The Jefferson Key cm-7

by Steve Berry

  He entered the prisoner’s cell, two of his men following. “I want to know the answer to a simple question. Who sent you?” The man, on the stout side, with wet, stringy black hair and a mustache, stared back at him.

  “Your comrades are dead. Do you want to join them?”

  No reply.

  He’d almost hoped this fool would be difficult.

  “Centuries ago, when my ancestors took prisoners, they had a simple way of extracting the truth. Would you like me to explain the method?”

  CASSIOPEIA WATCHED QUENTIN HALE, HIS EYES AGLOW WITH fire. He carried a gun in one hand, brandishing it toward the prisoner as if it were a cutlass.

  “He takes this pirate crap seriously,” Stephanie mouthed. “I watched him torture another one.”

  Hale turned toward them. “Whispering over there? Why not speak up so we can all hear?”

  “I said I watched you mutilate another man, then shoot him in the head.”

  “That is what we do to traitors. Do you perhaps know the answer to the question of what my ancestors once did to their prisoners?”

  “My knowledge of your family tree is limited to Pirates of the Caribbean, so why don’t you enlighten us.”

  Shirley Kaiser stood silent but Cassiopeia spied the hate in her eyes. This woman had, so far, shown not the slightest hint of fear. Surprising. She hadn’t expected such courage.

  Hale faced them. “There’s a book that I particularly don’t like, written long ago. A General History of the Pyrates. Mainly garbage-fiction-but there is one thing in it I agree with. Like their patron, the devil, pirates must make mischief their sport, cruelty their delight, and damning of souls their constant employment.”

  “I thought you were some virtuous privateer,” Shirley said. “Who saved America.”

  He glared at her. “I am what I am. What I am not, is ashamed of my heritage.” He motioned with the gun toward the man in the cell with him. “He is the enemy, employed by the government. Torturing government officials was acceptable then and remains so today.” He turned back to the prisoner. “I’m waiting for an answer to my question.”

  Still nothing.

  “Then I owe you an explanation. Bring him.”

  The two men with Hale dragged the prisoner out into an open area before the cells. Three stout timbers rose about ten meters apart and supported the upper story. Candles wrapped the center post, held aloft in iron brackets.

  The plywood shielding the front door was pushed open and seven men entered. Among six of them, in both hands, they carried knives, pitchforks, and shovels. A seventh held a fiddle. The prisoner was shoved toward the center post wrapped with the burning candles. The six men encircled him, standing a meter or so away, making it impossible for him to flee.

  Hale said, “It is called the sweat. In the glory days, the candles would encircle the mizzenmast. Men would surround it with points of sword, penknives, forks, anything sharp in each hand. The culprit enters the circle. The fiddler plays a merry jig and the culprit must run around the circle while each man jabs him. The heat from the candles works on the culprit. Hence, the sweat. Exhaustion becomes an issue as the men gain the upper hand, thrusting the points ever deeper. Eventually-”

  “I’m not watching this,” Stephanie said.

  “You shall watch,” Hale made clear. “Or you will be next to experience it.”

  WYATT WAITED FOR CARBONELL TO COMMUNICATE WITH THE two men she’d stationed within the fort. Maybe they already had their orders and knew what to do? They’d both carried guns and radios, and he’d relieved the corpses of both just after breaking the men’s necks. He now held a radio and heard nothing through its earpiece. He hadn’t killed anyone so directly in a long while. Unfortunately, it had been necessary. He’d hidden the bodies near where Knox had disappeared back into the fort. Perhaps he’d found them.

  The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  Cliche as hell, but appropriate here.

  Carbonell had yet to leave her hiding spot. He had a clear view of where she’d ducked for cover. She was probably waiting for some sort of radio confirmation from her men.

  Since none would ever come, he decided to move things along.

  “Andrea,” he called out.

  No reply.

  “You can hear me.”

  “Let’s talk this through,” she said in her usual calm voice. “Come out. Face-to-face. You and me.”

  He wanted to chuckle.

  She didn’t know a damn thing.

  “Okay. I’ll come out.”

  HALE WATCHED AS THE CULPRIT TRIED TO AVOID THE POKES and prods from the six men encircling him. The prisoner rounded the timber post, the flames on the candles dancing, like him, to the fiddler’s tune. He hugged the timber, drawing close, but his men showed no mercy. Nor should they. This man had attacked their sanctuary. He was part of the enemy trying to imprison them all. He’d made that clear to each one of them earlier, and they’d understood their duty.

  One of the men jabbed his shovel, a sucking sound indicating that the sharpened blade had penetrated deep. The culprit lurched forward and grabbed for his left thigh, staggering around the post, trying to avoid the others. He’d cautioned them against finishing him too soon. That was the thing about the sweat. It could last as long as the captain desired.

  Blood stained the man’s pants, oozing from fingers that tried to keep the wound contained.

  Wax dripped from the candles. Perspiration beaded on the victim’s brow. He raised a halting hand.

  The music stopped.

  His men ceased their prodding.

  “Are you ready to answer my question?” he asked.

  The culprit panted, trying to grab his breath. “NIA,” the man finally said.

  Just as he suspected.

  He motioned to one of the men holding a knife. Two of the others dropped their tools and grabbed the wounded man by the shoulders and arms, forcing him down to his knees. A third locked his fingers onto a handful of hair and angled the head back. The man with the knife approached and, with one slice, removed the prisoner’s right ear.

  A howl filled the prison.

  Hale stepped over, retrieved the ear, and ordered, “Open his mouth.”

  They did.

  He stuffed the ear past the man’s front teeth and protesting tongue.

  “Eat it,” he said, “or I’ll cut the other one off.”

  The man’s eyes went wild at the thought.

  “Chew it,” he screamed.

  The man shook his head and gurgled as he fought for breath.

  Hale motioned and his men released their grip.

  He raised the gun he was holding and shot the man in the face.

  CASSIOPEIA HAD SEEN PEOPLE DIE BEFORE, BUT IT SICKENED her still. Stephanie, too, was surely hardened. But Shirley Kaiser apparently had never witnessed a murder. She heard Kaiser’s gasp and watched as the older woman turned away.

  Stephanie offered comfort.

  Cassiopeia kept her gaze on Hale. He stared over at her, past the bars, and pointed with the gun.

  “Now, little lady. It’s your turn to answer questions.”

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  HE WAS A TALL, SPARE MAN WITH A BLACK BEARD, WHICH HE WORE LONG

  and tied with ribbons. A sling draped his broad shoulders and held a brace of pistols. Smart, politically astute, and bold beyond measure. No one knew his real name. Thatch? Tache? He chose Edward Teach, but his nickname was the one that everyone remembered.

  Black Beard.

  Born in Bristol but raised in the West Indies he’d served with Jamaican-based privateers during the War of Spanish Succession. After, he arrived in the Bahamas and signed on with the pirate Hornigold, learning the trade, and eventually acquiring his own ship. In January 1718 he came to Bath Town and established a base at the mouth of the Pamlico River, on Ocracoke Island. From there he pillaged ships and bribed the local governor for protection. He cruised the Caribbean and blockaded Charles Town harbor. Then he retired,
sold his plunder, bought a house in Bath, and secured a pardon for all his past acts. He even managed to gain title to the vessels he’d captured. All of which made the adjacent colony of Virginia both angry and nervous. So much so that its governor vowed to flush out the pirate’s nest that was Bath Town.

  Two armed sloops arrived at sundown on November 21, 1718, stopping just outside Ocracoke Inlet, far enough away so that the unfamiliar shoals and channels would not pose a danger. Royal Navy fighting men crewed the boats and Lieutenant Robert Maynard commanded them, an experienced officer of great bravery and resolution.

  Black Beard, aboard his anchored ship Adventure, paid the vessels little mind. He was through with fighting. For six months he’d plied the local waters unmolested. His crew was greatly reduced, as there was no profit associating with a man who no longer looted vessels. Most of his experienced shipmates were either long gone or ashore in Bath. All that remained on board were twenty or so, a third of whom were Negroes.

  Some precautions, though, were taken.

  Powder, balls, and scrap were stacked near the eight mounted guns. Blankets were soaked and hung around the magazine, there for any deck fires that might occur. Pistols and cutlasses were piled near battle stations. All routine. Just in case. But they would not dare attack him, Black Beard was heard to say.

  The assault began in the early gray light of dawn.

  Maynard’s force outnumbered Black Beard’s three to one. But in their haste to gain an advantage, Maynard’s sloops ran aground in the shallow water. Black Beard could have easily fled northward, but he was no coward. Instead he hoisted a mug of liquor and yelled across the water, “Damnation seize my soul if I give you quarter or take any from you.”

  Maynard hollered back, “I expect no quarter from you, nor shall I give any.”

  They both knew. This would be a fight to the death.

  Black Beard aimed his eight cannons at the two sloops and barraged them with mortars. One sloop was disabled, the other badly damaged. But the effort caused Adventure to ground on a shoal, too. Maynard, seeing his adversaries’ predicament, ordered all water barrels staved and ballast jettisoned. Then, like a hand from providence, a stiff breeze blew in from the sea and pushed him free of the sandbar, sending him straight for Adventure.

  Maynard ordered all his men belowdecks, their pistols and swords ready for close fighting. He himself hid belowdecks with them, a midshipman at the helm. The idea was to draw his adversary into boarding.

  Black Beard alerted his men to ready their grappling irons and weapons. He also produced an invention of his own. Bottles filled with powder, shot, and pieces of iron and lead, ignited by fuses worked into the center. Later generations would call them hand grenades. He used them to create havoc and pandemonium.

  The explosives landed on Maynard’s sloop and enveloped the deck in dense smoke. But since most of the men were below, they had little effect. Seeing so few hands on board, Black Beard shouted, “They are all knocked on the head but three or four. Board her and cut them to pieces.”

  The ships touched. Grappling irons clanked across the bulwarks.

  Black Beard was the first to board.

  Ten of his men followed.

  Shots were fired at anything that moved.

  Maynard timed his response with precision, waiting until nearly all of his opponent’s men were aboard, then allowing his forces to burst from the hold.

  Confusion reigned.

  The surprise worked.

  Black Beard immediately grasped the problem and rallied his men. Each fight became hand-to-hand. Blood slicked the deck. Maynard fought his quarry directly and leveled a pistol. Black Beard did the same. The pirate missed, but the lieutenant found his mark.

  The bullet, though, did not stop the renegade.

  Both men engaged the other with cutlasses.

  A powerful blow snapped Maynard’s blade. He hurled the hilt and stepped back to cock another pistol. Black Beard advanced for a finishing blow, but at the moment he swung his blade aloft another seaman slashed his throat.

  Blood spurted from the neck.

  The Brits, who’d steered clear of him, sensed his vulnerability and pounced.

  Edward Teach died a violent death.

  Five pistol wounds. Twenty cuts to his body.

  Maynard ordered the head removed and suspended from the bowsprit of his sloop. The rest of the corpse was thrown in the sea. Legend holds that the headless body defiantly swam around the ship several times before it sank.

  Malone stopped reading.

  He’d tried to take his mind off the situation by surfing the Internet, reading about pirates, a subject he’d always found fascinating, and the fate of Black Beard had caught his attention.

  The pirate’s skull dangled from a pole on the west side of the Hampton River in Virginia for several years. That spot today is still known as Blackbeard’s Point. Someone eventually fashioned it into the base of a punch bowl, which was used for drinking at a Williamsburg tavern. Eventually it was enlarged with silver plate, but disappeared over time. He wondered if the Commonwealth had anything to do with that. After all, he assumed it was no coincidence that Hale had named his own sloop Adventure.

  He checked his watch. Less than an hour till they landed.

  He’d made a mistake reading about pirates. It only made him more anxious. For all of the romanticism associated with them, they were cruel and vicious. Human life meant little to them. Theirs was an existence based on profit and survival, and he had no reason to assume that the modern version was any different. These were desperate men, faced with a desperate situation. Their only goal was success, and who they hurt in the process meant nothing.

  He felt a little like Robert Maynard on his way to confront Black Beard.

  A lot had been at stake then, and was now.

  “What have you done?” he whispered, thinking of Cassiopeia.

  KNOX SHIFTED HIS POSITION, STAYING ONE LEVEL ABOVE-GROUND, keeping close to the outer wall, using the rubble for cover. Gaping holes stretched everywhere in the outer curtain, exposing a moonlit bay. A stiff breeze chapped his lips, but at least it flushed most of the bird pall away. He’d listened to the exchange between Carbonell and Wyatt and was trying to find a vantage point from which he could more closely observe their confrontation. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he could take them both out?

  “Knox.”

  He stopped. Wyatt was calling to him.

  “I know where those two pages are hidden.”

  A message. Loud and clear. If you’re thinking about killing me, think again.

  “Be smart,” Wyatt yelled.

  He realized what that meant.

  We have a common enemy. Let’s deal with that. Why do you think I allowed you to have a gun?

  Okay. He’d go along with that.

  For now.

  HALE STEPPED TOWARD THE CELL THAT HELD HIS THREE FEMALE prisoners. Kaiser’s hair lay matted to her head, her clothes soaked, but there was still something about her-a beauty that came from age and experience-that he would miss.

  Along with her special garments.

  “So you came to learn what you could? To find Ms. Nelle?”

  “I came to try and right my own screwup.”

  “Admirable. But quite stupid.”

  He listened outside and was pleased to hear the rain and wind abating. Finally. Perhaps the worst of the storm had gone. His immediate problem, though, was more pressing.

  He faced the woman he did not know.

  Slim, toned, with dark hair and swarthy skin. Quite a beauty. Gutsy, too. She reminded him of Andrea Carbonell, which wasn’t a good thing.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Cassiopeia Vitt.”

  “You were to be their rescuer?”

  “One of many.”

  He caught her point.

  “It’s over,” Stephanie Nelle said to him. “You’re done.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  He reached into his
pocket and removed the cellphone that his men had found on Vitt. Interesting device. It contained no phone log, contacts, or saved numbers. Apparently its only use was to send and receive one call at a time. He assumed it was something the intelligence community utilized.

  Which made Vitt part of the enemy.

  He’d already surmised that the other men had been sent to draw his attention while she made the extraction.

  And the plan had almost worked.

  “Do you work for NIA, too?” he asked her.

  “I work for me.”

  He gauged the response and decided that his initial assessment was correct. This woman would tell him nothing without prodding.

  “You just saw what I do when someone refuses my questions.”

  “I answered your question,” Vitt said.

  “But I have another one. A much more important one.” He displayed the phone. “Who do you report to?”

  Vitt did not reply.

  He said, “I know Andrea Carbonell is waiting for you to report in. I want you to tell her that Stephanie Nelle isn’t here. That you failed.”

  “There’s nothing you can do to me that would make me do that.”

  He realized that was true. He’d already sized up Cassiopeia Vitt and decided she would play the odds. If he was right, and there were others monitoring her progress, when she failed to report, they would act. All she had to do was hold out until enough time passed.

  “I don’t plan to do anything to you,” he made clear.

  He pointed at Kaiser.

  “I intend to do it to her.”

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  NOVA SCOTIA

  WYATT HOPED KNOX HEEDED HIS WARNING. HE REQUIRED A few uninterrupted minutes with Carbonell. Then he and Knox could play between themselves. And play they would, since he doubted Knox was simply going to walk away once he realized the odds had now evened. Had Knox found the two bodies? Probably. But even if he hadn’t, there was no reason for him to assume anyone else remained in the fort besides the three of them.