The Jefferson Key (Cotton Malone 7)

“The U.S. government cannot sanction your breaking the law,” Davis said to him.

“That’s what privateers do. We pillage the enemy with the blessing of the government.”

“Two hundred years ago, perhaps.”

“Little has changed. Threats still remain. Perhaps more so today than ever. We have done nothing but support this nation. Every effort of the Commonwealth has been directed toward thwarting our enemies. Now we are to be prosecuted?”

“I’m aware of your problem,” Davis said.

“Then you know our dilemma.”

“I know that the intelligence people are fed up with you. What you did in Dubai almost brought the entire region crashing down.”

“What we did was frustrate our enemies, attacking them when and where they were most vulnerable.”

“They are not our enemies.”

“That’s a matter of debate.”

“Mr. Hale. If you’d kept on there and bankrupted Dubai, which was a real possibility, the repercussions would have disrupted this nation’s entire Middle East policy. The loss of such a key ally in that region would have been devastating. We have so few friends over there. It would have taken decades to cultivate another relationship like that one. What you were doing was counterproductive to anything reasonable and logical.”

“They are not our friends, and you know it.”

“Maybe so. But Dubai needs us, and we need them. So we put aside our differences and work together.”

“Why not do the same relative to us?”

“Frankly, Mr. Hale, your situation is not something the White House cares about one way or the other.”

“You should. The first president and the second Congress of this country legally granted us the authority to act, so long as it was directed toward our enemies.”

“With one problem,” Davis said. “The legal authority for your letter of marque does not exist. Even if we wanted to honor it, that could prove impossible. There is no written reference in the congressional journals for that session addressing them. Two pages are missing, which I believe you are well aware of. Their location is guarded by Jefferson’s cipher. I read Andrew Jackson’s letter to your great-great-grandfather.”

“Am I to assume that if we solve the cipher and find those missing pages, the president will honor the letter?”

“You can assume that your legal position will be much stronger since, as of now, you don’t have one.”

“Gentlemen,” he said to the other three. “I am reminded of a story my grandfather once told me. A British merchant ship spotted a vessel on the horizon, its identity and intentions unknown. They watched for the better part of an hour as it bore down upon them. As it approached the captain asked his crew if they would stand and defend the ship. ‘If they be Spaniards,’ the crew said, ‘we will fight. But if they be pirates we will not.’ Once they learned that it was Black Beard himself, they all quit the ship, believing they would be murdered.”

The other three stared at him.

“It is time to raise our flag. To let our enemy know that we are bearing down upon them.”

“Why are you so smug?” Cogburn asked. “What have you done?”

Hale smiled.

Charles knew him well.

“Perhaps enough to save us all.”

TWENTY-ONE

NEW YORK CITY

KNOX ENTERED THE HELMSLEY PARK LANE, THE UPSCALE HOTEL located at the south end of Central Park. Though he possessed a key, he did not know which room it opened. That was the thing about plastic cards. No information. He stepped across the lobby to the front desk. There a bright-eyed woman in her early twenties asked if she could be of help.

“Scott Parrott, checking out,” he said to her, adding a smile and handing her the key.

He was hoping Parrott had not made himself noticeable. If by chance the woman knew Parrott, he was ready with a cover story. I’m the one paying the bill. Scott works for me. But not a word was uttered as she pounded computer keys and printed out a bill.

“Leaving a day early?” she said.

He nodded. “Necessary.”

She plucked a page from the printer and handed it to him. He pretended to peruse the statement, focusing only on the room number.

“Oh, no,” he said. “I just realized I left something upstairs. I’ll be right back. Hold this for me.”

He thanked her and headed for the elevators, riding an empty car to the fifth floor. There he inserted the key card and opened the door. Inside was a spacious suite with an unmade king-sized bed. Picture windows consumed the south wall and offered an impressive view of Central Park’s colorful treetops, hinting at their autumn glory to come, along with the buildings of the Upper West Side.

His gaze raked the decor until he found the laptop on the desk. He stepped over and yanked the power cord from the wall socket.

“And who are you?” a female voice said.

He turned.

A woman stood inside the bathroom doorway. She was short, petite, with straight brown hair, wearing jeans and a sweater.

Her right hand held a revolver.

“Scott sent me to get the computer.”

“That all you got? Or the best you could do on short notice?”

He shrugged, gesturing with the laptop in his grasp. “Best I could do.”

“Where’s Scott?”

“Now, is that all you have?”

“I don’t know, Knox. I seem to be the one with the gun, so answer the question.”

Just what he needed-another problem. Hadn’t he had enough of those for one day. But his suspicions were now confirmed.

This was a trap.

Still, he’d been forced to take the chance.

She advanced farther into the room, keeping her gun trained on him. She reached into her back pocket and found a cellphone. One push of a button and she said, “Our pirate has arrived.”

This just kept getting better.

She stood too far away, maybe ten feet, for him to do anything that would not get him shot. He noticed that her weapon was sound-suppressed. Obviously, the NIA wanted minimum attention drawn to this effort, which might work to his advantage. He had to do something, and fast, since he did not know how far away that assistance was located.

She tossed the phone aside.

“The laptop,” she said. “Toss it on the bed.”

He nodded his assent and started to lob it onto the mattress. At the last second he propelled the device straight at her, spinning it across the room.

She dodged and he lunged, kicking the gun from her grasp. She spun, raised her arms, and attacked. He slammed his right fist into her face, driving her onto the bed. Dazed from the blow, she reached for her bloody nose.

He found the gun on the carpet.

Finger on the trigger, he grabbed a pillow from the bed, pressed the gun into one side, the other onto her head, and fired once.

She stopped moving.

The pillow had muffled the sound-suppressed report to almost nothing.

Dammit. Killing was not something he enjoyed doing. But he hadn’t set this foolish trap.

He tossed the pillow aside.

Think.

He’d touched only the laptop, its power cord, and the door handle.

He retrieved the computer from the floor. It had landed on one of the upholstered chairs and seemed okay. He would keep the gun. He found a washcloth in the bathroom and opened the exit door with it, then wiped the knob on both sides. He stuffed the cloth in his pocket and headed for the elevators.

He turned the corner just as a sound announced the arrival of a car.

Two men stepped off, both young and clean-cut. Surely the radioed assistance. He casually brushed past, never giving them a second glance. It would take them less than a minute to discover the body and begin their pursuit. He wasn’t necessarily worried about these two, but the ones they could radio would be a problem.