by Steve Berry
Definitely a feeling of security here, but also one of being trapped.
He should look around.
So he plunged ahead.
Malone beached the boat on the south side of Paw Island. The evening air carried an aroma of salt and trees, along with something else—acidic and astringent. The sky had turned the color of slate, the forest casting violet shadows over the sandy inlet. Herring gulls decorated the trees.
His rubber soles crunched crab shells and dried urchins. The temperature had dropped and he was glad for a lined jacket. Thick stands of oak lay ahead, the woods bedded with ferns and heather. He turned back and studied the bay for boats. Crimson patches of fading sun colored the surface. The horizon remained empty.
The bookstore owner had told him where in the fort symbols could be found. Were they decoration? Graffiti? Old? New? During the summer months when visits were allowed fifty-plus people a day roamed the island, which meant, as she’d told him, the symbols could have come from anywhere. Except that he knew Andrew Jackson was aware of their presence in 1835.
Perhaps the president himself had them placed there?
Who knew?
Cassiopeia parked the motorcycle at a Comfort Inn just inside the Fredericksburg city limits. She’d thought about the call to Quentin Hale on the ride down. The conversation had to be subtle and clever, telegraphing just enough for Hale to know that the White House may indeed have what he sought.
The Secret Service had taken a room here earlier, about three kilometers from Kaiser’s residence, where they could remotely monitor the TV camera that had been installed inside one of the second-floor bedrooms, facing the garage.
She knocked and was allowed inside.
Two agents were on duty, one male, the other female.
“Kaiser left about three hours ago,” the female agent said. “She took a small case and a garment bag with her.”
They knew Kaiser was due at some sort of fund-raising event in Richmond. No tail or escort had been provided. Better to do nothing that might alert Hale. A big enough risk had been taken installing the camera, but they had to ensure that the site remained under surveillance. A small LCD screen displayed, from an elevated angle, Kaiser’s garage and the hedgerow that guarded its outer wall. Sunlight was fading and she watched as the male agent switched the camera over to night vision, the image transforming to a greenish hue, still displaying the building and hedge line.
Cassiopeia would pay Kaiser an innocent woman-to-woman visit when she returned home that should draw no attention. Her talk with Danny Daniels still disturbed her. Clearly, the Daniels’ marriage was over and the president had spoken of Stephanie in an odd way. She wondered what had transpired between them. Easy to see how he might find solace with her. Stephanie’s life also had been marred by tragedy—the suicide of her husband, the disappearance of her son, an eventual coming to grips with harsh past realities.
Interesting how presidents were people, too. They had wants, needs, and fears, just like everyone else. They carried emotional baggage and, worse, were forced to conceal it.
Unfortunately for Danny and Pauline Daniels, their baggage had been revealed through careless comments and misplaced trust.
“Look there,” the female agent said, pointing to the screen.
Her mind refocused on the moment.
Two men could be seen near Shirley Kaiser’s garage, studying the surroundings, slipping into the space between the hedge and the building.
“Seems we have visitors,” the male agent said. “I’ll call for backup.”
“No,” Cassiopeia said.
“That’s not procedure,” he said to her.
“Which seems to be standard for this entire operation.” She pointed to the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Jessica.”
“Me and you. We’ll handle it.”
SIXTY-ONE
Wyatt stroked the blackened stones and visualized men-at-arms clambering to the walls, cannons readied for firing. He could hear bells tolling and smell fish turning on a spit. Life on this lonely outpost 230 years ago would have been tough. Easy to see how seventy-four men could have lost their lives.
He noticed a staircase that right-angled upward.
Higher ground would be good, so he climbed the steep steps and entered what had once been a large hall. Windows ran the length of each side, the grilles and glass long gone. No ceiling existed, the room exposed to the elements, a wall walk wrapping the outer curtain high above. Puddles of stagnant water nourished brown grass that grew like stubble. The air remained clotted with the stench of birds, many of which flitted around.
His gaze was drawn to the fireplace and he wove a path around loose blocks. The hearth would hold half a dozen men standing side by side. He noticed places where planks covered the stone floor, some milled and clearly of a more recent vintage, others rotting and dangerous.
Beyond a darkened passageway, he spied another room. He negotiated a short hall and entered that empty space. A second staircase led up. Probably to the walk he’d spotted encircling the battlements.
Something to his right, near a pile of grass-infected rubble, caught his attention.
Smears on the rock floor.
Footsteps. Toward the second staircase.
More stains colored the risers. Fresh, moist.
Somebody was above him.
Knox waited on the battlements for Wyatt to emerge from the cluster of decaying buildings. Though the ceilings were gone, as were most of the walls, there remained many places to hide. He’d watched as Wyatt entered the fort. Before he killed him he hoped perhaps Wyatt might point the way to where the missing pages waited. He had the full text of Jackson’s message with him, including the five curious symbols. Instead of spending all night searching, he could let Wyatt lead him straight there.
But his adversary was wandering, as if lost.
Apparently, he did not know where to find whatever Andrew Jackson had hidden.
So kill him and be done with it.
Wyatt had learned long ago that when your opponent was expecting the expected, it was best not to disappoint. That was why he’d boldly entered the Garver Institute through the front door. Near the base of the staircase, where more footprints in the mud and excrement led upward, a bare window opened through the outer wall facing the sea. He crept over and carefully poked his head out, checking above.
Maybe a ten-foot climb to the top, with plenty of handholds in the withering stone.
He glanced down at the hundred-foot drop to a rocky shoreline being assaulted by the sea. Birds leaped from the cliff-like walls and hung in the breeze. The half-choked cries of gulls accompanied their waltz. He retreated inside and found a stone the size of a softball. The battlements above were certainly populated by birds, too. Carefully, he crept up one flight of risers and peered up into an ever-dimming sky.
He lobbed the rock up through the opening, but did not wait for it to land.
Instead he retreated down to the window.
Knox was positioned across from Wyatt, on the fort’s north wall. One of his men waited on the south battlement with Wyatt, the other man on the west wall. The oppressive silence was broken only by surf and a steady wind that masked all noise.
Birds suddenly took flight from the south wall in a thick layer, sweeping upward, their wings colliding in midair.
What had panicked them?
His gaze locked on the battlement.
Wyatt grabbed hold of the gray limestone, using the crevices as holds. The stone he’d tossed upward had flushed the birds and caused enough of a distraction to cover him. He was suspended in the air, nothing but ocean to his back. Night was rapidly grabbing hold. His shoes were planted firmly in a deep scar in the wall. One hand gripped the top. He reached up with his other hand and peered over the edge.
A man stood eight feet away, his back to him, near where the stairway he’d avoided emptied down from the battlements.
He held a gun in one hand.
>
Exactly as he’d thought.
They were waiting for him.
Cassiopeia and her new partner, Jessica, approached Shirley Kaiser’s house. They’d driven over in a Secret Service car, parked down the street, and trotted to the wrought-iron fence that encircled the property, an easy matter to leap over.
They made their way toward the garage.
“Have you done this before?” she whispered.
“Not outside the training academy.”
“Stay calm. Think. And don’t do anything stupid.”
“Yes, ma’am. Any other words of wisdom?”
“Don’t get shot.”
No smart remarks came in reply to that one.
Jessica hesitated, listening to something through her ear fob. They were in radio contact with the agent back at the Comfort Inn.
“The two guys are still there.”
Because, Cassiopeia thought, they knew they would not be interrupted. Hale apparently was aware Kaiser was gone, but she wondered why he’d decided to remove the device. Did he know that they knew? If he did, he would not have gone anywhere near Kaiser’s house. No physical evidence tied him to the device. No, he was covering his tracks. Maybe readying himself for something.
She signaled for Jessica to swing around to the rear of the garage. She would approach from the front and flush them out.
Surprise should work in their favor.
Or at least she hoped it would.
Knox stared across to where his man on the south wall waited. The birds had settled down, some returning to their perch, others flying off into an ever-darkening sky. A man suddenly appeared from the outer portion of the wall, facing the ocean, balanced atop the battlement.
No question as to his identity.
Wyatt rushed forward and attacked. The fight was brief and silent thanks to the distance and the wind.
A gun appeared in Wyatt’s hand.
One shot, the retort muffled to a sound like hands clapping, and one man was down for good.
Knox raised his weapon, aimed, and fired.
SIXTY-TWO
Malone caught the sudden flight of birds from the crest of the fort. He was just outside the main gate, using the enveloping darkness for cover, unsure if there was anyone else around.
He heard a pop, then another, and knew he was not alone.
He needed to enter the fort, but to do that meant crossing an open fifty feet. The only cover was a pile of rubble ten feet away. He rushed the mound, leaping over to its protected side.
Two bullets pinged the limestone wall behind him.
From the battlements.
He kept his head down and peered through an opening in the rocks. Movement came high on the wall walk, to the left of the doorway he wanted to negotiate. Waiting would do nothing but allow his attacker time to prepare. So he aimed at the spot on the wall where he’d last spied anything and laid down two rounds, then took advantage of the moment and dashed through the doorway.
No bullets followed him.
The base of a stairway rested to the left, a passageway deeper into the fort straight ahead. But an open space loomed directly ahead. A decayed tower.
He glanced upward.
The wall walks above were exposed.
A bad feeling swept over him.
One that signaled he’d made it here far too easily.
Wyatt lunged forward, diving just before the man across the fort fired at him. He’d caught sight of the second assailant an instant before he’d killed the first—and recognized the face.
Clifford Knox.
Carbonell had sold him out to the Commonwealth.
But he told himself to stay calm and handle that later.
Puffs of stone erupted inches away as bullets penetrated the semi-darkness, searching for him. Thankfully, the battlements offered ample protection and he was now armed with the dead man’s gun.
But that wasn’t discouraging Knox.
Who kept firing.
Cassiopeia swept across the driveway’s pavers. If they timed their approach properly they should be able to catch the two interlopers off guard and snag an easy capture. Hale’s decision to make this move had changed her thinking. Living, breathing proof of a crime would finally give the White House some immediate bargaining power, and Hale would surely then be in a panic. Maybe enough to guarantee Stephanie’s safety. True, there was no tangible proof, as yet, of the Commonwealth being involved with the assassination attempt or Stephanie’s disappearance. But there would be a direct link to a burglary and violations of various wiretapping laws, and no letters of marque, valid or not, would protect them since Shirley Kaiser was not an enemy of the United States.
Something metallic clattered to a hard surface.
Movement on the other side of the garage signaled that the two men had taken notice of the sound, too.
“Freeze,” she heard Jessica yell.
A shot rang out.
Malone studied the tower. An exposed staircase wound only halfway up to the summit, the remainder having decayed long ago. Wooden planks that once separated the various levels were gone, as were the roof timbers. A night sky loomed overhead. Moonlight had begun to spill down like smoke through the ruins.
On the wall walk above a shadow appeared. The tower’s shell stretched about thirty feet across, its lichen-encrusted walls eroded from wind and rain. Its height created a protective angle that shielded him from any bullets, so long as he stayed beyond the doorway.
He quickly summarized his situation.
If he retreated, the only way out was the way he’d come, which the man above had covered. Forward was through the open tower, and that clearly would be a problem. He noticed he was standing on a wooden plank, about three feet wide and five feet long.
He bent down and lightly caressed the surface.
Hard, like stone.
He curled his fingers between the wood and the earthen floor and lifted. Heavy, but he could handle it. He only hoped the caliber of bullet being used up above was low.
He stuffed his gun into his jacket pocket, raised the plank above his head, then balanced the length on his open palms. He swung around so that he faced the archway and the tower beyond his shield angled downward, which he hoped would provide enough protection from any ricocheting rounds.
He gritted his teeth, drew a breath, then bolted through the archway, careful to keep the planks balanced.
Ten yards or so was all he had to negotiate.
Shots erupted immediately and a steady crack of timber sounded as lead knocked off the upper surface. He found the doorway, but immediately noticed that the plank’s width was too great. It would not pass through.
A steady tap-tap-tap continued on the wood above his head. Any bullet might signal disaster if a soft spot was found.
No choice.
He allowed the wood to slide off his palms as he pushed upward and vaulted into the doorway.
The board crashed to the ground.
He gripped his gun.
Cassiopeia bolted forward, using the side of the garage nearest to her for cover. A man appeared, rushing her way, his attention more on what was behind him than what was ahead. She wanted to know if Jessica was okay, but realized that the first order of business was taking down this problem. She waited, then stretched out her leg and tripped him to the grass.
She aimed her gun down and whispered, “Quiet and still.”
His eyes seemed to say, No way.
So she made her point clearer, swiping the gun into his left temple, stealing his consciousness.
She then turned and advanced to the garage’s corner. Jessica stood with her gun aimed downward, both hands on the trigger. The other man lay on the grass, writhing from a wound in his thigh.
“I had no choice.” Jessica lowered her weapon. “I hit a shovel back there and tipped them off. I told him to stop, but he kept coming. I think he thought I wouldn’t shoot him.”
“The other one’s down, too. Call for medical he
lp.”
SIXTY-THREE
Knox laid down a few rounds, trying to flush Wyatt from his hiding place on the far wall.
“Where are you?” he said into his lapel mike, talking to his second associate.
“There’s another man here,” the voice said in his ear. “He’s armed, but I have him pinned down below.”
Two men?
He hadn’t expected anyone other than Wyatt. No mention had been made of any assistance.
“Take him out,” he ordered.
Malone started to climb the stone stairs that right-angled upward. Obviously, there were others inside the fort, as gunfire had echoed from more spots above, to his right and left. Night had taken a firm hold, and darkness was now his ally. He still carried the flashlight, stuffed into his back pocket, but there was no way to use it.
He came to the top and watched for movement.
Emerging from the stairwell meant exposure, and though he was known to occasionally do dumb things this was not going to be one of them.
He studied his surroundings.
One side of the stairwell, which formed the fort’s outer wall, was gone. Through the darkness he spotted a series of arches that supported the battlements above. If he was careful, he could negotiate them and make an end run. He stuffed the gun inside his belt and climbed out. Fifty feet below, surf pounded rock. A musky smell of the birds mixed with the salt air. Below him cries mingled with a clash of wings. He balanced on the first arch and shifted to the second, hands and arms grasping the moist, gritty supports.
He shifted to the next arch, then another.
One more and he should be sufficiently beyond the stairwell’s entrance above that he could surprise his attacker.
He reached up and grasped the top of the wall.
One chin-up and he peered over the top.
A dark form huddled twenty feet away, his back to him, facing the stairwell. To climb up fully would draw attention. So he settled back on the arch and found his gun. He searched the wall above him and discovered more indentations. One hand stretched back to the top and he maneuvered himself upward, his right shoe finding a foothold, enough that he could pivot upward, aim, and fire one time.