The Jefferson Key cm-7

by Steve Berry

  “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.

  Another window exploded, this one at the opposite corner of the Grand Hyatt, a hundred feet away from where he was perched.

  Another aluminum box extended out into the evening.

  He immediately noticed that its barrel was wider than the one he was trying to tame. This was no rifle. Some type of mortar or rocket launcher.

  The agents and police firing at him spotted the newcomer and directed their attention toward that threat. Instantly he realized that whoever had planted these devices had counted on Daniels being herded back into the car and driven away. He’d wondered about the accuracy of some remote-controlled, automated rifle-how good could it be?-but saw now that hitting anything didn’t matter. The idea had been to drive the target into something that could be more easily acquired.

  Like an oversized black Cadillac.

  He knew the presidential limousine bore armor plating. But could it withstand a rocket attack from a few hundred feet away? And what type of warhead was the projectile equipped with?

  Agents and police below raced down the sidewalk, trying to obtain a better firing angle at the new threat.

  Daniels’ limousine approached the intersection of East 42nd and Lexington Avenue.

  The rocket launcher pivoted.

  He needed to do something.

  The rifle he straddled continued to fire, one shot after another, every five seconds. Bullets pinged off the opposite buildings and the street below. Stretching his body out farther on the aluminum superstructure, he wrapped an arm around the container and wrenched the assembly left. Gears inside strained, then stripped, as he forced the barrel parallel to the hotel’s exterior.

  Bullets now whirred through the air toward the rocket launcher.

  He adjusted his aim, searching for the right trajectory.

  One round found the mark, spanking off the aluminum.

  The box he grasped felt thin, the aluminum pliable. He hoped the other was made of the same.

  Two more high-powered rounds found the target.

  A third bullet penetrated.

  Blue sparks exploded.

  Flames erupted as a rocket left the launcher.

  WYATT FINISHED HIS SALAD AS CADILLAC ONE SPED TOWARD the intersection. He’d heard the second window shatter. Men below raced down the sidewalk and were now firing upward. But the Secret Service’s P229 Sig Sauers would do little good, and the submachine guns that usually followed the president in support vehicles had been left in Washington. As had the snipers.

  Mistakes, mistakes.

  He heard an explosion.

  Rocket away.

  He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and glanced down. Daniels’ car cleared the intersection, heading toward the United Nations building and the East River. It would probably take Roosevelt Drive and find either a hospital or the airport. He recalled from days gone by when a special subway train was kept waiting on a dedicated track near the Waldorf Astoria hotel, ready to whisk the president out of Manhattan without delay.

  Not anymore.

  Useless.

  The two suited agents rushed from the restaurant, heading for an adjacent stairway that wound down to the Hyatt’s main entrance.

  He laid his napkin down and stood.

  All of the servers, the hostess, even the kitchen staff were crowded at the windows. He doubted anyone would bring a check. He recalled the price of the salad, compensated for the wine, added a 30 percent tip-he prided himself on being generous-and laid down a fifty-dollar bill. Probably too much, but he had no time for change.

  The rocket never found the ground, and a second and third never fired. Obviously, the hero had completed his performance.

  Now it was time to watch Cotton Malone’s luck run out.

  FOUR

  CLIFFORD KNOX SEVERED THE RADIO CONNECTION AND SHUT down the laptop. The rocket launcher had fired only once, and the projectile had not found the presidential limousine. The closed-circuit television feeds-courtesy of cameras installed in both automated units-had delivered jerky images, shifting right and left. He’d repeatedly had trouble keeping the rifle aimed downward, the thing not responding to his commands. He’d ordered both the propellants and the explosives modified, ensuring that the three warheads could destroy a heavily armored vehicle.

  Everything had been in working order this morning.

  So what had happened?

  The image from the television screen, blaring at him from across his hotel room, explained the failure.

  Cellphones from the street had captured pictures and videos that had already been emailed to the networks. They showed a man balancing out of a shattered window in the Grand Hyatt, high above East 42nd Street. He straddled a metal structure and jerked the device one way, then another, finally directing its rifle fire toward the rocket launcher, destroying its electronics just as the weapon fired.

  Knox had delivered the firing command. Three rockets should have discharged, one after the other. But only one emerged, and it flew off into the southern sky.

  The room’s phone rang.

  He answered and a gravelly voice on the other end said, “This is a disaster.”

  His gaze stayed on the television screen. More images showed the two devices projecting outward from dark rectangles in the Grand Hyatt’s glass facade. A scrolling banner at the bottom of the screen informed viewers that there was no word yet on the president’s condition.

  “Who was the man who interfered?” a new voice asked in his ear.

  He imagined the scene on the other end of the line. Three men, each in their early fifties, dressed casually, sitting in an elegant salon, crowded around a speakerphone.

  The Commonwealth.

  Minus one.

  “I have no idea,” he said into the phone. “Obviously, I didn’t expect any interference.”

  Not much could be gleaned about the intruder, except that he was Caucasian, with sandy-colored hair, a dark jacket, and light-colored pants. His face had been impossible to see thanks to the cellphone cameras’ low resolution and plenty of lens movement. The scrolling banner on the screen informed viewers that the man had appeared, been fired upon, diverted one weapon onto the other, then disappeared back inside.

  “How would anyone have known about this?” came a question in his ear. “Much less be in a position to stop it.”

  “We obviously have a security leak.”

  Silence on the other end of the phone confirmed that they agreed.

  “Quartermaster,” one of the men said, using Knox’s official title, “you were in charge of this operation. Its failure is your responsibility.”

  He realized that.

  Like the ship’s captain of long ago, a quartermaster was chosen by the crew, charged with safeguarding the company’s interests. While a captain retained absolute authority during any conflict, a ship’s everyday administration rested with the quartermaster. He allocated provisions, distributed spoils, adjudicated conflicts, and meted out discipline. A captain could undertake little without the quartermaster approving. That system remained today, except with the further complication that four captains commanded the Commonwealth. Knox reported to each of them, both individually and colle
ctively. He also oversaw the crew, those who worked directly for the Commonwealth.

  “We clearly have a spy among us,” he repeated.

  “Do you realize what will happen from this? The repercussions will be enormous.”

  Knox sucked in a breath. “The worst of which is that Captain Hale was excluded from your decision.”

  His comment would not be deemed insubordinate. A good quartermaster spoke his mind, unafraid, since his power came from the crew, not the captain. He’d cautioned them a week ago that this plan was ill advised. He’d kept to himself a further observation that he thought it bordered on desperation. But when three of the four in charge issued an order, it was his duty to obey.

  “Both your counsel and objections have been noted,” one of the men said. “We made the decision.”

  But that might not be enough once Quentin Hale realized what the others had done. This particular course was one the Commonwealth had sailed before, but not in many decades. Knox’s father had been the last quartermaster to attempt the feat, and he’d succeeded. But that had been a different time, with different rules.

  “Perhaps Captain Hale should be told,” he advised.

  “Like he doesn’t already know,” one of the men said. “We’ll hear from him soon enough. In the meantime, what are you going to do?”

  He’d been considering that move. No way existed for anyone to trace the mechanisms found in the two hotel rooms. They’d been manufactured in secret by crew members, every piece sanitized. No matter the outcome the machinery would have been discovered, so precautions had been taken. The two hotel rooms at the Grand Hyatt were registered to fictitious individuals-crew members who’d appeared at the front desk in disguise and paid with credit cards that relied on false identifications. Suitcases had held the various parts, and through the night he’d personally assembled the devices piece by piece. A DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door had ensured privacy all day. He’d controlled both weapons from here-blocks away-by radio, and the signals were now severed.

  Everything had been carefully designed.

  At times, in centuries past, quartermasters had been allowed to assume the helm, steering the ship’s course. The Commonwealth had just handed him the wheel.