by Steve Berry
So he aimed and fired.
Wyatt heard shots and saw muzzle flashes beyond where he’d spotted the shadows advancing.
Somebody was behind his two problems.
Malone?
Had to be.
Malone fired again, catching one of the shadows in the shoulder, hurling the form forward into the wall with a dull thump. The other shadow reacted, whirling around and unleashing a burst of rounds. He jerked himself back inside the stairway and allowed the metal door to close.
Bullets dinged off the other side.
Apparently, his presence had not been expected.
Wyatt heard the stairway door—behind where he and Voccio lay—open and he turned as movement disturbed the darkness.
Men were also behind him.
The shooter whom he assumed was Malone had taken down one of the men in the lobby, and the other was now firing at a second illuminated exit. He rotated on the floor, spine down, and fired at the door less than ten feet away.
They had to get out of here.
Voccio was apparently thinking the same thing. The doctor belly-crawled toward the outside exit.
Not smart.
Little cover existed between here and there, though the main threats across the lobby seemed occupied.
He watched as Voccio found the glass doors, slammed a hand into a quick-release latch, and slipped outside. The other gunman, the one firing at Malone, heard the escape, turned, and aimed toward the doors. Before he could fire a shot, Wyatt sent three bullets the man’s way. The form spun, flailed backward, then shrank to the floor.
Two attackers down.
Voccio raced outside.
An instant later both downed forms came to their feet, rifles in hand.
Then he realized.
They wore body armor.
Neither he nor Malone had stopped a thing.
Malone abandoned the stairwell door, climbing back to the first floor, negotiating another hall nearly identical to the one a floor above and finding the second stairway on the far side. He was going to make an end run on the two men he’d seen earlier, but just as he turned the corner for the exit, the stairway door opened.
He darted into the first office he saw and carefully peered around the jamb. A man with a rifle took measure of the hall, then, satisfied that all appeared quiet, emerged. Malone laid his gun down on the carpet and prepared himself, keeping his back to the wall, waiting for the target to pass. As that happened, he lunged, wrapping an arm around the man’s neck from behind, the other hand going for the rifle.
He wrenched the weapon free, spinning the man around and driving a knee into his groin. He’d already felt the body armor and knew that blows above the waist would be futile.
His opponent buckled forward and cried out in pain.
Another knee into the man’s jaw and the body recoiled backward. He readied a third blow, this time a fist to the face, when the man suddenly planted a foot into Malone’s left kidney.
A mist of pain engulfed him.
His adversary ignored the rifle on the carpet and beat a retreat toward the stairway door.
Malone shook off the blow and started his pursuit.
The fleeing shadow turned, pistol in hand.
A backup weapon.
The gun fired.
Wyatt crouched low and headed for the exit doors. As he came close to the glass he turned back, ready to fire, but no one was there.
He took advantage of the quiet and released the doors, fleeing out into the night. Immediately he assumed a position adjacent to the exit, using the exterior brick wall as cover, glancing with caution through the doors back into the lobby.
Three men rushed from the building, out the main entrance.
At first he thought they were circling, readying an attack from the outside, but then he saw the glow of headlights from the front parking lot, the three bolting toward a waiting vehicle.
No way these guys were such bad shots.
They’d been waiting for him and Malone, prepared and equipped, but they’d accomplished nothing except making a lot of noise and shooting up the lobby.
Another shot disturbed the silence.
From inside, an upper floor.
Where was Voccio?
He scanned the blackness and caught sight of the doctor, fifty yards away, hustling toward a parked car. He tore out the gun’s magazine and slammed home a fresh one from his pocket. He glanced back inside and spotted another form emerging from the stairway across the lobby and leaving through the front doors.
Apparently the party was over.
Something was wrong.
He stared back toward where Voccio was entering the car. He should leave, too, with the doctor.
Then it hit him.
That’s exactly what they wanted him to do. His mind performed a rapid calculation and the result struck him like iron.
A growl signaled a cold engine starting.
He opened his mouth to yell.
Voccio’s car exploded.
THIRTY-THREE
FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA
Cassiopeia examined the device revealed by her digging. Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to listen in on Kaiser’s telephone. Somebody who knew exactly where and what to listen for.
“Who knows you talk to the First Lady?” she asked Kaiser. “And it has to be someone who knows those conversations are numerous and intimate.”
“It’s Danny Daniels. Who the hell else?”
She stood from the wet ground and walked closer, exiting the shrubbery that encased the garage.
“It’s not the president,” she said in a whisper.
“He knows Pauline and I are close.”
“Are you married?”
The question seemed to take Kaiser aback. Edwin Davis had told her about the house, the neighborhood, and that Kaiser was a player in both the Virginia and the capital social scenes. Her extensive charity work included serving on the board of directors for the Library of Virginia and on several state advisory councils. But he hadn’t mentioned much about her personal life.
“I’m a widow.”
“Mrs. Kaiser, somebody tried to kill the president of the United States today. Somebody who knew exactly when and where he would be in New York. Your phones are being monitored. I need you to answer my question. Who would know to do this? Either talk to me or I’m calling the Secret Service and you can talk to them.”
“Pauline is on the verge of a nervous breakdown,” Kaiser said. “I’ve heard it in her voice for weeks now. She’s been through hell far too long. What happened today with Danny could send her over. If you keep this pressure on her, she’s going to snap.”
“Then she needs professional help.”
“That’s not so easy when you’re the First Lady.”
“It’s not so easy for a woman who wants to blame her husband for the tragic death of their daughter. A woman who did not have the courage to leave the man, but instead stays, keeps everything welled inside her, and makes life all his fault.”
“You’re one of Danny’s groupies, aren’t you?”
“Yep. I love men with power. It’s a turn-on.”
Kaiser caught the sarcasm. “That’s not what I meant. He has an effect on women. They did a poll a few years ago and nearly eighty percent of women favored him. Since they’re a majority of the voters, it’s easy to see why he’s never lost an election.”
“Why do you hate him?”
“I don’t. I just adore Pauline, and I know he could not care less about her.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said.
“Nor you mine.”
She appreciated strong women. She was one herself. She assumed Kaiser’s talent was simply being herself—easy, natural—giving and accepting without question, never thinking much beyond the moment. She’d hoped there would be nothing to find here. A dead end. Unfortunately, that was not the case.
“Pauline has always needed someone to talk to,”
Kaiser said. “A person she could trust. Long ago, I became that for her. Since she moved into the White House, that’s become even more important.”
“Except that you can’t be trusted.”
She saw that Kaiser realized the implications of what lay in the ground a meter or two away.
“Who else knew about that New York trip?” she asked her again.
“I can’t say.”
“Okay. We can do this another way.”
She found her cellphone and hit the speed dial button for the White House. Two rings and a male voice answered.
“Do it,” she told him, then ended the call.
“There’s a Secret Service agent in contact with your telephone provider, both landline and mobile. You have two accounts. The company has already been served a subpoena and has the information prepared. Under the circumstances, we weren’t going to invade your privacy unless necessary.”
Her phone rang. She answered, listened, then clicked off.
Defeat filled Shirley Kaiser’s face.
As it should.
“Tell me about the one hundred and thirty-five calls between you and Quentin Hale.”
Hale entered what had once been an outdoor kitchen and smokehouse. Now the building, with its pine walls, sash windows, and glazed cupola, served as a meeting hall that all four families utilized. The sixteen members of Adventure’s crew had been roused from their beds, including the yacht’s captain. Most lived within half an hour of the estate on land bought by their families generations ago. He could not fathom that any one of them would betray their heritage.
But apparently someone had.
All sixteen men standing before him had signed the current Articles, pledging their loyalty and obedience in return for a specified portion of the Commonwealth’s plunder. Granted, their respective percentages were small, but combined with health insurance, workers’ compensation, and disability pay, theirs was a comfortable living.
He caught the uncertain looks on their faces. Though it wasn’t unusual for things to happen in the middle of the night, it was definitely unusual for events to involve the entire complement on land.
“We have a problem,” he told them.
He watched the faces, assessing them, recalling the four who’d lifted the gibbet and tossed his screaming accountant into the ocean.
“One of you is a traitor.”
He knew those words would grab their attention.
“Today we all were involved on a mission, one that was of great concern to the entire company. A traitor died, and one of you breached the silence we all pledged to maintain.”
None of the sixteen said a word. They knew better. The captain spoke until he said he was ready to listen.
“It saddens me to think that one of you betrayed us.”
And that was how he viewed his world. Us. A grand society, built on loyalty and success. Long ago pirate ships learned to strike with speed, skill, and urgency, the crews functioning as tight, cohesive units. Laziness, incompetence, disloyalty, and cowardice were never tolerated since those endangered everyone. His father had taught him that the best plans were simple, easy to understand, and flexible enough to deal with any contingency.
And he was right.
He paced the floor.
Captains must always be bold and daring tacticians. Crews intentionally elected them in defiance of a naval tradition that bestowed leadership regardless of competency.
But captains today were not elected.
Heredity accounted for their ascendency. He often imagined himself at the helm of one of those long-ago ships, stalking prey, following at a safe distance for days, all the while determining strengths and weaknesses. If the target proved a powerful man-of-war, he could veer away and seek weaker prey. If she seemed vulnerable they could take her either by surprise or by frontal attack.
Choices.
All born through patience.
Which he intended to exercise here tonight.
“None of you will leave this room until I find the traitor. When morning breaks your bank accounts will be examined, your houses searched, your phone records obtained. You will sign whatever releases are needed, or grant whatever permissions required—”
“That won’t be necessary.”
He was taken aback by the interruption until he realized the voice belonged to Clifford Knox, who’d entered the room.
Quartermasters were not bound by the same rules of silence.
“I know who the traitor is.”
THIRTY-FOUR
MARYLAND
Malone dove into the office six feet away. The bullet fired his way thudded into drywall. More slugs cracked and hummed through the air. He readied his gun and scampered for the desk. But all he heard was the click of a door closing from out in the hall.
The man had left.
An explosion rattled the windows, followed by a flickering glow that signaled something was burning outside.
He approached the glass, keeping low, alternating his attention between the doorway behind him and a flaming car below. Across the hall, in another office, he caught a spray of light across more windows. He quickly made his way there and spotted a man leaping into a car in the front parking lot, then speeding away. He should leave, too, and fast. Though this facility was in the countryside, somebody may have heard the gunfire or the explosion and called the police.
But first …
He hustled back into Voccio’s office and noticed that the three computer screens still burned. He squinted at the glare off the first machine and caught a break.
The displayed file explained the solution to the Jefferson cipher.
Voccio had apparently left in a hurry.
He closed the file, found the machine’s email program, attached the document to a message, and forwarded it to himself. He then deleted the message and file from the machine.
No great security measure, but enough to buy him time.
He stared past the black square of night framed by the window.
The car still burned.
Needles of rain clawed the glass. To his right, a hundred yards away from the flaming chaos, he spotted a dark figure.
Running.
Away.
Wyatt decided that a propitious retreat seemed the best option. Voccio was dead. He’d told the frightened idiot to stick with him, and if he’d done that the man would still be alive.
So he shouldn’t feel bad. Yet he did.
He kept running.
Carbonell had lured him here with a double fee, wanting him not to escape. Those men were hers.
They needed to chat.
On his terms.
And he knew exactly how to do that.
Knox entered the hall and stared at Adventure’s crew. Quentin Hale stood silent, clearly waiting to see what his quartermaster had to say.
“Captain Hale, when we spoke earlier I could not say all that I knew since we were on an open phone line.”
He was practicing, to the max, one of the strategies his father had taught him. Always have a plan. Contrary to popular myth, buccaneers never attacked anything blind. Whether their target be on land or sea, to ensure success an advance party would first reconnoiter. The preferred time for any assault was dawn, or a Sunday, or a holy festival, or, as here, late at night, the element of surprise used to prevent escapes and to overwhelm resistance.
“Periodically, I run checks,” he said. “Looking for anything out of the ordinary. Big purchases. Unusual lifestyle. Trouble at home. It’s strange, but a woman can drive a man to do crazy things.”
He allowed the last sentence to linger and watched the yacht’s crew. He was careful to keep his gaze roving, from one man to the next, never settling in one place.
Not yet, anyway.
He was playing to an audience of one. Quentin Hale. So long as Hale was convinced, that was all that mattered.
He focused.
Make your case.
Then figure out how to kill Stephanie
Nelle.
Malone fled the building and made a quick inspection of the destroyed car. Indeed, somebody had been behind the wheel, the body now burning with a fury. The license plate was charred but readable and he committed the numbers to his eidetic memory.
He rounded the building and found his government-issued sedan. The rear windshield and most of the windows were gone, the sidewalls riddled with holes. No gas had leaked, though, and the tires were intact, so at least two things had gone right. Soon this place would be awash with the corona of blue and red revolving lights, police everywhere.
The wind moaned through the trees, as if telling him to leave. He glanced up at the sky, clearing of clouds and rain, revealing half-lit stars.
The wind was right.
Time to go.
THIRTY-FIVE
Cassiopeia sat in Shirley Kaiser’s living room. Her parents had owned a similar parlor in their Barcelona home. Though billionaires, they’d been simple, private souls, staying to themselves, devoting their lives to her, to each other, and to the family business. Never once had she heard a hint of scandal associated with either. They seemed to live exemplary lives, both dying in their seventies within months of each other. She’d always hoped to find someone to whom she could equally devote herself.
Perhaps she had in Cotton Malone.
At the moment, though, she was concerned with the woman sitting across from her who, unlike her parents, harbored a great many secrets.
Starting with 135 telephone calls.
“Quentin Hale and I are lovers,” Kaiser said.
“How long?”
“Off and on for the past year.”
She listened as Kaiser explained. Hale was married with three grown children. He’d been separated from his wife going on a decade—she lived in England, he in North Carolina. They met at a social occasion and immediately liked each other.
“He insisted that we keep things discreet,” Kaiser said. “I thought he was concerned about my reputation. Now I see it may have been something else altogether.”