by Steve Berry
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.
Waiting.
He’d placed a call twenty minutes ago and left a voice message.
Danny Daniels had been impressive before the press. Hale had caught the president’s unspoken message. The investigations were already starting. He wondered how good the quartermaster had been. Thankfully, Knox was thorough, that he’d give him. Knox’s father had been the same, serving Hale’s father. But this situation was unusual, to say the least.
His phone chimed.
When he answered, Knox said, “I told them not to do it, but they were insistent.”
“You should have told me.”
“It’s no different from what I did for you, and they have no idea of that. I’ve never violated your confidence, so you can’t expect me to violate theirs.”
True, only a few days ago Knox had indeed performed a clandestine mission for Hale. One of great importance.
And never had he violated any of their confidences.
Of the four families, the Hales were by far the most prosperous, with a net worth equal to the remaining three combined. That superiority had often bred resentment, evidenced from time to time by bursts of independence, the others’ way of asserting themselves, so he should not be surprised by the day’s events.
“What happened?” he asked.
He listened as the quartermaster reported, including the NIA’s interference and the elimination of their agent.
“Why did they interfere?” he asked. “They are the only ones who have stood by us.”
“Apparently, we went a bit too far. Beyond that, their agent offered no explanation. He seemed intent on sending us a message. I thought it important for them to know that we received the message, and don’t appreciate what they did.”
He could not argue with that conclusion.
A sense of mission had always bound a pirate company, the team more important than any one individual. His father had taught him that missions required goals and rewards, the participants bound into a single purpose. That had been the way of his ancestors, and even today every good ship captain knew that a clearly defined mission transformed the hunted into hunters.
So he decided not to chastise Knox and simply said, “From this point on, I want to be kept informed.”
The quartermaster did not object. “I’m going to retrieve Parrott’s laptop.”
His heart quickened. The prospect that Jefferson’s cipher may have been solved excited him. Could it be? Still—
“I’d be careful.”
“I plan to.”
“Notify me the moment you have it. And, Clifford. No more moves like the ones today.”
“I assume you’ll be dealing with the other three?”
“As fast as I can get to shore.”
He ended the call.
At least something might have gone right today.
He glanced over at the two pages sheathed in plastic.
In 1835, when his great-great-grandfather had tried to assassinate Andrew Jackson, there’d been hell to pay. And just like now, divisions existed within the Commonwealth. Only then a Hale had ordered the quartermaster to kill the president of the United States.
Richard Lawrence, an unemployed house painter, had been covertly recruited. Prior to the assassination attempt Lawrence had tried to shoot his sister and openly threatened two others, eventually believing that Jackson had murdered his father. He also thought himself the king of England and fervently pronounced that Jackson was interfering with his royal inheritance. He held the president responsible for his unemployment and for an overall shortage of money in the country.
Not a difficult matter to encourage him to act.
The problem came from Jackson, who’d sequestered himself within the White House during the bitter winter of 1834. A funeral at the Capitol finally brought the president out, so Lawrence was nudged to Washington and provided two pistols. He’d secreted himself within the crowd on a cold, rainy day and confronted his adversary.
But fate intervened and saved Old Hickory.
Thanks to wet powder, both guns misfired.
Immediately Jackson had blamed Senator George Poindexter of Mississippi, alleging a conspiracy. The Senate launched an official inquiry, but Poindexter was exonerated. Privately, though, Jackson targeted his real vengeance.
Hale’s grandfather had told him the story.
The six presidents before Jackson had been easy to work with. Washington knew what the Commonwealth had done for the country during the Revolution. So did Adams. Even Jefferson tolerated them, and their help with America’s war on the Barbary pirates removed any bad taste that may have lingered. Madison, Monroe, and the second Adams never presented a problem.
But that damn fool from Tennessee was determined to change everything.
Jackson fought with Congress, the Supreme Court, the press—anybody and everybody. He was the first president nominated by a political party, not political bosses, the first who campaigned directly to the people and won thanks solely to them. He hated the political elite and, once in office, made sure their influence waned. Jackson had even dealt with pirates before, as a general during the War of 1812 when he made a deal with Jean Lafitte to save New Orleans from the British. He actually liked Lafitte, but years later, as president, when a dispute arose with the Commonwealth, one that should have been an easy matter to resolve, Jackson refused to capitulate. The other captains at the time had wanted to maintain the peace so they voted to let it go.
Only the Hales said no.
And they’d sent Richard Lawrence.
But just like today, that assassination attempt failed. Thankfully, Lawrence was declared insane and locked away. He died in 1861, never uttering an intelligible word.
Could a similar good fortune emerge from today’s fiasco?
Outside the salon’s windows Hale spotted the Bayview car ferry making another of its daily runs across the Pamlico, south to Aurora.
Home wa
s not far away.
His mind continued to churn.
The path his great-great-grandfather had chosen remained bumpy. Andrew Jackson had left a scar on the Commonwealth that, on four previous occasions, had festered into an open wound.
My hope is that the unmanly course ascribed to you shall be your ruin.
Maybe not, you sorry SOB.
His secretary entered the salon. Hale had tasked him with finding the three other captains.
“They are in the compound at Cogburn’s house.”
“Tell them that I want to see them in the main house within the hour.”
His secretary left.
He stared back at the choppy river and caught sight of a shark fin just beyond the boat’s wake. An interesting sight fifty miles inland from the open sea. Of late he’d noticed more and more predators plying these waters. Just a few days ago one had snatched the bait from his fishing line, nearly yanking him into the river.
He smiled.
They were tough, aggressive, and relentless.
Like him.
FOURTEEN
AIR FORCE ONE
Malone was becoming impatient. The comment about Stephanie Nelle being in trouble concerned him. And he hadn’t missed what the president had first said.
I read that note supposedly from Stephanie.
Stephanie was not only his former boss, she was his close friend. Twelve years they’d worked together. When he’d retired out early, she’d tried to talk him out of it. Ultimately, she’d understood and wished him well. But over the past three years they’d come to each other’s aid more than once. He could count on her, and she on him.
Which was the sole reason why he’d responded to her email.
The president reentered the plane and marched toward where he and Davis stood. They followed Daniels into the conference room. The cabin remained empty. Three LCD screens displayed images from Fox, CNN, and a local New York station of the 747’s exterior as the press was being herded away. Daniels removed his suit jacket and yanked loose his tie, unbuttoning the collar.
“Have a seat, Cotton.”
“I’d rather you tell me what’s going on.”
Daniels sighed. “That could be a tall order.”
Davis sat in one of the chairs.
Malone decided to sit and listen to what they had to say.
“The planet should now be at ease knowing that the leader of the free world is still alive,” Daniels said, the sarcasm clear.
“It had to be done,” Davis made clear.
Daniels dropped himself into a chair. He was in the final sixteen months of his presidency, and Malone wondered what this man would do when he no longer occupied the head of the table. Being an ex-president had to be tough. One day the weight of the world rested on your shoulders. Then, at noon on the 20th day of January, nobody gave a rat’s ass if you were even alive.
Daniels rubbed his eyes and cheeks. “The other day I was thinking about a story somebody once told me. Two bulls were sitting atop a hill, staring down at a mess of pretty cows. The young one said, ‘I’m going to run down there and have me one of those beauties.’ The old bull didn’t take the bait. He just stood there. The young bull egged him on, questioning his ability to perform, saying again, ‘Let’s run on down there and have us one of ’em.’ Finally the old bull cocked his head and told his young friend, ‘How about we just walk down there and have ’em all?’ ”
Malone smiled. He could empathize with that young bull.
On the television screens a fuzzy, distant image of the plane and two cars approaching the stairway leading up inside could be seen. Three agents stepped out of the cars wearing FBI jackets like the one he still had on, along with caps.
One of them climbed the stairs.
He’d sensed they were waiting for something but, thinking about the story and its metaphor, he wanted to know, “Who are you planning on sticking it to?”
The president pointed a finger at him and Davis. “You two get reacquainted?”
“Like family,” Malone said. “I feel the love. Do you, Edwin?”
Davis shook his head. “Believe us, Cotton. We wish this wasn’t happening.”
The conference room door opened and Cassiopeia stepped inside. She removed a navy jacket and cap, exposing damp, dark hair.
She looked great, as always.
“It’s not exactly dinner and a show,” he said. “But it is Air Force One.”
She smiled. “Never a dull moment.”
“Now that the gang’s all here,” Daniels said. “We can get down to business.”
“And what might that be?” Cassiopeia asked.
“It’s so good to see you again, too,” the president said to her.
Malone knew Cassiopeia had worked with Daniels before—on something she and Stephanie had teamed up on. The two women were close friends. Their connection stretched as far back as Stephanie’s late husband, Lars. So she, too, would be concerned that Stephanie was in trouble.
Cassiopeia shrugged. “I don’t know how good it is. I’m accused of trying to kill you. Since you’re obviously not dead, why are we here?”
Daniels’ face turned hard. “It’s not good. Not good at all.”
FIFTEEN
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
Hale stepped from Adventure and marched down the dock. The crew was busy securing the sloop to the end of the two-hundred-foot expanse. The late-summer sun faded to the west, the air acquiring a familiar chill. All the land along the river, nearly twenty square miles, belonged to the Commonwealth—the tracts allocated centuries ago among the four families, the riverbank divided equally. Bath lay a couple of miles east, now a sleepy village of 267 residents—mostly weekend homes and river cottages—none of its former glory remaining. The Hales’ quarter of the estate had always been meticulously maintained. Four houses dotted the surrounding woods, one for each of the Hale children and one for himself. He lived here most of the time, occupying apartments in New York, London, Paris, and Hong Kong only when necessary. The other clans were the same. It had been that way since 1793, when the Commonwealth formed.
An electric cart awaited him and he drove through groves of oak, pine, and cypress to his home, a mansion erected in 1883 in Queen Anne style, flush with irregular forms and dramatic rooflines. Balconies and porches wrapped each of its three levels, opening off twenty-two rooms. Warmth and character sprang from olive walls, shingles mixed in pale red and gray slate, glittering diamond-paned windows, and mahogany-stained doors. Its elaborate woodwork had been crafted in Philadelphia, then shipped south and hauled from the river by oxcart.
His ancestors had certainly known how to live. They’d built an empire, then passed it down to their children. Which made his current predicament even more compelling.
He was not going to be the last in a long line.
He stopped the cart and surveyed the grounds.
The grove beyond was quiet as a church, dotted with shadows, the dwindling open patches whitened by the setting sun. Crew kept the estate in superb working order. What was once a hip-roofed dairy had been remodeled into a workshop. The old smokehouse contained a communications and security center. The privies were long gone, but the saddle-notched log barns remained, each housing farming equipment. He was particularly proud of the grape arbors, his scuppernongs some of the state’s sweetest. He wondered if any of his children were back on the property. They were all grown and married, but none, as yet, with children of their own. They worked in the legitimate family enterprises, aware of their heritage but ignorant of his responsibilities. That had always been kept between father and the singular chosen offspring. To this day his sister and brother knew nothing of the Commonwealth. The time was coming when he’d have to choose his successor and start the grooming process, just as his father had done with him.
He imagined what was happening a mile away as the other three captains, heads of their respective families, responded to his summons. He told himself to control his temper. I
n 1835 Hales had acted unilaterally to the detriment of the others. Now it was the other way around.
He depressed the accelerator and drove on.
The gravel road paralleled one of his most productive soybean fields, the thick woods on the opposite side loaded with deer. The deep alto of a blackbird, singing the last strophes of a ballad, could be heard in the distance. His life had always been about the outdoors. Hales first came to America from England in 1700, on a voyage across the Atlantic that took so long the pet rabbits had bred three times.
He’d always liked how that first Hale had been described.
A vigorous, intelligent man of wit and charm and diverse abilities.
John Hale arrived at Charles Town, in South Carolina, on Christmas Day. Three days later he plunged northward along trails known only to Natives. Two weeks after that he found the Pamlico River and a blue, tree-ringed bay where he built a house. He then founded a port, sheltered from attack by water, but navigable on an easterly course to the sea. He named it Bath Town, and five years later its incorporation was formally approved.
Always ambitious, John Hale built ships and made his fortune in the slave trade. As his wealth and reputation grew, so did Bath, the town becoming a center of nautical activity and a hotbed for piracy. So it was only natural that Hale became a pirate, preying off British, French, and Spanish shipping. In 1717, when King George announced his Act of Grace, granting absolution for men who swore they would not resume buccaneering, Hale pledged his oath and, openly, became a respected planter and Bath councilman. Secretly, his ships continued to wreak havoc, but he targeted only the Spanish, which the British would care little about. The colonies became an ideal market for the buying and selling of illegal goods. Under British law American exports could be shipped only on English ships with English sailors—a nightmare relative to cost and supply. Colonial merchants and governors greeted pirates with open arms since they could supply what was needed at the right price. Many American ports became pirate dens, Bath the most notable and productive. Eventually the Revolutionary War changed allegiances and led to the formation of the Commonwealth.