The Jefferson Key (Cotton Malone 7)
“What was I to do?” his accountant begged. “The bank caved.”
United Bank of Switzerland had indeed yielded to American pressure and finally, for the first time, allowed more than fifty thousand accounts to be subject to foreign subpoenas. Of course, threats of criminal prosecution to the bank’s U.S. executives had made that decision easy. And what his accountant said was true. He’d checked. Only UBS records had been seized. No accounts in the other seven countries had been touched.
“I had no choice. For God’s sake, Quentin. What did you want me to do?”
“I wanted you to keep to the Articles.”
From the sloop’s crew to his house staff to the estate keepers to himself, the Articles were what bound them together.
“You swore an oath and gave your word,” he called out from the railing. “You signed them.”
Which was meant to ensure loyalty. Occasionally, though, violations occurred and were dealt with. Like today.
He glanced out again at the blue-gray water. Adventure had caught a stiff southeastern breeze. They were fifty miles offshore, headed south, back from Virginia. The DynaRig system was performing perfectly. Fifteen square sails formed the modern version of the once-square rigger, the difference being that now the yards did not swing around a fixed mast. Instead, they were permanently attached, the masts rotating with the wind. No crewmen had to brave the heights and release the rigging. Technology stored the sails inside the mast and unfurled them by electric motor in less than six minutes. Computers controlled every angle, keeping the sails full.
He savored the salt air and cleared his brain.
“Tell me this,” he called out.
“Anything, Quentin. Just get me out of this cage.”
“The ledger. Did you speak of that?”
The man’s head shook. “Not a word. Nothing. They seized UBS records and never mentioned the ledger.”
“Is it safe?”
“Where we keep it. Always. Just you and me. We’re the only ones who know.”
He believed him. Not a word had so far been mentioned of the ledger, which relieved some of his anxiety.
But not all.
The storms he was about to face would be far worse than the squall he spotted brewing off to the east. The entire weight of the U.S. intelligence community, along with the Internal Revenue Service and the Justice Department, was bearing down upon him. Not unlike what his ancestors had faced when kings, queens, and presidents dispatched whole navies to hunt down the sloops and hang their captains.
He turned back to the pitiful man in the iron cage and stepped close.
“Please, Quentin. I’m begging you. Don’t do this.” The voice was racked by sobs. “I’ve never asked about the business. Never cared. I just kept the ledger. Like my dad. And his. I never touched a penny that wasn’t mine. We never have.”
No, his family hadn’t.
But Article 6 was clear.
If any Man shall violate the Company as a Whole he shall be shot.
Never had the Commonwealth faced something this threatening. If only he could find the key and solve the cipher. That would end it all and make what he was about to do unnecessary. Unfortunately, a captain’s duty sometimes entailed ordering unpleasant things.
He gestured and three men hoisted the gibbet, hauling it toward the railing.
The bound man screamed, “Don’t do this, please. I thought I knew you. I thought we were friends. Why are you acting like some damn pirate?”
The three men hesitated a moment, waiting for his signal.
He nodded.
The cage was tossed overboard and the sea devoured the offering.
The crew returned to their posts.
He stood alone on the deck, his face washed by the breeze, and considered the man’s final insult.
Acting like some damn pirate.
Sea monsters, hellhounds, robbers, opposers, corsairs, buccaneers, violators of all laws human and divine, devils incarnate, children of the wicked one.
All labels for pirates.
Was he one of them?
“If that’s what they think of me,” he whispered, “then why not?”
THREE
NEW YORK CITY
JONATHAN WYATT WATCHED THE SCENE UNFOLD. HE SAT ALONE at a window table in the Grand Hyatt’s New York Central restaurant, a glass-atrium eatery that offered an unobstructed view of East 42nd Street two stories below. He’d caught the moment when traffic was stopped, the sidewalks cleared, and the presidential motorcade arrived at Cipriani. He’d heard a bang from above, then the crash of glass to the sidewalk. When shots started he knew that the device had begun working.
He’d chosen this table with care and noticed that two men nearby had done the same. Secret Service agents, who’d commandeered the far end of the restaurant, assuming a position at the windows, their view of the scene below also unimpaired. Both men were wired with radios and the serving staff had intentionally seated no one near them.
He knew their operating procedure.
Presidential security relied on a controlled-perimeter mentality, usually three layers starting with counter snipers on adjacent rooftops, ending with agents standing within a few feet of their charge. Bringing a president into the congestion of a place like New York City posed extraordinary challenges. Buildings everywhere, each a sea of windows, topped by open roofs. The Grand Hyatt seemed a perfect example. Twenty-plus stories and two towers of glass walls.
Down on the street agents reacted to the shots, leaping onto Danny Daniels, implementing another time-honored practice-“cover and evacuate.” Of course, the automated weapon had been positioned high enough to shoot over any vehicles, and he watched policemen and the remaining agents dive left and right, trying to avoid the rounds.
Had Daniels been hit? Hard to say.
He watched as the two agents, standing fifty feet away, reacted to the melee, doing their job, acting as eyes and ears, clearly frustrated they were so far away. He knew the men on the street carried radios with earpieces. They’d all been trained. Unfortunately, reality rarely resembled scenarios enacted at an instructional facility. This was a perfect example. An automated, remote-controlled weapon directed by closed-circuit TV? Bet they hadn’t seen that one before.
Thirty other patrons filled the restaurant, and everyone’s attention was directed toward the street.
More retorts echoed off the buildings.
The president was shoved back into his limousine.
Cadillac One-or as the Secret Service referred to it, the Beast-sported military-grade armor, five inches thick, and wheels fitted to run even on dead flat tires. Three hundred thousand dollars of General Motors ingenuity. He knew that, since Dallas in 1963, the car was always flown to wherever the president required ground transportation. It had arrived by military transport three hours ago at JFK, waiting on the tarmac for Air Force One to touch down. Breaking with procedure, no other vehicles had been flown in. Usually several support cars came along.
He cut a glance at the two antsy agents, who held their position.
Not to worry, he thought. Soon you’ll both join the fray.
He returned his attention to his dinner, a delicious Cobb salad. His stomach bubbled with anxiety. He’d waited a long time for this. Camp by the riverside. Advice he’d received years ago-and as true as ever. If you waited by the river long enough, eventually your enemies would float by.
He savored another tangy bite of salad and washed it down with a sweet red wine. A pleasant aftertaste of fruit and wood lingered. He supposed he should show some interest in what was happening, but no one was paying him the slightest attention. And why would they? The president of the United States was under fire and the shocked people around him had a ringside seat. Several of them would shortly find themselves on CNN or Fox News, becoming, for a few precious moments, celebrities. They should actually thank him for the opportunity.
The two agents’ voices rose.
He glanced out the wind
ow as Cadillac One roared from the curb.
The defenders in front of Cipriani sprang to their feet, pointing upward, toward the Grand Hyatt.
Guns appeared.
Aims were steadied.
Shots were fired.
He smiled.
Cotton Malone had apparently done exactly what Wyatt thought he would do.
Too bad for Malone things were about to get worse.
MALONE HEARD BULLETS PING OFF GLASS PANELS TO HIS LEFT and right. The aluminum bronco he straddled was still firing. He yanked the mechanism again, but internal gears whirled the gun barrel back toward its target.
He should retreat inside.
Daniels was in the car and about to speed away. Calling out would be useless. No one would hear him over the gunshots and the discordant wail of New York’s street opera.