by Steve Berry
“To what end?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Where’s Wyatt now?” Daniels asked the room.
“He attacked the two men we sent to interrogate him,” CIA said. “And escaped.”
“Were you planning on reporting any of this?” the president asked.
No reply.
“Who sent the police after Cotton Malone in Richmond, Virginia?”
“We did,” CIA said. “We ascertained that Malone emailed to himself a classified document. He then accessed it from a hotel in Richmond. We asked the locals to pick him up for questioning.”
“Don’t bother him again,” Daniels ordered. “Ms. Carbonell, are you in communication with the Commonwealth?”
She shook her head. “My contact to them was found dead last evening in Central Park, as was another of my agents in a nearby hotel. Two more were seriously injured. They were apparently shot by a Commonwealth operative they were attempting to apprehend.”
“You have four people down?” CIA asked her.
“I agree. It’s tragic. We contained the situation quickly and kept a lid on it. We’re searching for that Commonwealth operative now. He will be found.”
“Why did CIA and NSA want to speak to Wyatt?” Daniels asked.
“We, too,” CIA said, “were curious as to Wyatt’s involvement with what happened in New York.”
“Why?”
The president’s curt inquiry triggered more silence.
“It’s simply a question,” Daniels said. “How did you know Wyatt was even in New York?”
More silence.
Then, from NSA, “We’ve been watching NIA and Ms. Carbonell.”
“Why?”
“He’s screwing with them,” Davis said. “He does that to me all the time. Just one why after another, forcing you down a path that he’s already walked. He’s just waiting for you to catch up.”
“She’s interfering with our prosecution of the Commonwealth,” NSA said. “That group is well known to us all and is a danger to our national security. The decision was made to eliminate it. NIA and Ms. Carbonell disagree with that decision. We wondered why. Too much loyalty there under the circumstances. We knew she’d employed Wyatt, we just didn’t know all that was about to happen. If we had, we would taken preventive measures.”
“That’s comforting to know,” Daniels said, his sarcasm clear.
“When we learned Malone was the man in the video,” CIA said, “we realized something strange was up.”
“Okay, let me see if I have this straight,” Daniels said. “Somebody, identity unknown, tries to blow me up. A contract player, Jonathan Wyatt, is involved. At least three intelligence agencies knew that Wyatt was in New York doing something. Two of you were already investigating NIA and its director. What Wyatt was doing in New York, none of you is willing to admit. But two of you are curious enough to take Wyatt into custody, yet he escapes. And most important, four agents are down.”
No one said a word.
“You folks are about as useful as tits on a boar hog. How about this, which one of you sent men into the Garver Institute last night and murdered one of its employees?”
No reply.
“No one going to claim that one? I wouldn’t think so.”
“Carbonell probably did it herself,” Cassiopeia said.
Davis nodded. “Makes the most sense.”
“I want each of you to know that we’re investigating this, independent of you. If Wyatt lured Malone to New York, that meant he knew what was about to happen. If he knew, others knew. Hence, a plot.”
“We need to find Wyatt,” one of the men said.
“FBI director,” Davis noted. “The only one around that table we can actually trust. A straight shooter.”
“I’d say that should be tops on your list,” Daniels said. “What about those two automated weapons from the hotel rooms? What have you learned?”
“Sophisticated engineering,” the FBI director said. “Well made. Malone disabled the one with shots from the other that shorted out its electronics. They were both radio-controlled. No way, though, to ascertain from where, though a radius of about three miles was the receiver’s range.”
“That’s a lot of real estate in New York City,” Daniels said. “What, about 30,000 hotel rooms to choose from?”
“Something like that.”
“Since Wyatt seems the only one at the moment who knew anything in advance,” Daniels said, “he’s the best lead. At least he sent Malone in there. That’s better than the rest of you can claim.”
“Is Cotton Malone conducting your inquiry?” NSA asked.
“Does it matter?”
“No, sir. I was simply curious.”
“Like I said. None of you bother Malone. That’s a direct order. He’s working for me. The people who murdered Dr. Gary Voccio last night also tried to kill Malone and, interestingly, Wyatt, too. That means Wyatt may not be my enemy. I intend to find out who ordered that strike.”
No one spoke.
“Also, Stephanie Nelle has been missing for several days.”
“Missing where?” CIA asked.
“I don’t know. She’s just gone.”
“Do you plan to release any of this to the public?” someone asked.
“I’m not going to do anything.” Daniels stood. “Not until you folks do what you’re supposed to do and provide me with some meaningful information.”
Daniels came back into the camera’s view as he marched toward the door.
The people around the table rose for his exit.
“Mr. President.”
NSA director.
Daniels stopped at the door.
“Your assessment of our effectiveness is wrong,” NSA said. “For my agency, we intercept nearly two billion emails, phone calls, and other international communications each day. Someone must listen to those. It’s how threats directed toward us are communicated. It’s how we became suspicious of Ms. Carbonell and her ties to the Commonwealth. We provide a vital service.”
“And who sorts though those two billion communications you intercept each day?” Daniels asked.
NSA started to speak, but Daniels held up a hand. “Don’t bother. I know the answer. No one. You sort a mere fraction. And every once in a while you luck onto something, like with NIA, then spout off about your importance. Interesting how, despite all of your money, people, and equipment a group of goat-herding terrorists from the wilds of Afghanistan managed to plow two planes into the World Trade Center and another into the Pentagon. If not for the bravery of some ordinary Americans another plane would have destroyed the White House. You didn’t know a damn thing about any of that coming.”
“With all due respect, sir, I resent your insults.”
“With all due respect, I resent tossing $75 billion dollars a year—that we know of—away on your foolishness. I resent the fact that those planes made it as far as they did. I resent your arrogance. We deserve an intelligence community that works together as a team in every sense of the word. Hell, if World War II had been run this way we would have lost. I wasn’t planning on doing this but, before I leave office, I’m going to shake this rotting tree down to its roots. So get ready, people. Anybody else having something to say?”
No one spoke.
“Find Stephanie Nelle,” Daniels said.
“Before the assassins?” one of them asked.
“Find one and I believe you’ll find the other.”
The president left.
The others lingered a few seconds, then they, too, began to leave.
“Okay,” Davis said. “Our turn.”
FIFTY-FIVE
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
Knox readied himself to be shot. The weapon was of modest caliber, and the bullet would surely pass straight through him.
But it was still going to hurt.
Apparently, the traitor had sold him out.
Hale lowered the gun. “Don’t you give me any more trouble
, either. You should not have interfered in that challenge.”
He exhaled. “Killing Captain Bolton was not the answer to the problem.”
Hale laid the gun on the table and grabbed his empty glass, refilling it with whiskey. “The answer to our problem came a little while ago. The director of NIA called me.”
He told himself to listen carefully. Carbonell was maneuvering again. But so was Hale.
“NIA has solved the cipher. They know where that no-good scoundrel Andrew Jackson hid the two missing pages. She told me the location.”
“And you believe her?”
“Why not?”
“They stopped our assassination attempt and cultivated a spy within this company.”
Hale nodded. “I know. But at the moment, the NIA director wants something from me. Something only I can provide.”
“Our guest in the lodge.”
Hale sipped his drink and nodded. “Providing this information is NIA’s way of demonstrating good faith. They hired a contract person who is going after the missing pages. But the man has no intention of turning over what he finds. The director made that clear. She wants him killed. It’s a remote location, which offers a good opportunity to do that. Of course, in return, she says we can have whatever there is to find.”
He listened as Hale explained about Nova Scotia and a man named Jonathan Wyatt. “Carbonell provided me everything she has on Paw Island and Fort Dominion.”
“What’s to stop us from simply going after the two pages and ignoring Wyatt?”
“Nothing, provided Wyatt doesn’t get in your way. From what she said, you’ll have to kill him in order to get him out of the way. He’s not the type to simply step aside.”
Everything about this sounded bad.
Hale pointed toward his desk. “There’s a photo and dossier on Wyatt. He was also the man who stopped the assassination attempt. I’d say you owe him.”
Perhaps he did, but he wasn’t quite sure what.
“Take the file. Use the jet. NIA tells me Wyatt is flying commercially out of Boston, but weather is delaying him. Get there before he does and be ready.”
Apparently things had changed one more time and Carbonell had decided to provide the Commonwealth what it wanted.
Or had she?
“This could be a trap.”
“I am willing to take the chance.”
No, he was willing for someone else to take the chance. But Knox had no choice. He had to go to Canada. If he could be ready before this Wyatt arrived, it should be an easy kill. One more demonstration of his loyalty to the captains, which should buy him more time.
At least the traitor had not compromised him.
“Look, Clifford,” Hale said, conciliation in his voice. “Why provide us this information if she’s lying?”
“Apparently, so we can do her dirty work. The man she sent can’t be trusted, so she wants us to eliminate him.”
Just like with Scott Parrott.
“If that makes her happy, so what? If she’s lying, we still have Stephanie Nelle to do with as we please.”
He caught the message. What do we have to lose? So he knew the right response. “I’ll head north immediately.”
“Before you leave, there is another matter. Bolton was right about one thing. The equipment that we have secreted at Shirley Kaiser’s residence. It’s time to remove it before someone notices. It’s not needed any longer. Do you have men who can accomplish that?”
He nodded. “Two I’ve been training. They assist me often. They can handle it.”
“I spoke with Kaiser a day or so ago and she told me she would be out this evening at a fund-raiser in Richmond. That should give you an opportunity.”
Hale sipped more whiskey.
“Clifford, the others know nothing of my association with NIA, beyond the little bit I told them earlier. And I don’t want to share any more until we have success. I’m asking you to keep this between us, for now. Contrary to what they think, I will not abandon them, though God knows I should. They are an ungrateful, stupid lot. But I take my oath to the Articles seriously. If we succeed, we succeed for all.”
He could not care less, but feigned interest. “I’m curious about one thing. How did you know which glass to pick?”
“What makes you think I knew?”
“You’re a bold man, but not a foolish one. For you to issue that challenge you must have known you could win.”
“My father taught me a trick,” Hale said. “If you jiggle the glass ever so slightly, the poison comes out of suspension and blurs the alcohol. It’s just for an instant but, if you pay close attention, you can see it. I swirled each glass before I drank. Granted, it’s not foolproof, but it’s better than blind luck.”
“That took guts,” he said.
Hale smiled at himself. “Indeed. It certainly did.”
Wyatt stepped onto an Air Canada flight in Boston’s Logan International Airport. He’d flown from Richmond, Virginia, and had now been laid over for nearly two hours. A bad storm was delaying every flight, and he wondered if this one would make it out anytime soon. Flight time to Halifax, Nova Scotia, was another two hours, which should place him on the ground by midafternoon—provided there were no more delays. With any luck he’d be on Paw Island by five PM. He’d checked the weather, and the temperature should be around seventy degrees. The area had lately been experiencing a September heat wave combined with a dry spell. If necessary, he’d sleep on the island and finish his business tomorrow. One way or the other he would leave there with those missing pages.
He’d come to New York fully prepared with flash bombs, guns, and ammunition, but his passport would be of little use. Airline manifests could be checked by law enforcement with nothing more than a click of a mouse.
Another identity was required.
So he’d been forced to deal with Carbonell.
The half of his triple fee had been deposited in his Liechtenstein account, as promised. A lot of cash, tax-free. But a lot of risk, too. The greatest of which was dealing with Carbonell. She’d rubbed him wrong. Riled-up feelings within him he’d thought long suppressed. He was an American intelligence operative. Always had been, always would be.
That meant something to him.
Contrary to what Carbonell seemed to think.
He resented her callous, selfish attitude. She had no business heading any intelligence agency. Operatives in the field had to know that their superiors were watching their backs. Things were dangerous enough without having to worry whether your boss was unnecessarily placing your life in jeopardy.
She had to be stopped.
And that was why he’d stayed in this fight.
Malone? The trail for Captain America ended at Monticello. He wasn’t a factor any longer. That would have to wait for another time.
This would be his victory, and his alone.
He’d opted to fly commercial to draw less attention. He’d rent a car once on the ground and drive the fifty miles south to Mahone Bay. He’d bought appropriate outdoor clothing. Anything else needed he could buy once on the ground. The Nova Scotia peninsula was a mecca for outdoor enthusiasts, catering to cyclists, golfers, hikers, kayakers, boaters, and bird-watchers. It being Sunday might offer a few challenges with store hours, but he’d make do. Unfortunately, he was unarmed. No way to import a weapon. He’d read the intel Carbonell had provided, especially the information explaining the last word in the cipher’s message—Dominion—which referred to Fort Dominion, located on the south side of Paw Island.
A ruin not only today, but in Andrew Jackson’s time.
The site possessed a checkered history.
During the American Revolution, after the fort was seized by the Continental army, seventy-four British prisoners died there while in colonial hands. They’d been temporarily incarcerated beneath the fort, in a dungeon-like complex carved into its rocky foundation, and drowned when the level flooded. Three colonial officers were court-martialed over the inciden
t, the charge being that they were told by others that the chamber would flood yet ignored the warning. They were acquitted, as the testimony regarding their knowledge of the danger was conflicted, at best.
He sympathized with those officers.
They’d simply been doing their duty, in a time of war, a long way from any command authority. Of course they hadn’t had the luxury of instant communication. Instead, they had to make local decisions. Then, months later, someone came along and second-guessed them. Unlike him, those men escaped punishment, but he imagined that any military career those officers might have envisioned ended with their trial.
Just like his.
What happened at Fort Dominion remained a sore spot for American and British relations up to the War of 1812, when the two nations finally resolved their differences. He wondered if there was any connection between that tragic incident and what Andrew Jackson had done sixty years later.
Dominion had been specifically chosen by Jackson.
Why?
He’d also reviewed again Jackson’s letter to the Commonwealth and his message hidden behind Jefferson’s cipher. The five symbols remained unexplained.
Carbonell had found nothing on them. Her advice? Deal with them once he was on the ground in Canada.
She’d assured him again that this mission was between the two of them. But a lie for her was far better than the truth, even when lying wasn’t necessary.
This was the end of the line, though.
If she lied to him here, even in the slightest—
He’d kill her.
FIFTY-SIX
WHITE HOUSE
Cassiopeia sat in the Oval Office, Edwin Davis beside her on an upholstered settee. She’d been here once before and not much had changed. A couple of Norman Rockwells still adorned one wall. The same portrait of George Washington hung above the fireplace. Potted Swedish ivy dangled from the mantel—a tradition, Davis explained, dating back to the Kennedy administration. Two high-backed chairs framed the hearth, a scene she recognized from photo ops when the president sat to the left and a visiting head of state on the right. That had started, Davis explained, with Franklin Roosevelt so his guest would be seated, like him, downplaying his handicap.