored hue, but any impression of invincibility was betrayed by the rubble. From what he’d read, this had once been a theater of important events, its mission to hold
Mahone Bay for King George, but now it was only a ruin.

  Puffins lined the wall crests. Hundreds more fluttered in the evening sky. He’d heard the murmur of murres, gulls, gannets, and kittiwakes on his approach-rich, sensuous, hypnotic, swelling like thunder. Thousands of birds stained the rubble, their cries pitching then fading in a haunting harmony, the walls alive with a riotous motion.

  He crossed a grassy field toward the main gate.

  Dead birds lay everywhere.

  Apparently, there were no native scavengers here besides bacteria. The waft, faint back at the cove, now become overpowering. A choking smell of countless creatures packed together, the air clotted with the sickening scent of life, death, and excrement.

  He approached the main gate.

  A wooden bridge spanned a washed-out moat, its boards newer and fitted with galvanized nails.

  A rising roar from the residents protested his arrival.

  He passed through the gate, beneath a row of parallel stone arches.

  Sunlight dimmed.

  He entered an inner ward where it was downright dark, save for dusty shafts of blue light that filtered in through gaps in the walls. More weathered stone rose three stories around him. A variety of buildings hugged the outer curtain, the inner walls broken by windows that no longer held anything save for vines.

  Definitely a feeling of security here, but also one of being trapped.

  He should look around.

  So he plunged ahead.

  MALONE BEACHED THE BOAT ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF PAW ISLAND. The evening air carried an aroma of salt and trees, along with something else-acidic and astringent. The sky had turned the color of slate, the forest casting violet shadows over the sandy inlet. Herring gulls decorated the trees.

  His rubber soles crunched crab shells and dried urchins. The temperature had dropped and he was glad for a lined jacket. Thick stands of oak lay ahead, the woods bedded with ferns and heather. He turned back and studied the bay for boats. Crimson patches of fading sun colored the surface. The horizon remained empty.