The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  Mahone Bay is real (chapters 53, 55, 56, 58), as is the mysterious Oak Island. Paw Island is my creation, as is Fort Dominion, though the invasion of Nova Scotia during the Revolutionary War happened. The Oak Island slab with its strange markings (chapter 56) is part of the island’s legend, though no known person has ever seen this slab. Its translation is likewise real, though, again, no one knows who accomplished the feat.

  Ybor City exists (chapter 41). The financial crisis in Dubai (chapter 18) happened, though I added a few elements. Adventure is based on several yachts of the same size and type, all amazing oceangoing vessels.

  There are, of course, no missing pages from the early House and Senate journals (chapter 19). The excerpt from Of Debates in Congress (chapter 84) is a composite of several entries from that time. The troubles and statistics quoted by Danny Daniels concerning the U.S. intelligence community (chapter 54) came from a 2010 Washington Post exposé.

  Monticello is an amazing place. It is accurately described, as is its visitor center (chapters 43, 44, 45, 47, 49). The cipher wheel is real, too, and located on-site (chapters 44, 49) though not inside the house itself. A resin replica exists in the visitor center (chapter 52), but whether it is an exact copy of the original is unknown. Jefferson’s library (chapter 44) was sold to the United States after the War of 1812 and formed the basis of the modern Library of Congress. Many of Jefferson’s original volumes remain on display in Washington, at the library, in a special exhibit.

  Assassination plays a pivotal role in this story. Four U.S. presidents were murdered in office: Lincoln (1865), Garfield (1881), McKinley (1901), and Kennedy (1963). Linking those proved a challenge, but it was interesting to discover that all of the assassins were deranged zealots and none lived long after his act. Booth and Oswald died within hours, and the remaining two were executed within weeks after hasty trials. What Danny Daniels says in chapter 16 about mistakes in presidential protection leading to disaster is true. Daniels’ jaunt to New York (chapter 16) is based on Barack Obama’s unannounced visit to see a Broadway play with the First Lady, which occurred early in his presidency.

  Andrew Jackson was indeed the first president to face an assassin. The threatening letter sent by Junius Brutus Booth, father of John Wilkes Booth, to Jackson is a historic fact (chapter 38). Even more amazing, Booth was upset over Jackson’s refusal to pardon some convicted pirates. The four actual presidential assassinations are accurately described throughout, but the Commonwealth’s involvement sprang entirely from my imagination.

  All of the information about pirates and their unique, short-lived society is correct to history. Fiction and Hollywood have done them a great disservice. Reality is far removed from the stereotypes presented through the years. A pirate’s world, though raucous, stayed orderly thanks to agreed-upon articles that governed key ventures. A pirate ship is one of the earliest examples of a working democracy. The Commonwealth, though obviously fictitious, is inspired by accounts of pirate ships joining together in collective efforts. The language quoted throughout from the Commonwealth’s articles was taken from actual articles drafted in the 17th and 18th centuries.

  Privateers are a historical fact, as is their contribution to both the American Revolution and the War of 1812 (chapters 18, 25). What Quentin Hale tells Edwin Davis in chapter 18 is true: Both the Revolutionary War and War of 1812 were won thanks to their efforts. The roots of the U.S. Navy lie squarely with privateers. George Washington himself acknowledged our great debt to them. Of course, the granting of letters of marque, in perpetuity, to any group of those privateers was my addition.

  Article I, Section 8, of the Constitution does indeed allow Congress to bestow letters of marque. The letter quoted in chapter 18 is based on an actual one. Also, any and all history relative to letters of marque detailed throughout the story is true. Privateering was a common weapon utilized for centuries by warring states. The 1856 Declaration of Paris finally outlawed the practice for its signees, but the United States and Spain (chapter 19) were not a party to that agreement. A congressional act in 1899 forbade the practice here (chapter 19), though it’s unclear whether that law would withstand constitutional scrutiny considering the express language of Article I, Section 8. During the first 40 years of our republic, letters of marque were commonly issued by Congress. Since 1814 that constitutional clause has remained dormant, though there was an attempt to invoke it after 9/11.

  But for all their beneficial contributions to this nation during wartime, a grim reality remains.

  Privateers are the nursery for pirates.

  For Zachary and Alex,

  the next generation

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Gina Centrello, Libby McQuire, Kim Hovey, Cindy Murray, Carole Lowenstein, Quinne Rogers, Matt Schwartz, and everyone in Promotions and Sales—a heartfelt and sincere thanks.

  To my agent and friend, Pam Ahearn—I offer another bow of deep appreciation.

  To Mark Tavani, for pushing to the limit.

  And to Simon Lipskar, thanks for your wisdom and guidance.

  A few special mentions: a bow to the great novelist and friend, Katherine Neville, for opening doors at Monticello; the wonderful folks at Monticello who were most helpful; the great professionals at the Library of Virginia, who assisted with the Andrew Jackson research; Meryl Moss and her terrific publicity staff; Esther Garver and Jessica Johns, who continue to keep Steve Berry Enterprises working; Simon Gardner, from the Grand Hyatt, for providing fascinating insights on both the hotel and New York; Dr. Joe Murad, our chauffeur and tour guide in Bath; Kim Hovey, who offered some excellent on-site observations and photographs of Mahone Bay; and, as always, little would be accomplished without Elizabeth—wife, mother, friend, editor, and critic. Quite the real deal.

  This book is for our grandsons, Zachary and Alex.

  To them, I’m Papa Steve.

  For me, they’re both quite special.

  ALSO BY STEVE BERRY

  NOVELS

  The Amber Room

  The Romanov Prophecy

  The Third Secret

  The Templar Legacy

  The Alexandria Link

  The Venetian Betrayal

  The Charlemagne Pursuit

  The Paris Vendetta

  The Emperor’s Tomb

  E-BOOKS

  “The Balkan Escape”

  “The Devil’s Gold”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STEVE BERRY is the New York Times bestselling author of The Emperor’s Tomb, The Paris Vendetta, The Charlemagne Pursuit, The Venetian Betrayal, The Alexandria Link, The Templar Legacy, The Third Secret, The Romanov Prophecy, The Amber Room, and the short stories “The Balkan Escape” and “The Devil’s Gold.” His books have been translated into forty languages and sold in fifty-one countries. He lives in the historic city of St. Augustine, Florida, and is working on his next novel. He and his wife, Elizabeth, have founded History Matters, a nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving our heritage. To learn more about Steve Berry and the foundation, visit www.steveberry.org.

  Read on for

  THE

  DEVIL’S

  GOLD

  A Short Story

  by

  STEVE BERRY

  Published by Ballantine Books

  SANTIAGO, CHILE

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 2

  THREE WEEKS AGO

  Jonathan Wyatt decided to wait before killing his target.

  He’d followed Christopher Combs all across Chile, from one isolated village to the next, up into the mountains and back to the capital, wondering what the lying SOB was doing. To avoid exposure he’d stayed loose, well back from Combs, not making contact with any of the people his adversary had visited. Now his target was safely ensconced in an executive suite at the Ritz-Carlton—five hundred U.S. dollars a night, which raised a whole host of questions considering Combs’ government salary—the reservation confirmed for the next ten days. To add a further insult, Combs was currently lying in the hotel�
��s spa having the kinks in his fifty-eight-year-old back worked out.

  Be patient.

  That’s what he’d told himself for the past eight years.

  But it was hard.

  Wyatt had been known within the intelligence community as a man of few words. He spoke sparingly, on purpose, which many times forced others to talk too much. Silence was an acquired art he’d mastered, and he knew what they’d called him behind his back.

  The Sphinx.

  But he hadn’t cared.

  And it mattered no longer.

  His twenty-year career as an intelligence operative had ended eight years ago.

  Thanks to Christopher Combs and Cotton Malone.

  The latter brought the charges against him, which the former had assured would be quashed, calling the administrative hearing a mere formality. Two men had died in a bad situation. Malone blamed him for the deaths, calling them unnecessary and sacrificial. He’d resented both allegations. He and Malone had found themselves trapped, under fire, with three agents nearby who could help. He was the senior in charge so he made the call to bring them in, but Malone had objected. So he’d coldcocked Malone with the butt of his revolver and ordered them in anyway.

  Malone filed an indictment.

  And he hated him for it.

  The glory boy of the Magellan Billet and Stephanie Nelle, its director. He’d heard the tales of commendations Malone refused, and how he could do little to no wrong. Ex-navy commander. Lawyer. Pilot. You name it, Malone could do it.

  He’d even made a convincing witness against him.

  And the admin board—empowered apparently to second-guess people in the field—heard the testimony of Malone and three others, then ruled that he had indeed acted recklessly.

  He was summarily fired with a loss of all benefits.

  Chris Combs had been his immediate supervisor. An assistant director soon to be, as Combs had privately boasted, a director. To be sure, Wyatt had verified that Combs was definitely next in line for promotion. He’d worked under Combs for five years, his own successes surely helping to fuel the other’s rise. Combs had repeatedly expressed his gratitude and told him that he’d need an assistant director. Twenty years of experience certainly qualified Wyatt. Moving up had always been in the back of his mind.

  So the message had been clear.

  We rise together.

  But at the admin hearing, instead of backing him up, Combs sold him out, testifying that, in his opinion, a finding of recklessness was warranted.

  Combs garnered his directorship.

  Wyatt had been pink-slipped, spending the past eight years working contract jobs for various intelligence agencies in need of his experience but not his liability. They paid great, but were no substitute.

  He wanted his career back. But that was gone.

  Revenge?

  Seemed that was all he had left.

  And he’d been patient. Watching Combs. Waiting for the right moment.

  Like now.

  Combs had taken two weeks’ leave and flown alone to Chile. Doing something outside the agency.

  What exactly?

  He actually wanted to know.

  So while Combs enjoyed himself at the Ritz-Carlton, and before he killed the bastard, he decided to find out.

  He slowed the rental car as he drove into Turingia. The tiny Chilean hamlet’s claim to fame was a popular thermal spring. Placards announced that asthma, bronchitis, digestive disorders, even dry skin could be cured—all of course for a price.

  He navigated around a busy central plaza.

  An ocher-colored church rose at one end, flanked by an arcade of shops, the quaintness stained only by gangly electric-wire poles. A residential section, west of town, looked more like the English countryside with timbered houses, angled roofs, and flowery trees. He knew about the old woman because a few days ago he’d followed Combs to her house. She lived amid a stand of tall araucaria, their puffy pine boughs stretching toward the sky. The house was a two-story structure longing for paint, its gabled tin roof thick with rust. Two horses grazed within an enclosure. He eased the car down a bumpy lane and parked near a fence trellised with morning glories.

  The front door was answered by a birdlike woman with burnished gray-gold hair. Forked veins lined her spindly arms, and liver spots dotted her wrists. She appeared to be pushing seventy, but there was a spry look in her hazel eyes. When he introduced himself her eyebrows rose in apparent amusement and she threw him a smile that featured teeth like a jack-o’-lantern.

  She invited him inside, her English laced with German. He sat on a settee upholstered in pink velveteen, while she reclined in an oversized chair draped with a flowered slipcover.

  He learned her name was Isabel.

  “And what is it you want?” she asked him.

  “You had a visitor a few days ago.”

  “Oh, yes. He was a lively one.”

  “What did he want?”

  She studied him with a calculating gaze, a tremor rocking her right eye. Her breaths came in low wheezes. Only the tick of a clock disturbed the tranquility.

  “The same as you, apparently,” she said. “You seem like a lively one, too.”

  She was playing him. Okay. He could do the same. “Have you lived here a long time?”

  “All my life. But my family is from Heidelberg. My parents came here after the war. My father erected this house. Built with one-third heart, one-third hands, one-third understanding.”

  He smiled, trying to place her at ease.

  “An old German wisdom,” she noted.

  “Was your father a solider?”

  “Heavens, no. He worked for the postal service. He felt that Germany would never be the same after the war, so he left. I daresay he was right.”

  He decided to return to what he wanted to know. “What did Mr. Combs want with you?”

  “He showed me two photographs, a man and a woman, and wanted to know if I knew the faces. I told him they once lived near Lago Todos los Santos, at the Argentina border.”

  “Why were those pictures so important to him?”

  The corners of her eyebrows turned down. “Why is his business yours?”

  He decided honesty might work best. “He and I have a debt to settle.”

  “I can see that. You try hard to conceal your thoughts, but in your face, your eyes, your meaning is clear. The Brown Eminence was the same.”

  He did not understand.

  “In France, centuries ago,” she said, “there was the Red Eminence. Cardinal Richelieu, the king’s chief minister. Richelieu’s assistant, Father Joseph, was known as the Gray Eminence. Like his superior, he was a shadowy figure, both adept at managing power. Red and gray referred to their robes.” She paused. “Brown was the color of Nazi uniforms. Martin Bormann was the Brown Eminence.”

  He thought about what he knew of Martin Bormann. Which wasn’t much. Hitler’s private secretary. The gatekeeper to the Führer. Second most powerful man in the Third Reich.

  “The man in the photograph Herr Combs showed me. He was the Brown Eminence, though by then he called himself Luis.”

  “And the woman?”

  “She called herself Rikka, though she was Hitler’s widow.”

  That name he knew. Eva Braun. She married Hitler in April 1945, shortly before they both committed suicide in the Führerbunker.

  “What are you saying?”

  Her watery eyes conveyed a look of annoyance. “Herr Combs was not as surprised as you.”

  “What did he say about your information?”

  “Did he cheat you?”

  This old woman was good. A simple question, out of the blue, intended to elicit an emotional response.

  “He’s a liar.”

  “I thought the same. He lied to me. But he wanted to know where the two in his photos had lived. His questions actually surprised me. There was a time when men searched for the Brown Eminence. No one cared about the widow, all thought she was dead. Few even
knew her face or name. But him. That one many wanted. He was a quetrupillán.”

  He did not recognize the term and asked what it meant.

  “A local Chilean word,” she said. “Mute devil. A bit like yourself.”

  He ignored her jab. “What happened to Bormann and Braun?”

  “They eventually went to live where no one could find them.”

  He realized that, decades ago, the world had been a different place. No satellites, television, global newspapers, or Internet. Hiding was much simpler, and many war criminals were successful at fading away.

  Especially two people most of the world thought dead.

  “Where did they go?”

  She did not answer him.

  “Did you ever speak of this before Combs’ visit?”

  “No one has ever asked these questions. Why would anyone? I am an old woman living quietly. Who would even know I exist?”

  “Chris Combs.”

  “Then you must ask yourself. How was I found?”

  He had no idea.

  “You do not believe me?” she asked. “I see it in your eyes. You come to my home and ask these questions. I have answered honestly, yet you do not believe.”

  What he believed mattered not. “What did Combs say to your answers?”

  “He wanted corroboration. As I can see you do, too.” She slowly hinged herself up to her feet. “I’ll show you, as I did him.”

  The day of Combs’ appearance Wyatt had waited down the highway, in the woods, where he could watch the driveway. Combs had stayed a little over an hour, then had driven back to Santiago. Wyatt had no idea what had happened during the visit.

  Isabel shuffled toward the door. “Strange, though.”