by Steve Berry
But a sound intruded.
His gaze shot toward the front door.
A scraping.
Not of a key entering the lock, but of someone working the mechanism.
As he’d just done.
He found his gun and retreated into one of the bedrooms, positioning himself so that he could spy around the jamb.
The front door slowly opened and a dark formed stepped inside.
Male. About Wyatt’s height and build, wearing black clothing, moving in silent steps.
Apparently, he was not the only one interested in Carbonell.
Knox detoured to his house for a shower and change of clothes. His wife greeted him with her usual cheerfulness, not asking a thing about where he’d been or what he’d done. That was made clear long ago. His work for the Commonwealth was confidential. Of course, she believed the reasons for that involved legitimate corporate concerns and trade secrets. Not presidential assassinations, kidnappings, murder, and a variety of other lesser felonies he committed on an almost daily basis. She knew only that her husband loved her, their children were provided for, and they were happy. The secrecy of his life had afforded him countless opportunities to do as he pleased. He’d learned from his father, who’d also been a quartermaster, that with risk came reward.
Is it unfair to your mother, his father had said, that I have other women? Damn right it is. But I’m the one out there, not her. I’ll go to prison, if caught. Not her. Always, in the end, I come home to her. I provide for her. I’ll grow old with her. But while I can, I’m entitled to live as I please.
He hadn’t understood that selfish attitude until his turn came and he witnessed the demands of the job firsthand. Two hundred fourteen men made up the current company, spread among the four families. He served at their pleasure and they counted on him. But the four captains also demanded that he safeguard their interests. And though the captains could not fire him, they could make his life an utter hell.
Fail either and the penalty was severe.
A good quartermaster came to understand that balance. And yes, an occasional roll in the sack here and there with women he encountered might relieve the stress. But he’d never succumbed. He loved his wife and his family. Cheating on either was not an option. His father had not been right about everything. Not on married life—nor the Commonwealth. Things had changed since his father’s time, and he often wondered what that man would have done if faced with the current challenges. The captains fought among themselves with a rising intensity, one that was threatening the company’s existence. The long-standing ties that bound them together seemed ready to snap. Even so, he’d made a horrible mistake becoming entangled with Andrea Carbonell. Thank God the traitor she’d pointed him toward had implicated himself beyond question. In a strange way, he could sympathize with that doomed soul.
Trapped. Nowhere to go.
At the mercy of others.
“You look tired,” his wife said to him from the bathroom door.
He was about to shower and shave. “Long night.”
“We can go to the beach next weekend and rest.”
They had a cottage near Cape Hatteras, which he’d inherited from his father.
“That sounds great,” he said. “You and me. Next weekend.”
She smiled and hugged him from behind.
He studied her face in the mirror.
They’d been together twenty-five years, marrying young and raising three children. She was his best friend. Unfortunately, a huge part of his life remained a mystery to her. Where his father had kept secrets and cheated, he only kept secrets. He wondered what she’d do if she knew what he really did.
That he killed people.
“The weather should be great,” she said. “Nice and cool.”
He turned and kissed her, then said, “I love you.”
She smiled. “That’s always nice to hear. I love you, too.”
“I wish I didn’t have to go back to the estate.” He saw she registered what he meant.
“How about tonight?”
He smiled at the prospect. “You’ve got a date.”
She kissed him again, then left him alone.
His thoughts returned to the problem.
He needed the matter of the traitor ended. The captains’ fears must be eased. Nothing could point his way. He now knew why Carbonell had allowed him to kill Scott Parrott. Why not? Sure, it helped him with the captains, doing what they expected, but Parrott’s death also eliminated the only other person at NIA he’d ever dealt with.
Making him totally dependent on her.
Not good.
He steadied himself.
Two more hours and he should be in the clear.
Wyatt watched the newcomer. The burglar had made no search, apparently aware that the condo would be empty. He’d toted in a dark bundle, laying the bag on the floor and quickly emptying its contents. A chair from the dining area was brought close to the front door. What looked like a gun was attached with clamps to its back, the legs braced with the couch that was slid into position. He then installed screw eyes in the ceiling, the jamb, and the door itself, threading string from the gun’s trigger, through each one, to the knob.
He realized what was being created.
A spring gun.
Once used to protect property in remote locations. Rigged to a door or window so anyone who broke inside would be shot. They’d been illegal for decades. A bit old-fashioned and out of date.
But effective.
The man finished his work, testing the string’s tautness, then he carefully opened the door and slipped out.
He wondered.
Who else’s patience had run out?
THIRTY-EIGHT
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
Hale could not sleep. He’d hoped to after the trial, returning home and retiring to his bedroom. But too many troubling thoughts swirled through his head. At least the matter of the traitor seemed resolved. Knox had handled the situation exactly as a quartermaster should. Shortly, the captains would demonstrate to the entire company what happened to those who violated the Articles. Reminders of that fact were never a bad thing. What truly concerned him, though, was the cipher’s solution.
Could Carbonell provide it?
Parrot had lied to Knox.
Was she lying to him?
Would he finally succeed where his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather failed?
“It is indecipherable,” his father told him. “Just letters on a page. No order or reason.”
“Why do we need it?” he asked with the innocence of someone not yet twenty. “We’re not threatened. Our letter of marque is being respected.”
“That’s true. This president has been mindful, and most have been. Wilson, during World War I, was grateful for all our efforts. Roosevelt, too, during the Second World War. But four times our government chose not to honor its agreement, resting on the fact that there was no express congressional approval for our letter. They laughed at us, as Andrew Jackson did, knowing that, legally, our letter of marque was not enforceable. Those four men became problems.”
His father had never spoken of this before.
“Which four?”
“The ones who died from a gun.”
Had he heard right?
“Quentin, your brother and sisters know nothing of what I do, only that we own and control many business entities. They, of course, are aware of our sea heritage, as you are, and they are proud of the role we played in forming this country. But they are ignorant of what we have done afterward.”
And so was he, but his father was teaching him by the day.
“During the Civil War, the Union called on us to stop the Confederacy from being supplied by sea. We were encouraged to attack French and English cargo vessels. While the Union navy blockaded key southern ports, we ravaged ships at sea. But we could not forget that we were of the South. So we allowed some to sneak through. Enough that the Confederacy
lingered longer than it should have.”
He’d never heard this before.
“Lincoln was furious. During the war, he needed us. He knew what Jackson had done—that our letters of marque were foundationless—but he ignored that weakness and encouraged our strengths. When the war was won, he changed course. Arrest warrants were issued, and the Commonwealth was to be tried for piracy.” His father paused, the dark eyes focused intently on his son. “I remember when Papa told me what I am about to tell you.”
His father was nearing seventy and in poor health. Hale was the youngest of the brood, not coming along until his father was nearly fifty. His older brother and sisters were far more accomplished and successful than him, yet he’d been chosen.
“Lincoln knew that with two missing pages from the congressional journals our letters of marque were flawed. Foolishly, we’d trusted him. If tried, we had no defense. The captains would have gone to prison, or perhaps shot as traitors.”
“But no Hale has ever gone to jail.”
His father nodded. “Because he made sure that Abraham Lincoln died.”
He still recalled the amazement when his father told him what the Commonwealth had done, completing the connection between Andrew Jackson and Abraham Lincoln.
“Abner Hale tried to assassinate Andrew Jackson. He recruited and encouraged Richard Lawrence to kill the president. Jackson realized this immediately. That’s why he retaliated, gutting the letters of marque. The reason Abner acted was because Jackson refused to pardon two pirates convicted of robbing an American ship. It was a popular case in its time, one with all the things we’ve come to expect: celebrated lawyers, interesting personalities, allegations of official misconduct. The guilty verdicts were so controversial that they inspired death threats on Jackson. One came from a flamboyant Shakespearean actor. He wrote a scathing note and threatened to cut the president’s throat while he was sleeping, or to have him burned at the stake in Washington, DC, if a pardon was not issued. The man who wrote those words was Junius Brutus Booth.” His father paused. “The father of John Wilkes who, twenty-six years later, was used by the Commonwealth to assassinate Abraham Lincoln.”
Now he knew how the captains in 1865 escaped prosecution.
“We ended the threat,” his father said, “by recruiting the younger Booth, which wasn’t all that difficult. People with causes in their hearts are common. Most are unstable and easily manipulated. Lincoln’s assassination threw the government into chaos. All talk of arrests ended. Even better, Booth died while trying to escape. Four other conspirators were quickly arrested, tried, and hung. Five more were imprisoned. Those nine knew nothing of us. So we survived.”
And the Commonwealth would this time, too.
But everything rested on Andrea Carbonell, and how desperately she wanted Stephanie Nelle dead.
He had to play that card carefully.
A knock on his bedroom door caught his attention.
His secretary stepped inside. “I saw the light and decided to alert you.”
He was listening.
“The prisoner has asked to see you.”
“Which one?”
“The traitor.”
“For what reason?”
“He did not say. Only that he wishes to speak with you. Alone.”
Malone awoke and checked the bedside clock.
6:50 AM.
Cassiopeia lay beside him, still sleeping. They’d been out for a little over two hours. He wore his undershirt and boxers. She was naked, her preferred bedclothes, which he liked. He studied her contoured curves. Not a blemish disturbed the swarthy patina. She was a beautiful woman.
If only they had more time.
He swung his legs to the floor.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He’d learned she was a light sleeper.
“We have to get going.”
“What happened last night?”
He’d promised her an explanation when they awoke. So he told her, then said, “I deleted the cipher solution off the Garver server but that’s only going to stop the people who went there for a few hours. They probably already know I emailed a copy to myself.”
He waited for it to hit her.
“Which means they know you’re here,” she said.
“I used another name to register and paid in cash. It cost me a hundred-dollar tip, but the clerk didn’t ask for any identification. I told him I didn’t want my wife to know where I was.” He reached for his clothes. “I knew when I accessed that email last night, they’d trace it here. But I want to know who they are. It’s possible they could lead us to Stephanie.”
“You think they’ll make a play?”
“Oh, yeah. My guess is they’re downstairs waiting. The question is, how much attention do they want to draw? We do have one advantage. An unknown factor to them.”
And he saw she understood.
“That’s right. You.”
THIRTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, DC
Wyatt stared out the window as an SUV cruised into the parking lot. No further visitors had entered Carbonell’s condominium, and the spring gun sat waiting. He’d inspected the gadget and wondered if the Commonwealth had planted it. It was certainly a device that fit their operating mode. But that could have been exactly why someone else chose the method. Clearly, Carbonell had double-crossed more than one participant in this dispute, and neither the Commonwealth nor the intelligence community could be happy with her. But he could not help thinking that perhaps, like last night, she’d ordered it herself.
What was she thinking?’
He watched as Carbonell stepped from the vehicle, the interior cabin light revealing her wearing the same clothes from yesterday. She said something to the driver, then marched toward the building entrance. Her apartment was on the second floor, past an unlocked ground-floor door. The SUV waited in its parking spot, lights off.
He stepped over to the gun.
The ingenious array of screw eyes had been geometrically arranged so that the door, as opened, gradually tightened the twine, working the trigger. The gun was an automatic rifle. He’d already checked. Fully loaded with more than enough rounds to obliterate any and all the flesh and bone standing less than two feet away.
He tested the nylon one more time.
Taut as a guitar string.
Would it matter if she died?
Cassiopeia strolled off the elevator and into The Jefferson’s lobby. She’d already called down and asked that her motorcycle be brought to the front entrance. She’d valet-parked it on arrival.
Four policeman waited to her left, near the marble statue of Thomas Jefferson that dominated the lobby’s center.
Apparently, this was not to be a subtle encounter.
She casually drifted their way, the click of her boots announcing her presence. Outside, past the glass doors, she spotted three Richmond city police cars. Whoever had attacked Cotton last night had apparently decided to stay in the shadows today and allow the locals to take the heat. She caught a few concerned looks on the faces of guests who milled back and forth, carrying their morning paper, or a briefcase, or navigating a roller bag.
But she ignored them all and assessed the geography.
The lobby was L-shaped and huge. To her left a grand staircase swept down into an atrium lined with what appeared to be marble columns—which she discovered, on closer inspection, were faux-painted. The ceiling reached twenty-plus meters to a stained-glass skylight. Tapestries and Victorian-era furniture added to an Old World feel. At the far side of the two-story atrium she spotted another set of glass exit doors, adjacent to a restaurant.
Her mind worked out a plan.
Could she do it?
Sure.
Plenty of room to maneuver.
Hale entered the prison that had once acted as a stable for the estate’s horses. Stephanie Nelle was confined on the second floor, the traitor on the ground. He’d specifically ordered that they not see each other, m
uch less have an opportunity to speak. He’d initially resisted the urge to come, but he wanted to hear what this man had to say.
The accused sat on a cot and remained seated when Hale appeared. He opted to stand outside the cell and speak through the bars. He’d ordered that the upstairs door be closed and a radio played on the next floor so nothing of their conversation could leak upward.
“What do you want?” he quietly asked.
“There are things you need to know.”
No hint of fear laced the words. This man seemed to be facing his fate with courage. He liked that. His crew was tough. He always laughed at the image of a sailor being conscripted by a pirate ship, forced, kicking and screaming, into unwilling service. In reality, when a captain dropped the word that his ship was “going on the account,” every tavern, brothel, and alleyway buzzed with anticipation. If that captain had been successful on previous voyages, former shipmates were usually first to sign on. Others wanting to join in success came next. Pirating paid well, and men of that time were interested in the most return for their risky investment. None of them wanted to die. All wanted to return to port and enjoy their share of the spoils. Still, a captain had to be cautious in his choices—once the articles were agreed upon and the ship sailed, he could be removed by that crew. Of course, that was no longer the case. Heredity now determined a captain. But there remained risks, and this man was a perfect example.
“I’m here. Talk.”
“I told the NIA about the murder on Adventure. I admit that. They offered me money, so I took it.”
Hale already knew that, but wanted to know, “Are you proud of what you did?”
“I realize this whole company thing is important to you. All for one, one for all, and all that. But let’s face it, you get the cake and we get the crumbs.”
“Those crumbs are far more than anyone else was giving you.”
“They are. But I never really bought into all this.”