The Jefferson Key (Cotton Malone 7)

“You worked the wheel and know the location, don’t you?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Can you get those two missing pages?”

“I’m the only person on the planet who can.”

He realized the unique position he presently found himself in. Standing here, holding the one thing in the world that this woman needed more than anything else. With it she could find the missing two congressional pages and complete whatever scheme she’d devised. Without it, she was no better off than anyone else.

He slammed the nylon bag to the pavement and heard two-hundred-year-old wooden disks shatter.

“You can glue them back together. Should take a week or so. Good luck.”

And he walked toward the SUV.

KNOX LOCKED HIS EYES ON THE BODY OF QUENTIN HALE, LYING on the floor. Neither Surcouf nor Cogburn had moved.

Bolton stared with visible relief, before saying, “Good riddance.”

One glass remained on the table.

The victor reached for it. “Hales are the reason we’re in this mess, and they never would have gotten us out. I say we use that woman in the prison to our advantage and make a bargain.”

“Like that’s going to work,” Cogburn said.

“You got a better idea, Charles?” Bolton asked. “Do you, John? How about you, Quartermaster?”

But Knox could not have cared less about them. He wanted only to save himself, and now more than ever. These men were not simply reckless, they were idiotic. None of them paid attention to anything.

Bolton lifted the final glass in a toast. “To our fallen captain. May he enjoy hell.”

Knox lunged forward and slapped the whiskey from Bolton’s fingers. The glass rattled across the wood floor, its contents scattering.

Bolton stared at him in shock. “What the hell-”

“Dammit, Clifford,” Hale said, rising from the floor.

Shock invaded the three captains’ faces.

“I had him right where I wanted him,” Hale said. “He would have drunk himself straight to death.”

Bolton was visibly shaken.

“That’s right, Edward,” Hale said. “Another second and you would have been dead.”

“You cheating bastard,” Bolton spat out.

“Me? Cheating? Tell me. If I had not faked dying, would you have drunk the last glass, knowing it contained the poison?”

Which would have been expected by the others to complete the challenge. Of course, if the final glass was the one with the poison, the captain faced with the choice of drinking could always withdraw, thereby declaring the other the winner.

“I need to know, Edward. Would you?”

Silence.

Hale chuckled. “Just what I thought. I wasn’t cheating. I was merely helping you along a path you never would have taken.”

Knox had immediately realized Hale was not dead. The way he’d reacted to the poison was atypical. He’d used the substance enough to know precisely how it affected the human body, Scott Parrott being the latest example just a few hours ago.

Hale glared at his three compatriots. “I do not want to hear another word out of any of you. Do not screw with me anymore.”

None of them spoke.

Knox was pleased on two counts.

First, Edward Bolton knew that he’d just saved his life. Second, so did the other two captains.

Both should definitely count for something.

FIFTY-TWO

MONTICELLO

MALONE ENTERED THE GRIFFIN DISCOVERY ROOM, LOCATED on the ground floor of the visitor center. The curator had explained that the facility was designed as a hands-on activity center for children, intended to teach them about the estate, Jefferson, and life in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. Scattered about the organized space was a reproduction of the estate, a facsimile of Jefferson’s alcove bed, a nail-making shop, a slave dwelling, a weaver’s studio, an exhibit that allowed the wielding of a blacksmith’s hammer, and a duplicate of Jefferson’s polygraph machine. Several children, their parents watching, enjoyed the self-directed activities.

“This place is popular,” the curator told him.

Cassiopeia, Edwin Davis, and the estate manager had come, too.

He spotted the replicated wheel. Three kids were spinning its tan-colored disks.

“It’s made of resin,” the curator said. “The original is far more fragile. Those disks are carved wood, over two hundred years old, about a quarter inch thick, and crack easily.”

He caught the concern in her voice. “I’m sure the thief is going to be careful.”

At least until he deciphers the message, he silently added.

The kids fled the wheel exhibit heading for something new. Malone walked over and examined the twenty-six disks threaded onto a metal rod. On the edge of each were black letters, separated by black lines.

“Do you have the sequence written down?” the curator asked.

“He doesn’t need it,” Cassiopeia said, adding a smile.

No, he didn’t.

His eidetic brain rattled them off.

GYUOINESCVOQXWJTZPKLDEMFHR

He spun the disks, assembling them in the correct order.

WYATT KEPT WALKING TOWARD THE CAR.

“I knew you’d read the message,” she called out.

He stopped and turned.

She stood in the sun, her face a mask. The nylon bag remained on the asphalt. He realized that her calculating brain had rattled through the options and quickly determined that there was no play left, except to deal with him. Destroying the disks had ensured his safety, since now only he knew the location.

She walked toward him and kept coming, stopping only when she was inches away. “Triple your fee. One-half deposited within the next two hours in the bank of your choice. The remaining part when you deliver the two documents to me intact.”

There was the obvious. “You realize the Commonwealth would pay far more for them.”

“Of course. But, like this morning, you apparently need something only I can provide. That’s why you’re talking with me right now instead a driving away in your new SUV.”

She was right. In order to do as Andrew Jackson directed he required a few items and had no time to procure them himself. “I need a clean passport.”

“And where would you be going?”

Since he doubted he could shield his movements from her anyway, he told her about Paw Island, Nova Scotia, then made clear, “Only you and I know this location. So only you and I can tell someone else.”

“Your way of keeping me honest?”

“If anyone else appears there, whatever I find goes up in flames. And you and the Commonwealth can go to hell.”

“This your way of showing that you’re better than me?”

He shook his head. “It’s just my way.”

She tossed him an understanding grin. “That’s what I like about you, Jonathan. You know exactly what you want. Okay. We’ll do this your way.”

CASSIOPEIA GLANCED OVER COTTON’S SHOULDER AS HE ARRANGED the disks. She and Edwin Davis had never finished their conversation, and there was much still to be said, but it would have to wait. And to think that she’d flown to New York simply to have a romantic weekend. Now she was embroiled in a true sticky wicket. She smiled at the phrase, one her father liked to use. He’d loved cricket, sponsoring several Spanish national teams. Sport

s had been important to him. Unfortunately, she hadn’t inherited his passion. But this was one sticky wicket, and just as hard crust atop wet soil caused a cricket ball to bounce in any direction, the same was true here. Lots of secrets, egos, and personalities. Not to mention the fact that two of the players were among the best-known people on the planet.

Cotton finished his task and said, “Those five symbols at the end of Jackson’s message are not on these disks. So they must be part of something else.”

He held all twenty-six disks in place and rotated them as a unit.

“There it is,” he said.

She focused on the black letters. One row, all the way across, formed words connected without spaces.

PAWISLANDMAHONEBAYDOMINION

“We need a computer,” Cotton said.

The curator led them to an office off the exhibit room where a desktop waited. Cassiopeia decided to do the honors and typed PAW

ISLAND, MAHONE BAY.

The screen filled with sites. She selected one.

Mahone Bay was located at 44°30?N, 64°15?W, just off the coast of Nova Scotia, a respectable body of water that opened to the Atlantic Ocean. Named after the French mahonne, which was a type of boat once used by the locals. Dotted with nearly 400 islands, the most famous of which was Oak Island, where for more than two hundred years treasure hunters had excavated a deep pit into the bedrock, searching to no avail for gold. Paw Island was south of Oak, upon which lay a British fort, long abandoned, once called Dominion.

“Jackson chose his site with care,” Cotton said. “That’s about as out of the way as you can get. But it’s appropriate. That area has long been associated with piracy. It was a haven for pirates in the 18th century.” He faced Davis. “I’m going.”

“I agree. It’s the best thing for Stephanie. We need those pages.”