The Jefferson Key (Cotton Malone 7)

Not the outdoor type, Wyatt concluded.

“I’m not a night person,” Voccio said as they shook hands. “But the NIA’s paying the bill, and we aim to please. So I waited.”

“I need everything you have.”

“That cipher was a tough one. It took nearly two months for our computers to crack the thing. And even then, it was a little luck that did the trick.”

He wasn’t interested in details. Instead he stepped across the cluttered office to the plate-glass windows, which offered a view of the front parking lot, wet asphalt glistening beneath the sodium vapor lights.

“Something wrong?” Voccio asked.

That remained to be seen. He kept his eyes out the window.

Headlights appeared.

A car turned from the entrance lane, wheeled into the vacant lot, and parked.

A man emerged.

Cotton Malone.

Carbonell had been right.

Another car materialized from his left. No headlights. Speeding straight for Malone.

Shots were fired.

HALE LISTENED TO ANDREA CARBONELL. HER TONE WAS NOT THAT of someone cornered, more the frivolity of somebody genuinely bemused.

“You realize,” he said, “that I can easily turn Stephanie Nelle loose after I make some arrangements with her. She is, after all, the head of a respected intelligence agency.”

“You’ll find her difficult to work with.”

“More than you?”

“Quentin, only I control the key to the cipher.”

“I have no idea if that is true. You’ve already lied to us once.”

“The mishap with Knox? I was simply hedging the bet. Okay. You won that round. How about this. I’ll provide the key to you. And once you find those missing two pages, then we’ll both be in a better position to negotiate.”

“I assume that, in return, you would want what I have stored eliminated?”

“As if that’s a problem for you.”

“I’m not immune to that particular charge, even if I find the missing pages.” He knew she was aware that the letter of marque did not protect against willful murder.

“That hasn’t seemed to bother you in the past, and there’s a man at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean who would agree with me.”

Her comment caught him off guard, then he realized. “Your informant?”

“Spies do come in handy.”

But she’d tossed him a bone. He now knew where to look. And she knew what he’d do.

“Cleaning up loose ends?” he asked.

She laughed. “Let’s just say I can be quite generous when I want to be. Call it a demonstration of my good faith.”

The hell with Stephanie Nelle. Maybe she was more valuable dead. “Give me the key. Once I have those two pages in hand, your problem will go away.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

WHITE HOUSE

CASSIOPEIA ENTERED A CASUAL SPACE ADJACENT TO THE PRESIDENTIAL

master bedroom, the room decorated as a cozy den. Perched on a settee, upholstered in a bright chintz print, sat Pauline Daniels.

The female Secret Service agent outside had closed the door behind her.

They were alone.

The First Lady’s dull blond hair fell in wisps over dainty ears and a short brow. Her features cast a more youthful appearance than the early to midsixties she had to be. Octagonal glasses without rims fronted attractive blue eyes. She sat in an unnatural pose, back straight, veined hands folded in her lap, wearing a conservative wool suit and flat-soled Chanel ballet slippers.

“I understand you want to question me,” Mrs. Daniels said.

“I’d prefer we just talk.”

“And who are you?”

She caught the defensive edge in the question. “Someone who doesn’t want to be here.”

“That makes two of us.”

The First Lady motioned and Cassiopeia sat in a chair facing the sofa, two meters separating them, like some sort of demilitarized zone. This was uncomfortable on a multitude of levels, not the least of which was what Edwin Davis had just told her about Mary Daniels.

She introduced herself, then asked, “Where were you when the attempt on the president’s life happened?”

The older woman stared down at the rug on the wood floor. “You make it sound so impersonal. He’s my husband.”

“I have to ask the question, and you know that.”

“Here. Danny went to New York without me. He said he’d only bea few hours. Home by midnight. I didn’t think a thing about it.”

The voice remained distant, far off.

“What was your reaction when you heard?”

The First Lady glanced up, her blue eyes focused. “What you’re really asking is, was I glad?”

She wondered about the bluntness, searching her memory, recalling nothing in the press about any animosity, whether perceived or real, between the first couple. Their marriage had always been regarded as strong. But if this was the direction the woman wanted to go, then, “Were you glad?”

“I didn’t know what to think, especially during those first few minutes after it happened, before we were told he was okay. My thoughts were… confused.”

An uneasy silence passed between them.

“You know, don’t you?” the older woman asked her. “About Mary.”

She nodded.

The face remained frozen, a mask of indifference. “I never forgave him.”

“Why did you stay?”

“He’s my husband. I swore for better or worse. My mother taught me those words meant something.” The First Lady sucked in a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “What you really want to know is, did I tell anyone about the trip to New York.”

She waited.

“Yes. I did.”

MALONE DOVE BEHIND HIS PARKED CAR AND REACHED FOR THE

semi-automatic the Secret Service had provided. He’d expected something, but not necessarily t

his fast. The car speeding toward him slowed as the gun projecting from the open window fired three rounds. The weapon was sound-suppressed, the shots popping more like those of a cap pistol than the bangs of a high-caliber weapon.

The car wheeled to a stop fifty yards away.

Two men emerged, one from the driver’s side, the other from the rear passenger door. Both armed. He decided not to give anyone time to think and shot the man closest to him in the thigh. The body dropped to the ground, his victim crying out in pain. The other man reacted, assuming a defensive position behind the vehicle.

The rain quickened, drops stinging his face.

He glanced around to see if there were any more threats and spotted none.

So instead of aiming for the man with the gun, he pointed his weapon at the open driver’s-side door and fired into the car.

HALE HUNG UP THE PHONE. OF COURSE, HE DID NOT BELIEVE A word Andrea Carbonell had said. She was buying time.

But so was he.

He was bothered by the fact that she knew about the earlier murder at sea. There was indeed a spy among them.

Which had to be dealt with.

He mentally assessed Adventure’s crew. Many of them performed other tasks around the estate, some in the metallurgy workshop where Knox had surely fashioned his remote-controlled weapons. Each man derived a designated share of the Commonwealth’s annual spoils, and it pained him to think that one of them had betrayed the company.

Justice must be done.

The Articles provided an accused a trial before his peers with the quartermaster presiding and crewmen, captains included, serving as jury. A simple majority vote would determine his fate, and if he was found guilty, the punishment was not in doubt.

Death.

Slow and painful.

He recalled what his father had told him about a convicted traitor from decades ago. They’d resorted to the old ways. About a hundred of the crew assembled to deliver one blow each from a cat-o’-nine-tails. But only half were able to inflict the punishment before the man died.

He decided not to wait for the quartermaster.

Though it was approaching midnight, he knew his secretary was down the hall. Never would he retire before Hale.