by Steve Berry
The Jefferson Key
( Cotton Malone - 7 )
Steve Berry
The Jefferson Key
Steve Berry
PROLOGUE
WASHINGTON, DC
JANUARY 30, 1835
11:00 AM
President Andrew Jackson faced the gun aimed at his chest. A strange sight but not altogether unfamiliar, not for a man who’d spent nearly his entire life fighting wars. He was leaving the Capitol Rotunda, walking toward the East Portico, his somber mood matching the day’s weather. His Treasury secretary, Levi Woodbury, steadied him, as did his trusted walking cane. Winter had been harsh this year, especially on a gaunt, sixty-seven-year-old body-his muscles were unusually stiff, his lungs perpetually congested.
He’d ventured from the White House only to say goodbye to a former friend-Warren Davis of South Carolina, elected twice to Congress, once as an ally, a Jacksonian Democrat, the other as a Nullifier. His enemy, the former vice president John C. Calhoun, had concocted the Nullifier Party, its members actually believing that states could choose what federal laws they wanted to obey. The devil’s work was how he’d described such foolishness. There’d be no country if the Nullifiers had their way-which, he supposed, was their entire intent. Thankfully, the Constitution spoke of a unified government, not a loose league where everyone could do as they pleased.
People, not states, were paramount.
He hadn’t planned to attend the funeral, but thought better yesterday. No matter their political disagreements he’d liked Warren Davis, so he’d tolerated the chaplain’s depressing sermon-life is uncertain, particularly for the aged-then filed past the open casket, muttered a prayer, and descended to the Rotunda.
The throng of onlookers was impressive.
Hundreds had come to glimpse him. He’d missed the attention. When in a crowd he felt as a father surrounded by his children, happy in their affection, loving them as a dutiful parent. And there was much to be proud of. He’d just completed the impossible-paying off the national debt, satisfied in full during the 58th year of the republic-in the 6th year of his presidency, and several in the crowd hollered their approval. Upstairs, one of his cabinet secretaries had told him that the spectators had braved the cold mainly to see Old Hickory.
He’d smiled at the reference to his toughness, but was suspicious of the compliment.
He knew many were worried that he might break with precedent and seek a third term, among them members of his own party, some of whom harbored presidential ambitions of their own. Enemies seemed everywhere, especially here, in the Capitol, where southern representatives were becoming increasingly bold and northern legislators arrogant.
Keeping some semblance of order had become difficult, even for his strong hand.
And worse, of late he’d found himself losing interest in politics.
All the major battles seemed behind him.
Only two more years were left in office and then his career would be over. That was why he’d been coy about the possibility of a third term. If nothing else, the prospect of him running again kept his enemies at bay.
In fact, he harbored no intentions of another term. He would retire to Nashville. Home to Tennessee and his beloved Hermitage.
But first there was the matter of the gun.
The well-dressed stranger pointing the single-shot brass pistol had emerged from the onlookers, his face covered in a thick black beard. As a general Jackson had defeated British, Spanish, and Indian armies. As a duelist he’d once killed in the name of honor. He was afraid of no man. Certainly not this fool, whose pale lips quivered, like the hand aiming the gun.
The young man pressed the trigger.
The hammer snapped.
Its percussion cap detonated.
A bang echoed off the Rotunda’s stone walls. But no spark ignited the powder in the barrel.
Misfire.
The assailant seemed shocked.
Jackson knew what had happened. Cold, damp air. He’d fought many a battle in the rain and knew the importance of keeping powder dry.
Anger rushed through him.
He gripped his walking cane with both hands, like a spear, and charged his attacker.
The young man tossed the gun away.
A second brass pistol appeared, its barrel now only inches from Jackson’s chest.
The gunman pressed the trigger.
Another retort from the percussion cap, but no spark.
A second misfire.
Before his cane could jab the assailant’s gut, Woodbury grabbed his arm, his secretary of the navy the other. A man in uniform leaped on the gunman, as did several members of Congress, one of them Davy Crockett from Tennessee.
“Let me go,” Jackson cried. “Let me at him. I know where he comes from.”
But the two men did not relinquish their grip.
The assassin’s hands flailed above a sea of heads, then the man was toppled to the floor.
“Let me go,” Jackson said again. “I can protect myself.”
Police appeared and the man was jerked to his feet. Crockett handed him over to the officers and proclaimed, “I wanted to see the damnedest villain in this world and now I have.”
The gunman babbled something about being the king of England and having more money once Jackson was dead.
“We must leave,” Woodbury whispered to him. “That man is obviously insane.”
He did not want to hear that excuse. “No insanity. There was a plot and that man was a tool.”
“Come, sir,” his secretary of the Treasury said, leading him out into the misty morning and a waiting carriage.
Jackson complied.
But his mind churned.
He agreed with what Richard Wilde, a congressman from Georgia, had once told him. Rumor, with her hundred tongues, gives at least as many tales. He hoped so. He’d faced that assassin without a hint of fear. Even two guns had not deterred him. Everyone present would attest to his courage.
And, thanks to God almighty, providence had guarded him.
He truly did seem destined to raise the country’s glory and maintain the cause of the people.
He stepped into the carriage. Woodbury followed him inside, and the horses advanced through the rain. He no longer felt cold, or old, or tired. Strength surged through him. Like last time. Two years ago. During a steamboat excursion to Fredericksburg. A disturbed former naval officer, whom he’d fired, had bloodied his face registering the first physical assault on an American president. After, he’d declined to press charges and vetoed his aides’ advice that a military guard surround him at all times. The press already labeled him a king, his White House a court. He would not provide further grist for that mill.
Now someone had actually tried to kill him.
Another first for an American president.
Assassination.
More an act, he thought, that belonged to Europe and ancient Rome. Usually employed against despots, monarchs, and aristocrats, not popularly elected leaders.
He glared at Woodbury. “I know who ordered this. They have not the courage to face me. Instead, they send a crazy man to do their bidding.”
“Who are you referring to?”
“Traitors” was all he offered.
And there’d be hell to pay.
ONE
NEW YORK CITY
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, THE PRESENT
6:13 PM
ONE MISTAKE WAS NOT ENOUGH FOR COTTON MALONE.
He made two.
Error number one was being on the fifteenth floor of the Grand Hyatt hotel. The request had come from his old boss Stephanie Nelle, through an email sent two days ago. She needed to see him, in New York, on Saturday. Apparently, the subject ma
tter was something they could discuss only in person. And apparently, it was important. He’d tried to call anyway, phoning Magellan Billet headquarters in Atlanta, but was told by her assistant, “She’s been out of the office for six days now on DNC.”
He knew better than to ask where.
DNC. Do Not Contact.
That meant don’t call me, I’ll call you.
He’d been there before himself-the agent in the field, deciding when best to report in. That status, though, was a bit unusual for the head of the Magellan Billet. Stephanie was responsible for all twelve of the department’s covert operatives. Her task was to supervise. For her to be DNC meant that something extraordinary had attracted her attention.
He and Cassiopeia Vitt had decided to make a New York weekend of the trip, with dinner and a show after he discovered what Stephanie wanted. They’d flown from Copenhagen yesterday and checked into the St. Regis, a few blocks north of where he now stood. Cassiopeia chose the accommodations and, since she was also paying for them, he hadn’t protested. Plus, it was hard to argue with regal ambience, breathtaking views, and a suite larger than his apartment in Denmark.
He’d replied to Stephanie’s email and told her where he was staying. After breakfast this morning, a key card for the Grand Hyatt had been waiting at the St. Regis’ front desk along with a room number and a note.
PLEASE MEET ME AT EXACTLY 6:15 THIS EVENING
He’d wondered about the word exactly, but realized his former boss suffered from an incurable case of obsessive behavior, which made her both a good administrator and aggravating. But he also knew she would not have contacted him if it wasn’t truly important.
He inserted the key card, noting and ignoring the DO NOT DISTURB sign.
The indicator light on the door’s electronic lock switched to green and the latch released.
The interior was spacious, with a king-sized bed covered in plush purple pillows. A work area was provided at an oak-top desk with an ergonomic chair. The room occupied a corner, two windows facing East 42nd Street, the other offering views west toward 5th Avenue. The rest of the decor was what would be expected from a high-class, Midtown Manhattan hotel.
Except for two things.
His gaze locked on the first: some sort of contraption, fashioned from what appeared to be aluminum struts, bolted together like an Erector Set. It stood before one of the front windows, left of the bed, facing outward. Atop the sturdy metal support sat a rectangular box, perhaps two feet by three, it too made of dull aluminum, its sides bolted together and centered on the window. More girders extended to the walls, front and back, one set on the floor, another braced a couple of feet above, seemingly anchoring the unit in place.
Was this what Stephanie meant when she’d said important?
A short barrel poked from the front of the box. There seemed no way to search its interior, short of unbolting the sides. Sets of gears adorned both the box and the frame. Chains ran the length of the supports, as if the whole thing was designed to move.
He reached for the second anomaly.
An envelope. Sealed. With his name on it.
He glanced at his watch. 6:17 PM.
Where was Stephanie?
He heard the shrill of sirens from outside.
With the envelope in hand, he stepped to one of the room’s windows and glanced down fourteen stories. East 42nd Street was devoid of cars. Traffic had been cordoned off. He’d noticed the police outside when he’d arrived a few minutes ago.
Something was happening.
He knew the reputation of Cipriani across the street. He’d been inside before and recalled its marble columns, inlaid floors, and crystal chandeliers-a former bank, built in Italian Renaissance style, leased out for elite social gatherings. Just such an event seemed to be happening this evening, important enough to stop traffic, clear the sidewalks, and command the presence of half a dozen of New York City’s finest, who stood before the elegant entrance.
Two police cars approached from the west, lights flashing, followed by an oversized black Cadillac DTS. Another New York City police car trailed. Two pennants rose from either side of the Cadillac’s hood. One an American flag, the other the presidential standard.
Only one person rode in that car.
President Danny Daniels.
The motorcade wheeled to the curb before Cipriani. Doors opened. Three Secret Service agents sprang from the car, studied the surroundings, then signaled. Danny Daniels emerged, his tall, broad frame sheathed by a dark suit, white shirt, and powder-blue tie.
Malone heard whirring.
His gaze found the source.
The contraption had come to life.
Two retorts banged and the window on the other side of the room shattered, glass plunging downward to the sidewalk far below. Cool air rushed inside, as did the sounds of a pulsating city. Gears spun and the device telescoped through the now empty window frame.
He glanced down.
The window’s shattering had attracted the Secret Service’s attention. Heads were now angled up, toward the Grand Hyatt.
Everything happened in a matter of a few seconds.
Window gone. Device out. Then-
Rat-tat-tat.
Shots were fired at the president of the United States.
Agents smothered Daniels to the sidewalk.
Malone stuffed the envelope into his pocket and raced across the room, grabbing hold of the aluminum frame, trying to dislodge the device.
But it would not budge.
He searched for and spotted no power cords. The thing, apparently a remote-controlled, high-powered weapon, kept firing. He saw agents trying to maneuver their charge back to the car. He knew that once Daniels was inside, armor plating would provide protection.
The device spit out more rounds.
He dove out the window, balancing himself on the frame, and grabbed hold of the aluminum box. If he could yank it from side to side, or up and down, at least he could deflect its aim.
He managed to force the barrel left, but motors inside quickly compensated.
Below, with incoming fire momentarily deflected, agents stuffed Daniels back into the car, which wheeled away. Three men remained, along with the policemen who’d been waiting at Cipriani.
Guns were drawn.
His second mistake now became evident.
They started firing.
At him.
TWO
OFF THE COAST OF NORTH CAROLINA
6:25 PM
QUENTIN HALE COULD THINK OF FEW THINGS BETTER THAN slicing through white-foamed crests under a towering glide of sail. If seawater could actually be a part of someone’s blood, that was surely the case with him.
Sloops had been the ocean workhorses of the 17th and 18th centuries. Small, single-masted, their spread of sails had made them quick and maneuverable. Shallow drafts and fast lines only added to their suitability. Most carried around seventy-five men and fourteen cannons. His modern incarnation was larger, 280 feet, and instead of wood the latest composite materials made her light and sleek. No cannons weighed down this beauty. Instead, she was delightful to the eye, soothing to the soul-a bluewater vessel built for comfort and loaded with toys. Twelve guests could enjoy her luxury cabins and sixteen were employed as crew, many of them descendants of those who’d served Hales since the American Revolution.
“Why are you doing this?” his victim screamed. “Why, Quentin?”
Hale stared at the man lying on the deck, shackled in heavy chains and encapsulated in a gibbet-a cage constructed of flat bars of iron, three inches in breadth. A rounded portion enclosed the chest and head, while the thighs and legs were barred within separate enclosures. Centuries ago the cages were made to fit the victim, but this one was more off the rack. Not a muscle could move besides the man’s head and jaw, and he’d purposely not been gagged.
“Are you insane?” the man yelled. “What you’re doing is murder.”
Hale took offense to that charge. “Kil
ling a traitor is not murder.”
The chained man, as had his father and grandfather before him, kept the Hale family ledger. He was an accountant who lived in coastal Virginia on an exquisite estate. Hale Enterprises, Ltd., spanned the globe and required the attention of nearly three hundred employees. Many accountants were on the corporate payroll, but this man worked outside that bureaucracy, answerable only to Hale.
“I swear to you, Quentin,” the man screamed. “I gave them only the barest information.”
“Your life depends on that being true.” He allowed his words to carry a measure of hope. He wanted this man to talk. He must be sure.
“They came to me with subpoenas. They already knew the answers to their questions. They told me if I didn’t cooperate I’d go to jail and lose everything I had.”
The accountant started crying.
Again.
They were the Internal Revenue Service. Agents from the criminal enforcement division who’d descended one morning on Hale Enterprises. They’d also appeared at eight banks around the country, demanding account information on both the corporation and Hale. All the American banks complied. No surprise. Few laws guaranteed privacy. Which was why those accounts were supported by a meticulous paper trail. That was not the case with foreign banks, especially the Swiss, where financial privacy had long been a national obsession.
“They knew about the UBS accounts,” his accountant hollered over the wind and sea. “I only discussed those with them. No more. I swear. Only those.”
He stared past the rail at the churning sea. His victim lay on the aft deck, near the Jacuzzi and dip pool, out of sight from any passing boaters, but they’d been sailing for the better part of the morning and, so far, had spotted no one.
