The Jefferson Key (Cotton Malone 7)

She stepped toward the door but stopped and turned back. There was one other matter that the First Lady and Davis had ignored.

“Your husband said something to me once. ‘Don’t cut the dog’s tail off one inch at a time. If he’s going to howl, get it over with in one slice.’ I’d recommend you both follow that advice.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

BATH, NORTH CAROLINA

HALE LISTENED TO HIS FATHER, WHO WAS SPEAKING AGAIN OF THINGS he was hearing for the first time.

“James Garfield was the only sitting member of the U.S. House of Representatives to ever be elected president. He served eighteen years in Congress before moving to the White House.”

His father had told him about Lincoln’s and McKinley’s assassinations, but he’d never mentioned the one that had occurred in between.

“Garfield was a major general who resigned his military commission in the middle of the Civil War, after being elected to Congress in 1863. He was instrumental in pushing Lincoln to prosecute us. He hated the Commonwealth and everything we did. Which is strange, considering how hawkish he was.”

“But we also aided the South, didn’t we?”

His father nodded. “That we did. But how could we abandon them?”

His father started coughing. That was happening more and more of late. He was approaching eighty, and sixty years of heavy smoking and hard drinking had finally caught up with him. He was wasting away. The last will and testament was ready, all of its provisions reviewed by the lawyers and the children informed as to what was expected of them once he was gone. He’d provided for everyone with great generosity, as was expected of Hale patriarchs. Quentin, though, was the recipient of an additional private bequest, which only one Hale heir could receive.

Membership in the Commonwealth.

Which came with the house and land in Bath.

“When Lincoln died,” his father said, “the country fell into chaos. Political factions fought one another with no room for compromise. Andrew Johnson, who succeeded Lincoln, was caught up in this fighting and impeached. Corruption and scandal marred the federal government for decades. Garfield served in the House during this time. Finally, in 1880, he was chosen by the Republicans as a compromise candidate, selected at the party’s convention on the thirty-sixth ballot.”

His father shook his head.

“Just our luck. We fought against him in the general election. Spent time and money. Winfield Hancock ran for the Democrats and took every state south of the Mason Dixon line. Garfield claimed the North and Midwest. Nine million ballots were cast that November and Garfield beat Hancock by only 1,898 votes. That election remains the smallest margin of victory in all our history. They each also carried 19 states, but Garfield’s brought him 59 more electoral votes than Hancock and he won.”

His father told him what happened next.

Garfield was sworn in on March 4, 1881, and immediately began an investigation of the Commonwealth. He was intent on prosecuting all four principals, who were still alive sixteen years after the Civil War. He convened a special military court and handpicked its panel. The four captains had expected no less from him and used the time between the 1880 election and the March 1881 inauguration to prepare. Charles Guiteau, a deranged lawyer from Illinois who’d convinced himself that he alone had been responsible for Garfield’s election, was recruited. His personal requests for some type of government position after Garfield was sworn in had all been rejected. For months he roamed both the White House grounds and the State Department seeking his reward. He became so insidious that he was banned from those premises. Eventually, he became convinced that God had commanded him to kill the president. After money was provided he bought a. 44 Webley British Bulldog revolver, with an ivory handle, because he thought it would look better as a museum exhibit after the assassination.

He then stalked Garfield for the month of June 1881.

“Presidents then had no protection,” his father said. “They walked among the crowds just as anyone else. They used public transportation. Amazing, really, considering that, by then, one had already been slain. But we were still innocent.”

Finally, on July 2, 1881, Guiteau confronted Garfield at a Washington railroad station and shot him twice. Garfield’s two sons, Secretary of State James Blaine, and his Secretary of War, Robert Todd Lincoln, were eyewitnesses.

One bullet grazed the shoulder, but another lodged in his spine.

“The damn fool shot him at point-blank range and didn’t kill him,” his father said. “Garfield lingered eleven weeks before he died. Nine months later Guiteau was hanged.”

Hale smiled at another of the Commonwealth’s successes.

Bold and brilliant.

Guiteau had been the perfect choice. At his trial he recited epic poems and sang “John Brown’s Body.” He solicited legal advice from spectators and dictated his autobiography to The New York Herald. Even if he implicated anyone, nobody would have believed him.

Hale’s father had died three months after telling him about Garfield. The funeral had been a grand affair. The entire company had attended. Hale had been immediately inducted as captain.

Thirty years ago.

Men still spoke of his father in reverent terms. Now he was about to do what his father had never accomplished.

Find their salvation.

A knock on the study door interrupted his thoughts.

He glanced up from the chair to see his secretary, who said, “She’s on the line, sir.”

He reached for the phone, a landline, secured, checked daily.

“What is it, Andrea?”

“Wyatt is weather-delayed in Boston. His plane was returned to the terminal. I’m told he should leave within the next two hours. I assume your man is away.”

“Gone.”

“He should arrive first, even though he has a longer flight. He can make it to the fort and be waiting. You see, Quentin, I’m trying to be cooperative.”

“Something new for you?”

Carbonell chuckled.

“Knox will handle the matter,” he said. “He’s good. But I do need to know something. Do you have a second spy in this company?”

“How about I answer that question after we see how successful your quartermaster will be.”

“All right. We’ll wait. That shouldn’t be but a few hours from now. Then I will want an answer to my question.”

“I’m assuming, Quentin, that once you have those two missing pages and your letters of marque are fortified, you will handle that other matter we discussed.”

Killing Stephanie Nelle.

“You can’t release her,” she said.

No, he couldn’t. But two could play her game.

“How

about I answer that question after you answer mine.”

WYATT WAS GROWING IMPATIENT. RAIN BLANKETED THE Boston airport, and the gate attendant had informed everyone that the weather should pass within the next hour and flights would resume shortly after that. That meant it would be close to nightfall before he reached the island.

No matter. Whatever was there had waited 175 years, another few hours would not be a problem.

His cellphone vibrated in his pocket. He’d switched the unit back on once he was inside the terminal. It was a prepaid disposable bought yesterday in New York. Only one person had the number.

“I understand the weather is awful,” Carbonell said.

“Bad enough.”

“I just came from the White House. The president knows all about you.”

No surprise there, once Malone had spotted him.

“Lucky for me I’m leaving under another name,” he said in a low voice, huddled across the concourse at an empty gate.

“CIA, NSA-none of them knows a thing,” she said. “Malone erased his copy of the solution off his email and his Danish server doesn’t keep backups. But Malone doesn’t have the cipher wheel.”

“You gluing it back together?”

“Why do I have to? I have you.”

“And the point of this call?”

“I thought you’d like to know where you stand, considering your weather problem. Though the White House is investigating, you still have an open-field run to the goal line.”

Like he believed her. Nothing was ever that easy.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Be successful.”

And he ended the call.

FIFTY-EIGHT

HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA

4:10 PM

MALONE DROVE INTO THE TOWN OF MAHONE BAY-FOUNDED, the sign welcoming him proclaimed, in 1754. It nestled close to the inlet of the same name, crisscrossed by winding streets and lined with Victorian-era architecture. Three towering church spires kept watch. Yachts and sailboats rimmed the waterfront. A late-afternoon sun cast weak rays of smoky light through refreshingly cool air.