The Jefferson Key (Cotton Malone 7)

No matter. He’d survive. He always had.

She motioned at his wristwatch. A Rolex Submariner. “You like it?”

What was not to like? Gilt-faced. Gold lettering. Accurate to a tenth of a second on a battery that lasted practically forever. A gift to himself a few years ago after a particularly lucrative assignment.

He stared hard into her dark eyes.

“Do you know how the Swiss rose to be such superb watchmakers?” she asked.

He said nothing.

“In 1541 Geneva outlawed jewelry on religious grounds, so the jewelers were forced to learn a new trade-watchmaking. Over time they became good at it. During World War I, when foreign competition had factories either seized or destroyed, the Swiss thrived. Today they produce half of the world’s watches. The Geneva seal is the gold standard by which all others are judged.”

So what?

“Jonathan, you and I are not the gold standard of anything any longer.”

Her gaze bore into his eyes.

“But just like those Swiss jewelers, I have an exit strategy.”

“I wish you well with it. I’m done.”

“Don’t want to play with Malone anymore?”

He shrugged. “Since no one shot him, that will have to wait for another day.”

“You really are nothing but trouble,” she said. “That’s what the other agencies say about you.”

“Yet they seem to come my way when they get their asses stuck in deep cracks.”

“Maybe you’re right. Go back to Florida, Jonathan. Enjoy yourself. Play golf. Walk on the beach. Leave this business to the grownups.”

He ignored her insults. He had her money and he’d done his job. Winning a war of words meant nothing to him. What did interest him was that they were being observed. He’d spotted the man on the subway and confirmed his presence when the same face reappeared at street level in Union Square. He was currently positioned on the other side of Broadway, a hundred yards away.

And not being all that subtle.

“Good luck, Andrea. Perhaps you’ll fare better than I did.”

He left her standing in the doorway and did not glance back.

Twenty yards away a car wheeled around the corner and headed straight for him.

It stopped and two men emerged.

“Do you think you could be a good boy and come quietly?” one of the men asked.

Wyatt was unarmed. Carrying a weapon around the city would have proved problematic, especially in the charged atmosphere he knew would be present after the assassination attempt.

“Some people want to talk to you,” the man said.

He turned back.

Carbonell was gone.

“We’re not with her,” one of the men said. “In fact, the chat is about her.”

TWELVE

MALONE WAITED WITH EDWIN DAVIS INSIDE AIR FORCE ONE and watched the spectacle below. The press had been allowed onto the asphalt and were now crowded ten-deep behind a hastily erected rope barricade, cameras pointed toward a crop of microphones that sprouted before Danny Daniels. The president stood tall, his baritone voice booming to the world.

“What did he mean that we have a problem?” Malone asked Davis.

“The past few months have actually been a little boring. The last year or so of a president’s second term is like the last few months of a pope’s life. Everybody’s waiting for the old guy to exit so the new guys can take over.” Davis pointed at the press. “Now there’s something to report.”

They crowded close to one of the plane’s windows, out of sight. A television to their right displayed what was being broadcast by CNN, the volume just high enough for Malone to hear Daniels reassure everyone that he was unhurt.

“You’re not answering the question.”

Davis pointed out the window. “He asked me to hold any explanations until he was finished.”

“You always do as he says?”

“Hardly. As you well know.”

Malone turned toward the monitor and heard Daniels proclaim, “Let me say emphatically that I think the Secret Service and the law enforcement agents of New York City did a superb job, and I want to thank them for everything they did during this unfortunate incident. This was to be a personal trip to honor an old friend. This incident, under no circumstances, will prevent me from traveling throughout America and the world. It is regrettable that individuals still think murder or assassination is a way to effect change.”

“Mr. President,” one of the reporters shouted, “can you give us an idea what you saw or felt at the time?”

“I’m not sure that I ought to describe what I saw beyond the fact that the window shattered and a metal device appeared. I then saw the quick and effective actions taken by the Secret Service.”

“Your own thoughts, sir?”

“I was thankful to the Secret Service for doing a superb job.”

“You used the word individuals a moment ago when referring to the assassination attempt. Who do you mean by that in the plural?”

“Do any of you believe that one person manufactured all that hardware?”

“Do you have specific individuals in mind?”

“That will be the focus of an intense investigation, which is starting as we speak.”

Davis pointed at the flat screen. “He has to be careful. Just enough to send a message.”

“What the hell is going on?” he asked.

Davis did not answer. This punctilious man, with a knife-edge press to his trousers, simply stared at the television screen as Daniels retreated from the microphones and his press secretary fielded more questions. The president climbed the stairs back into the plane, camera lens following. In a few moments he would reenter through the door a few feet away.

“It’s Stephanie,” Davis whispered. “She’s the one who needs our help.”

CASSIOPEIA SAT IN THE REAR SEAT OF AN SUV, ONE AGENT BESIDE her, two more up front. They’d allowed her to dress, then to pack both her and Cotton’s belongings, bringing everything with them.

Apparently, they were going somewhere.

They’d left the St. Regis quietly and driven unescorted out of Manhattan, across the East River into Queens. No one had said a word, and she hadn’t asked anything.

No need.

The car radio told the story.

Someone had tried to assassinate Danny Daniels, and the president had just appeared before the press to assure everyone that he’d escaped unharmed. Cotton was somehow involved, and she wondered if this was what Stephanie Nelle had wanted to see him about.

Stephanie and Cotton were close-friends for fifteen years. He’d worked for her a dozen of those years at the Magellan Billet, a covert intelligence unit wit

hin the U.S. Justice Department. Cotton had been a navy commander, trained as both a pilot and a lawyer, personally recruited by Stephanie. While there, he’d handled some of her most sensitive assignments until retiring early three years ago. That’s when he’d moved to Copenhagen and opened an old-book shop.

She hoped Cotton was okay.

They’d both thought the email from Stephanie strange but ignored the warning signs. A weekend in New York had simply sounded like fun. Unfortunately, she wasn’t wearing her black Armani in a crowded theater. Instead she was in federal custody being driven who knew where.

Her long dark hair was still damp, curling as it dried. She wore no makeup, but rarely did anyway. She’d chosen a smart ensemble of brown leather trousers, a camel-colored cashmere shirt, and a double-breasted camel-hair blazer. Vanity had never been a weakness, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t conscious of her appearance.

“Sorry about the kick,” she said to the agent sitting beside her. He’d been the one to first rush into the apartment.

He acknowledged the apology with a nod but kept his thoughts to himself. She realized prisoners rarely had luggage brought with them to jail. Apparently, after her identity had been discovered, new instructions had been provided.

Up ahead she spotted the grand expanse of John F. Kennedy International Airport. They motored through an open gate and she caught sight of Air Force One parked on the tarmac. A swarm of people were being led away from the plane.

“We’ll wait until the press clears,” the agent in the front seat said.

“Then what?” she asked.

“You’re going on board.”

THIRTEEN

PAMLICO RIVER, NORTH CAROLINA

HALE CONTINUED TO WATCH THE TELEVISION COVERAGE. ADVENTURE was less than thirty minutes from home. They’d slowed to a crawl respecting the fact that the Pamlico, for all its vastness, was little more than twenty feet deep at best. He recalled what his grandfather had told him about the channel markers-once merely cedar saplings, they were routinely moved by the local pilots to encourage visiting boat captains to hire them. Thank God the days of tacking inland from the sand banks, dodging shoals that had not existed the day before, were over. Engines made quite the difference. He’d muted the TV and was listening to the slap-slap of the river’s flow against the ship’s smooth hull.