The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  The thought had occurred to him.

  “Go to the Garver Institute in Maryland and get that cipher solution,” Daniels said. “Carbonell tells me the people there are expecting you. She’s provided us a password that will gain you access.”

  He wasn’t stupid. “Sounds like a trap.”

  Daniels nodded. “Probably is. The people who want to prosecute the Commonwealth do not want that cipher solved.”

  “Aren’t you the president? Don’t they all work for you?”

  “I’m a president with not much more than a year left in office. They don’t really care what I think or do anymore. They’re more interested in the next person who’ll be sitting in this chair.”

  “We could be wasting time,” he said. “Whoever has Stephanie could just kill her and be done with it. We’d never know.”

  “Killing her would be counterproductive,” Davis pointed out.

  “And killing the president was productive?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “Good point,” Daniels said. “But we play the odds. We have to. And the odds, at least to me, say she’s alive.”

  He did not like the passive approach, but recognized that what Daniels said made sense. Besides, it was getting late and the Garver Institute seemed the best use of his time until morning. Owning that cipher solution would indeed provide bargaining power.

  “Why am I here?” Cassiopeia asked the president.

  “I assume to grace us with your beauty wouldn’t work?”

  “Any other time, maybe.”

  Daniels sat back in his chair, which groaned under his tall frame. “Those contraptions that fired on me took time to make. The whole thing required a crap load of planning.”

  That was obvious.

  “There were half a dozen people in the White House,” Davis said, “who were aware of the New York trip for the full two months after we decided to go. All high-level aides or Secret Service. They’ll be interviewed and investigated, but I’d stake my life on each one of them. A few more were told two days ago, but Secret Service tells us that those rooms were reserved at the Hyatt five days ago, using phony credit cards.”

  Malone spotted an unusual concern on Daniels’ face.

  “We have to investigate every avenue,” Davis said. “And there’s one possible problem that Cassiopeia must handle. We don’t want the Secret Service or FBI involved there.”

  “A possible leak?” Malone asked.

  “Yep,” Daniels said. “And it’s a doozy.”

  He waited.

  “My wife. The First Lady.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  NEW YORK CITY

  Knox still held the gun but it was of little use since the man on top of him kept a vise grip on his arm. He had to get out of here. The two men from the elevator had surely exited a floor below or above and were making their way back.

  He rolled and reversed positions, but the man below him kept a lock on his arm. He pivoted and rammed his knee into the gut. Repeating the blow drew the breath from his opponent and he used that instant to wrench his right arm free, swinging the gun around and firing point-blank into the man’s chest.

  An agonized cry rang out.

  He pushed away.

  The body bucked and squirmed, then went still.

  He retrieved the laptop and sprang to his feet.

  One of the room doors opened. He planted a shot into the jamb, and the door slammed shut. The last thing he needed was for one of the hotel occupants to become involved.

  His mind assessed his situation.

  Certainly no one was going to come back up the elevator. Far too risky. So he pushed the button and quickly dragged the wounded agent out of the car’s line of view. The other agent farther down the hall lay still. The stairway was ten feet away, around a corner.

  But people with guns could be there.

  The elevator arrived.

  He stuffed the weapon in his pocket but kept hold of the trigger.

  Three people were inside the car. Two women and a man, dressed as if they’d been out for the evening. One of them held shopping bags. He composed himself and stepped on board. The car was headed down and stopped on the second floor, where the three exited.

  As did he.

  Clearly, Parrott had intended on rocking him to sleep with dinner, then luring him into a trap. He’d avoided that, but this was foolishness, brought on by more nonsense from his bosses. He’d just killed two people for sure, and maybe two more. Never had an operation gyrated so out of control.

  He walked the hallway and turned a corner, spotting a maid’s cart parked outside an open door. He spotted a trash bag at one end, a shopping tote from Saks Fifth Avenue protruding from the top. He grabbed the tote and kept walking, dropping the laptop inside.

  This was a tight spot.

  How many agents could be here? And how much attention were they willing to bring on themselves? With four of their people down, probably a hell of a lot.

  He decided there was no choice.

  He’d walk out the front door.

  And fast.

  Wyatt entered his hotel room and immediately packed his bag. He’d brought little in the way of clothes, learning a long time ago the value of traveling light. He switched on the television and watched more of the assassination attempt coverage. The station reported that Danny Daniels was on his way back to Washington, aboard Air Force One.

  With a passenger, no doubt.

  Cotton Malone.

  Which meant that if the White House knew about the cracking of the Jefferson cipher, as Carbonell had made clear, Malone knew, too.

  “Two men are dead because of you,” Malone said to him.

  The administrative hearing was over, a verdict rendered, and for the first time in a long while he was unemployed.

  “And how many owe their graves to you?” he asked.

  Malone seemed unfazed. “None because I wanted to save my own ass.”

  Wyatt slammed his adversary into the wall, one hand finding the throat. Strangely, there was no defensive reaction. Instead Malone simply stared back, fear or concern nowhere in his eyes. Wyatt’s fingers tightened into a ball. He wanted to jab a fist into Malone’s face. Instead he said, “I was a good agent.”

  “That’s the worst part. You were good.”

  He squeezed the throat harder but still Malone did not react. This man understood how to handle fear. How to quell, conquer, and never show it.

  He’d remember that.

  “It’s over,” Malone said. “You’re done.”

  No, I’m not, he thought.

  Carbonell had reveled in telling him about the Garver Institute, providing him its location and a password to gain entrance. She said a man there was expecting him, and once he had the cipher key he should contact her.

  “What are you going to do with that solution?” he asked her.

  “I plan to save Stephanie Nelle.”

  He doubted that. Not from a woman who’d just sacrificed one of her own agents.

  “In return for performing this errand for me,” she said. “I’ll double your fee.”

  That was a lot of money for something she could send one of her own to do or, better yet, do herself. Then he understood. “Who else will be there?”

  She shrugged. “Hard to say, but they all know. CIA, NSA, and several others who don’t want that cipher solved or those pages found.”

  He was still undecided.

  Her eyes softened. She was damn attractive and knew it.

  “I’ll fly you to Maryland myself,” she said. “I have a helicopter standing by. On the way, I’ll deposit your doubled fee into whatever offshore account you like. Do you want the job?”

  She knew his weakness. Why not? Money was money.

  “There’s a fringe benefit to this, too,” she noted. “Cotton Malone is aboard Air Force One. Since I gave the White House this information, my guess is he’ll be there, too.” She smiled. “Maybe someone will finish what you started today.”


  Maybe so, he thought.

  Knox stepped off the elevator into the Helmsley Park Lane’s lobby. Thankfully, though it was approaching nine thirty PM, the place bustled with activity. His gaze scoured the faces, searching for problems, but he sensed nothing. He calmly walked toward the front door, one hand holding the shopping bag, the other stuffed into his jacket pocket where the gun lay. If necessary, he’d shoot his way out.

  He exited onto Central Park South.

  The sidewalk was crowded with more excited people and he followed the flow toward Fifth Avenue and the Plaza Hotel. He needed to collect his things and leave New York. Any remaining agents in the Helmsley Park were certainly occupied, discovering by now the extent of the carnage and cleaning up the mess. NIA would want the situation contained. No local police or press involved. Hopefully, that would consume them long enough for him to leave the city.

  This had to end, but the nightmare seemed far from over. The captains were safe on their North Carolina estates. He was the point man, taking incoming rounds, trying to stay alive.

  Had it all been a ruse? Was there any cipher solution?

  He had to know.

  He rode the Plaza’s elevator to his floor, and immediately upon entering the room powered up the laptop. Only a moment was needed for him to realize that the machine held nothing. Just a few standard programs that came with any computer.

  He clicked on the email program and saw no accounts.

  This thing had just been purchased.

  As bait.

  For him.

  Which meant a bad day had just become worse.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WHITE HOUSE

  10:20 PM

  Cassiopeia sat in the car. They’d traveled in a motorcade straight from Andrews Air Force Base—she, Edwin Davis, and Danny Daniels. Cotton had been provided transportation and directions to the Garver Institute, which lay about forty-five minutes south into Maryland. She hadn’t liked the idea of him going alone, especially with the prospect of trouble, but agreed that it seemed the only course. Stephanie Nelle was her friend, too, and she was worried. They all had to play their part.

  “I need you to handle this situation carefully,” Daniels said to her as they motored onto the White House grounds.

  She wanted to know, “Why me?”

  “ ’Cause you’re here, you’re good, and you’re an outsider.”

  “And a woman?”

  The president nodded. “It could help. Pauline has her moods.”

  She tried to recall what she could about the First Lady, but knew next to nothing. American politics was not her specialty, since her business concerns lay largely outside of North America. Her first foray into the Daniels administration had been with Stephanie a couple of years ago—the first time she’d visited the White House—which had been an eye opener in more ways than one.

  “What makes you suspect your wife of leaking information?”

  “Did I say I suspect her?”

  “You might as well have.”

  “She’s the only one,” Davis said, “besides myself, the president, and a few staffers, who knew from the start.”

  “That’s a big leap, accusing her.”

  “It ain’t as far a jump as you think,” Daniels muttered.

  They were both holding back, which irritated her.

  The motorcade came to a stop beneath a portico. She spotted a cadre of people waiting at the lighted entrance. Daniels emerged to a round of applause and cheers.

  “At least someone loves me,” she heard him mutter.

  Daniels acknowledged the well-wishers with handshakes and smiles.

  “He’s actually a joy to work for,” Davis said as they watched from the car. “When I took over as chief of staff I quickly learned this is a happy White House.”

  She had to admit, the welcoming committee seemed genuine.

  “It’s not every day someone tries to kill a president,” Davis said.

  She stared across at the chief of staff. Davis was cold and calculating, with a mind that never seemed to stop working. The perfect person, she concluded, to watch your back.

  “Notice anything?” he quietly asked her.

  Yes, she had.

  Of the forty or so who’d waited in the dark to greet Danny Daniels, no where was the First Lady to be seen.

  Hale paced in his study. The other three captains had left an hour ago. Hopefully, by morning the Jefferson cipher would be solved and they could regain their constitutional immunity. Then those federal prosecutors, with their tax evasion charges, could go to hell.

  He stared out at the blackened Pamlico River. Solitude was one of the things he cherished most about his family’s refuge. He checked his watch. Nearly 10:30 PM. Knox should have reported in by now.

  He resented being called a pirate. By his accountant. By Stephanie Nelle. By anyone and everyone who did not understand his heritage. True, the Commonwealth drew heavily from pirate society, implementing policies and practices pioneered during the 17th and early 18th centuries. But those men had not been fools, and they taught one lasting lesson Hale never forgot.

  Embrace the money.

  Politics, morality, ethics—none of that mattered. Everything was about profit. What had his father taught him? It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from a regard to their own interest. Greed was what compelled every business to serve its customers. It’s what guaranteed the best product at the best price.

  The same was true with privateering. Take away the lure of riches and you removed all motivation. Everyone wanted to get ahead.

  What was wrong with that?

  Apparently, everything.

  The crazy part was that none of this was revolutionary. Letters of marque had existed for 700 years. The word marque had been chosen from the French, meaning “seizure of goods.” Privateers had first come from well-educated merchant families, some even noblemen. They were described with respect as “gentlemen sailors.” Their credo? Never come back empty-handed. Their spoils increased royal treasuries, which allowed kings to lower taxes at home. They provided protection from national enemies and aided governments during times of war. As an institution piracy itself ended in the 1720s, though privateering continued for another hundred and fifty years. Now it seemed the United States had decided to erase its last vestiges.

  Was he a pirate?

  Maybe.

  His father and grandfather had not minded the label. They’d actually taken pride in their buccaneer ways. Why not him?

  The house phone rang.

  “I have some bad news,” Knox said when he answered. “They set me up.”

  As he listened to what had happened in New York, his anxiety returned. Salvation seemed fleeting once again. “I want you back here. Now.”

  “I’m on the way. That’s what delayed my call. I wanted to get out of New York first.”

  “Come straight to the house on your return. And no reports to the others. Not yet.”

  He ended the call.

  And immediately dialed another number.

  TWENTY-SIX

  LA PLATA, MARYLAND

  11:20 PM

  Wyatt surveyed the forested campus of the Garver Institute. The cluster of five brick buildings, each three stories high, sat in a wooded glen a quarter mile off a state highway. Clouds rolled across the black sky, veiling a half-moon. A splatter of rain had followed him from the small airport a few miles away where Andrea Carbonell had left him. Thunder clapped in the distance.

  He’d purposefully not driven into one of the lit parking lots, the hundred or so spaces vacant. In fact, he’d left the car Carbonell had provided him on the highway and walked in. Ready for whatever might be waiting.

  He’d watched as Carbonell left, flying south, toward the Potomac and Virginia. Washington lay north. Where was she going now?

  He used a progression of pine trees lining the lane for cover and kept easing toward the one building w
here lights still burned on the second floor. Carbonell had said that the office he sought was located there, a Dr. Gary Voccio, supposedly some mathematician supreme. The good doctor was told to wait until an agent appeared with the appropriate password, then to provide all data and information on the Jefferson cipher only to him.

  His gaze raked the darkness, his alert level rising from yellow to orange. A chill coursed through his body. He wasn’t alone. Though he couldn’t see them, he sensed them. Carbonell had warned they’d be here. Why hadn’t they moved on the institute already? The answer was clear.

  They were waiting for him.

  Or someone else.

  Prudence advised caution, but he decided to not disappoint them.

  So he stepped from his cover and walked straight for the lit building.

  Hale listened as the phone rang in his ear.

  Once. Twice. Three times.

  “What is it, Quentin?” Andrea Carbonell finally said in his ear. “Don’t you sleep?”

  “As if you weren’t waiting for my call.”

  “Knox made a mess at the Helmsley Park Lane. One dead agent, two wounded, another dead in Central Park. I can’t let that go unanswered.”

  Noise on the line, like the rotor of a helicopter, signaled that she was on the move.

  “What do you plan to do? Arrest us? Good luck, considering how deep you’re into this. I’d love to explain on television what a lying bitch you truly are.”

  “A little touchy tonight.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I have as much faith in the justice system as you do,” she made clear. “And like you, I prefer my own forms of retribution, administered my way.”

  “I thought we were allies.”

  “We were, until you decided to do something stupid in New York.”

  “I didn’t do that.”

  “Nobody would ever believe you.”

  “Have you solved the Jefferson cipher? Or was that another lie?”