The Jefferson Key (Cotton Malone 7)

“Nobody gives a damn that you have me,” he was told.

“I’m not so sure about that. They don’t, as yet, realize the danger you’re in.”

“I’m expendable.”

“Caesar was once captured by Sicilian pirates,” he said. “They demanded a ransom of 25 gold talents. He thought himself worth more and demanded they raise the ransom to 50, which was paid. After he was freed, he hunted his captors down and slaughtered them to a man.” He paused. “How much do you think you are worth?”

Spit flew through the bars and splattered on his face.

He closed his eyes as he slowly reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped it away.

“Stick it up your ass,” his captive said to him.

He reached into his other pocket and found his lighter, plated with German silver and engraved with his name, a gift from his children two Christmases ago. He ignited the handkerchief and tossed the flaming cloth through the bars, straight at his prisoner.

Stephanie Nelle reeled back and allowed the burning bundle to drop to the floor where she extinguished it with her shoe, never taking her gaze off him.

He’d snatched her as a favor for someone else, but over the past couple of days, he’d been thinking how to make use of her for his own purposes. She might even become expendable if Knox’s news from New York-that the cipher may be solved-proved true.

Considering what just happened he hoped that was the case.

“I assure you,” he said to her. “You will regret what you just did.”

SIXTEEN

MALONE HELD TIGHT IN HIS CHAIR AS AIR FORCE ONE ROSE from the runway and vectored south back to Washington, DC. Everyone still occupied the conference room.

“Tough day at the office, dear?” Cassiopeia asked him.

He caught the playful look in her eyes. Any other woman would be highly irritated at the moment, but Cassiopeia handled the unexpected better than any person he’d ever known. Cool, calculated, focused. He still recalled the first time they’d encountered each other-in France, at Rennes-le-Chateau, one dark night when she’d taken a shot at him then sped away on a motorcycle.

“Just the usual,” he said. “Wrong place, right time.”

She smiled. “You missed out on a great dress.”

She’d told him before he left the hotel about the stop at Bergdorf Goodman. He’d been looking forward to seeing her purchase.

“Sorry about our date,” he told her again.

She shrugged. “Look where we ended up.”

“It’s good to finally meet you,” Edwin Davis said to Cassiopeia. “We missed each other in Europe.”

“This trip to New York was a lark,” Danny Daniels said. “Or as much of a lark as a president is allowed to have.”

Malone listened as Daniels explained how a close friend and lifetime supporter was having a retirement gathering. Daniels had been invited but had not decided to attend until a couple of months ago. No one outside the White House was told of the journey until yesterday, and the press was informed only that the president would be visiting New York. No location, time, or extent of the visit had been provided. Once inside Cipriani, attendees would have passed through a metal detector. By not forewarning anyone, and keeping even the press in the dark until the last minute, the Secret Service thought they had the trip reasonably secure.

“It’s always the same,” Daniels said. “Every assassination, or attempted one, happened because of screwups. Lincoln, McKinley, and Garfield had no guards. Just walk right up and shoot ’em. Kennedy’s protection was waved off for political reasons. They wanted him as close to the people as possible. So they announced that he’d be parading down a crowded street in an open car. ‘Come on out and see the president.’ ” Daniels shook his head. “Reagan took a bullet solely because his layers of protection broke down. Always some screwup. This time it was mine.”

Malone was surprised to hear the admission.

“I insisted on the trip. Told everyone it would be fine. They took some precautions, and wanted to take more. But I said no.”

The plane leveled off from its climb. Malone popped his ears to the altitude.

“When you decided to go,” Cassiopeia said. “Who knew?”

“Not enough people,” Daniels said.

Malone thought the response curious.

“How did you get into that hotel room?” the president asked him.

He explained about Stephanie’s email, the key card waiting for him at the St. Regis, and what he found. Cassiopeia was handed the note from the envelope, which she read.

Daniels motioned to Davis, who produced a pocket tape recorder and slid it across the table.

“This is a recording of secured radio traffic, after the shooting, while you were trying to get out of the Hyatt,” Davis said.

Daniels activated the unit.

Alert to all agents. Suspect is wearing pale blue buttondown shirt, light trousers, no jacket at this time, presently exiting Grand Hyatt hotel from main lobby into tunnel that accesses Grand Central Terminal. I’m headed in that direction.

The president stopped the machine.

“There’s no way anyone could have known that,” Malone said.

“None of our agents posted that alert,” Davis said. “And as you know, those frequencies are not available to the general public.”

“You recognize the voice?” Daniels asked.

“Hard to say. The static and the radio mask a lot. But there is something familiar about it.”

“Seems you have an admirer,” Cassiopeia said.

“And you were set up,” Daniels made clear. “Just like we were.”

WYATT WAS DRIVEN PAST COLUMBUS CIRCLE TO MANHATTAN’S Upper West Side, an area less commercial, less congested, and loaded with quaint shops and brick-faced apartments. He was escorted to the second floor of one of the many brick buildings and into a spacious dwelling, sparsely decorated, wooden blinds covering the windows. He assumed it was some sort of safe house.

Two men waited for him.

Both deputy directors-one for the CIA, the other NSA. The National Security Agency face he knew, the other he simply recognized. Neither man seemed glad to see him. He was left alone with them, as the two who brought him waited outside in the elevator foyer.

“You want to tell us what you were doing today?” CIA asked. “How you happened to be at the Grand Hyatt?”

He hated anything and everything related to CIA. He’d only worked for them, on occasion, because they paid well.

“Who says I was there?”

CIA was antsy, pacing the room. “Don’t screw with us, Wyatt. You were there. Why?”

Interesting that these two clearly knew at least some of his business.

“You responsible for Malone showing up?” NSA asked.

“Why would you think that?”

CIA produced a pocket tape recorder and flicked it on. He heard his voice, over the radio, informing the Secret Service about Malone heading for Grand Central Station.

“I’ll ask you again. Was Malone your idea?”

“Seems it was fortunate he was there.”

“And what if he’d failed to stop things?” NSA asked.

He gave them the same response he’d provided Carbonell. “He didn’t.” And he wasn’t about to explain anything more to these idiots. But he was curious. “Why didn’t you stop things? You were obviously there.”

“We didn’t know spit,” CIA hollered back. “We’ve been playing catch-up all day.”