by Steve Berry
“Crew.”
“Excuse me?”
“The crew works the company.”
Parrot laughed. “You’re a bunch of friggin’ pirates.”
“Privateers.”
“What the hell’s the difference? You steal from anyone you can.”
“Only from the enemies of this country.”
“It doesn’t matter what you are,” Parrot said. “We’re all supposed to be on the same team.”
“It doesn’t look that way from our perspective.”
“And I sympathize with your bosses. I know they’re being squeezed. I get it. But there are limits. You have to understand that. They have to know that we would never allow them to kill the president. I’m shocked that they’d think we would. Like I said, this is a message.”
Which the National Intelligence Agency apparently wanted him to personally deliver. Parrott was Knox’s contact with the NIA. A year ago, when it became apparent that factions within the intelligence community had decided to destroy the Commonwealth, only the NIA had stood with them.
“The captains will wonder why you’re sending them messages. Why you interfered.”
“Then tell them I have some good news. Good enough that they should thank us for what we did today.”
He doubted that, but he was listening.
“The solution to your Jefferson cipher should be loading on my laptop as we speak. Our guys solved it.”
Had he heard right? The key? Found? After 175 years? Parrott was right-the captains would be thrilled. But there was still the matter of the foolishness that had just occurred. He could only hope he’d covered their tracks with no mistakes. If not, no cipher key would matter.
“If there’s anything that could help them climb out of the hole they dug for themselves today,” Parrott said, “this is it.”
“Why not just tell us that?”
The agent chuckled. “Not my call. I doubt you left a trail that will lead anywhere and we were there, ready to stop the attempt, so it doesn’t matter.”
He kept calm and silently reaffirmed the decision he’d made on the walk over.
It had to be done.
“I thought maybe you’d buy me dinner,” Parrott said. “Something that once had parents. You can afford it. Then we can go back to my hotel and you can find out what Andrew Jackson had to say.”
Could good fortune have actually come from this disaster? Even Quentin Hale, who should be furious, would be ecstatic to hear that the cipher had been solved.
Knox had served as quartermaster for nearly fifteen years, earning the job his father once held. He’d always smiled when he watched pirate movies with their caricatures of the all-powerful captain who mercilessly inflicted pain on his crew. Nothing could be further from the truth. Pirate communities had operated as loose democracies, members deciding for themselves who led them and for how long. The fact that both the captain and the quartermaster were elected ensured that the treatment of those below them would be fair and reasonable. As a further check and balance, crew votes could be taken for a new captain or quartermaster at any time. And many a captain who went too far found himself banished to the first speck of dry land the ship spotted, another man elevated to leadership. A quartermaster walked an even tighter line, serving both the crew and the captain.
A good one understood how to please both.
So he knew what had to be done.
“Okay,” he said, adding a smile. “Steak’s on me.” He reached over and patted Parrott twice on the shoulder. “I get it. You guys are in charge. I’ll take your message back.”
“I was hoping you’d see it that way.”
He withdrew his hand and tapped the exposed skin on Parrott’s neck, penetrating the short needle. A tad more pressure, then a squeeze, and the contents of the bubble syringe injected.
“Hey.” Parrott’s hand reached for the pain.
One. Two. Three.
Parrott’s body went limp.
Knox kept him upright, then gently laid him on the bench. The concoction he’d used was derived from a Caribbean reef fish. Karenia annulatus. A fast-acting, lethal toxin. Centuries ago, during the glory days when sloops roamed that southern sea, more than one enemy had been dispatched with its nearly instant effect.
A shame this man had to die.
But there was no choice.
Absolutely none.
Carefully, he arranged Parrott’s hands beneath his cheek, as if he’d dozed off. Nothing unusual for a Central Park bench. He patted Parrott’s trousers and found a hotel room key for the Helmsley Park Lane. Not bad. He’d stayed there a few times himself.
Then he left.
EIGHT
MALONE CALMLY WALKED DOWN A LOW-CEILINGED PASSAGE that connected the Hyatt with Grand Central Terminal. He knew that, once he was inside the busy concourse, he could take a train back to the St. Regis, where Cassiopeia was waiting. Together they could figure out what to do next.
Interesting that he thought that way.
Together.
For years he’d lived and worked alone. He’d met Cassiopeia two years back but only a few months ago, in China, had they both finally acknowledged how they felt. At first he’d thought their closer connection simply the emotional fallout from all that had happened.
But he’d been wrong.
They’d been combatants, competitors, then friends. Now they were lovers. Cassiopeia was confident, smart, and beautiful. They shared a pleasant, trusting intimacy, knowing that whatever one needed the other would provide. Like now, when a cadre of police, surely trigger-happy considering what had just happened, were on the hunt.
He could use a little help.
Actually, he could use a lot.
He exited the tunnel, passing through a set of glass doors that opened into a concourse lined with busy shops. A street exit loomed 150 feet to his right. He turned left and entered the most recognized terminus in the world, nearly a football field long and a third that wide. The famous ceiling-a gold-leaf zodiac of stars atop a cerulean blue sky-soared a hundred feet above. Atop a central information booth rose the famous four-faced, brass clock. It read 7:20 PM. Hallways and passageways branched off in all directions, leading to train platforms. Escalators moved up and down to more levels striped by tracks. Beneath him, he knew, was a massive dining concourse overflowing with cafes, bakeries, and fast-food outlets. Farther down were the subway lines. His destination.
His gaze searched the open restaurants that dominated two sides of the cavernous hall one floor up. He heard snippets of conversations from passing commuters. No word yet on Daniels’ condition.
Two suits entered the terminal from the same passage he’d just negotiated.
Three more followed.
He told himself to stay cool. There was no way he’d been tagged. They had practically nothing to go on. They were simply reconnoitering. Searching. Hoping for a break.
Three New York City cops rushed in from one of the street exits. Several more appeared to his right, emerging off escalators that led up to 45th Street.
Wrong. They were zeroing in on a target. But what had Stephanie’s note said? You can’t trust anyone. He needed to head down two levels to the subway. Unfortunately, there was now no option but to head left and take the exit out onto 42nd Street.
Had that been their plan?
He crossed a wide pedestrian bridge that spanned a concrete walk. One of the police emerged from the far side of the information booth and rushed his way.
He kept walking.
No police or suits stood before him.
A marble balustrade, waist-high, protected the bridge’s edges. He spotted a narrow ledge on the other side of the rail that led off the bridge and angled down to the walkway below.
The unexpected always was best, but he’d have to move fast. The cop behind him was surely only a few steps away.
He sidestepped, whirled, then brought a knee to the man’s gut, shoving his attacker to the ground. He hoped a few precious seconds had bee
n bought, enough that he could evade the others still in the main hall.
He leaped the marble railing and balanced himself on the ledge, cautious of the fact that the drop down was a good thirty feet. Too much for a jump. He hustled forward, arms out for balance, moving down, leaping off the ledge when the drop was less than ten feet.
Agents and police appeared above.
Guns were drawn.
Alarm spread through the people on the lower path as they saw the weapons and began to scatter. He used their confusion as cover and raced forward, beneath the overpass, out of the line of fire. It would take the cops above him a few seconds to dart to the other side of the bridge, which should be enough time for an escape. The Oyster Bar restaurant opened to his left, the main dining concourse to his right. He knew that a dozen or more exits led from the dining concourse to tracks, trains, stairs, elevators, and ramps. He could catch any one of the trains and buy a ticket once on board.
He hustled into the dining hall and started for one of the exits on the far side. A maze of eateries, tables, chairs, and people lay in between.
Plenty of cover.
Two men appeared. They’d been waiting on the far side of a central pillar. They leveled weapons and an old cliche came to mind.
You can’t outrun the radio.
He raised both arms.
Shouts came, ordering him to the floor.
He dropped to his knees.
NINE
CASSIOPEIA VITT STEPPED FROM THE SHOWER AND REACHED FOR a terry-cloth robe. Before nestling her damp skin within its soft folds she did what she usually did after a bath, at least whenever possible-she weighed herself. She’d tested the digital scale yesterday, after rinsing away the transatlantic flight with another long hot soak. Of course, flying always added kilograms. Why? Something about dehydration and fluid retention. She wasn’t obsessed with her weight. More curious. Middle age was approaching, and what she ate and what she did seemed to matter so much more than five years ago.
She studied the scale’s LCD display.
56.7 KG.
Not bad.
She tied the robe and wrapped her wet hair in a towel. The CD player in the other room offered a classical medley. She loved the St. Regis, a legendary landmark smack in the heart of Manhattan, a stone’s throw from Central Park. It had been where her parents had stayed when they’d visited New York, and where she always stayed. So when Cotton suggested a weekend across the Atlantic, she’d immediately offered to arrange the accommodations.
She chose the Governor’s Suite not only for its views but also for its two bedrooms. Though they’d made great strides, she and Cotton were still exploring their fledgling relationship. Granted, one of the bedrooms had yet to be utilized, but it was there-just in case.
They’d spent a lot of time together since returning from China, both in Copenhagen and at her French chateau. So far the emotional plunge, new to them both, seemed okay. She felt safe with Cotton-comfortable, knowing they were equals. He said all the time that women were not his strong point, but he underestimated himself. This trip seemed a perfect example. Though its primary purpose had been for him to meet with Stephanie Nelle, she’d appreciated the simple fact that he’d wanted her along.
But she, too, had combined pleasure with some business.
One of her least favorite tasks was looking after the family concerns. She was the sole heir to her father’s financial empire, which totaled in the billions and stretched across six continents. A central management team, headquartered in Barcelona, ran the everyday operations. She was provided weekly reports but occasionally her input, as the only shareholder, was required. So yesterday afternoon, and again today, she’d met with her American managers. She was good at business, but smart enough to trust her employees. Her father taught her always to invest those in charge with a stake in the outcome-a percentage of the profits, however small-and he was right. She’d been blessed with a team that treated her companies as their own, and they’d actually multiplied her net worth.
Cotton had left a couple of hours ago, having decided to walk to 42nd Street. That was the thing about New York-so much traffic, it was far easier to stroll the thirteen blocks. Tonight was dinner and a show. Her choice, he’d said. So she’d purchased the tickets a few days ago and made reservations for afterward at one of her favorite eateries. She’d also stopped at Bergdorf Goodman and bought a new dress.
Why not? Every once in a while a girl had to splurge.
She’d been lucky in the store. The Armani she chose fit perfectly, not a single alteration required. Black silk, backless, decadent.
Just what they both needed.
She liked thinking about pleasing someone else. Those thoughts had been foreign to her for the majority of her life. Was that love? Maybe a part of it. Or at least she hoped.
The doorbell rang.
She smiled, thinking back to yesterday when they’d arrived.
I learned something a long time ago, Cotton had said. If you come to your hotel room and there’s double doors, something pretty good is on the other side. If there’s a doorbell, that’s always a good sign, too. But if there’s double doors and a doorbell, holy crap, look out.
She’d ordered wine and hors d’oeuvres since it would be a while until dinner. Cotton didn’t drink alcohol-never had, he said-so she’d substituted cranberry juice for him. He should be back soon. His meeting with Stephanie was at 6:15 and it was now pushing eight o’clock. They’d need to be leaving shortly.
The bell rang again.
She left the bathroom and walked through a spacious living room to the double doors. She turned the latch, but the door was suddenly forced toward her, the unexpected action reeling her back.
Two men rushed inside.
She reacted and spun, driving her leg into a stomach and thrusting with her right fist, aiming for the second man’s throat. Her kick found flesh and the man doubled forward, but she missed the other. She spun again, the towel in her hair falling away, and saw the gun.
Aimed straight at her.
Three more armed men appeared.
She froze and realized her robe was askew, providing her visitors with a view. Her fists were raised, nerves ready. “Who are you?”
“Secret Service,” one of them said. “You’re under arrest.”
What had Cotton done now? “Why?”
“Assassination of the president of the United States.”
Rarely was she genuinely surprised. It happened, but not often. But assassination of the president of the United States?
That was a new one.
“You need to lower your arms and place them behind your back,” the agent calmly said. “And maybe close that robe.”
She did as he suggested and composed herself. “Am I allowed to dress before you take me away?”
“Not alone.”
She shrugged. “I can handle it, if you can.”
TEN
MALONE REALIZED THEY WEREN’T HEADED TO ANY POLICE station. He’d been cuffed and quickly led from Grand Central. They’d confiscated his wallet and St. Regis room key, so he assumed Cassiopeia was going to have visitors. Too bad about dinner and the show. Would have been fun. He’d even bought some new clothes for the occasion.
They’d given him no time to speak. Instead he was stuffed into a waiting car, left alone for a few minutes, then driven away. Now they were crossing the East River and entering Queens, heading away from Manhattan. Police cars ahead cleared a path. If he didn’t know better he’d swear they were headed for JFK airport. Were they transporting him to a place under their exclusive control?
You can’t trust anyone.
Stephanie’s caution.
Perhaps she was right.
He doubted anyone in the car was going to volunteer anything, but there was one thing he wanted to say. “Fellows, you know my name, so you know my background. I didn’t try to kill anybody.”
Neither of the agents in the front seat nor the one sitting next to him
in the rear responded. So he tried a different tack.
“Is Daniels all right?” he asked.
No response again.
The guy beside him was young and eager. Probably his first time in a situation like this.
“I need to speak with someone at the Magellan Billet,” he said, changing his tone from friendly to irritated.
The agent in the front, sitting on the passenger side, turned toward him. “You need to sit there and shut up.”
“How about you stick it up your ass.”
The man shook his head. “Look, Malone, make this easy and just ride. Okay?”
This conspiracy reaches far.
More of Stephanie’s warning.
Which they now had, the note taken from him when he was searched.
So they knew he knew.
Fantastic.
They rode in silence for ten more minutes, then motored into JFK, passing through a gate that led directly to where planes were busy coming and going. One, though, sat alone, away from the others, ringed by police. A 747, painted blue and white, an American flag on its tail, the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA stenciled in gold on its fuselage.
Air Force One.
A navy-blue jacket was tossed from the front seat. “Put it on,” came the command.
He noticed three gold letters stamped on the front and back.
FBI.
They wheeled to the stairs that led up into the plane. The cuffs on his wrists were removed and he stepped from the car, slipping on the jacket. A man appeared from the far side of the stairs. Tall, lanky, with thin gray hair and a tranquil face.
Edwin Davis.
“They’re watching us,” Davis said. “From the terminal. Every network has a camera here with a telescopic lens. Careful with your words. They hire lip-readers.”
“I heard you got promoted.”
Last time they’d met in Venice, Davis was a deputy national security adviser. Now he served as White House chief of staff.
Davis motioned to the rolling stairs and muttered, “Lucky me. Let’s go up.”
