by Steve Berry
He called out and a few moments later the door opened.
“I want the crew of the sloop assembled at once.”
CASSIOPEIA STAYED CALM. APPARENTLY, DANNY DANIELS’ INSTINCTS had proven correct.
“Are you married?” the First Lady asked her.
She shook her head.
“Someone special in your life?”
She nodded, though it felt strange to actually admit the fact.
“Do you love him?”
“I told him I did.”
“Did you mean it?”
“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”
A sly grin came to the older woman’s thin lips. “I wish it were that simple. Does he love you?”
She nodded.
“I met Danny when I was seventeen. We married a year later. I told him I loved him on our second date. He told me on the third. He always was a little slow. I’ve watched him rise up the political ladder. He started as a city councilman and ended up president of the United States. If he hadn’t killed our little girl, I do believe I would worship him.”
“He didn’t kill her.”
“But he did. I begged him not to smoke in the house and to be careful with his ashes. Back then nobody knew anything about secondhand smoke, all I knew was that I didn’t want him smoking.” The words had come fast, as if they needed to be said. “I relive that night every day. Earlier, when they told me somebody had tried to kill Danny, I thought about it again. I hated him for tossing me out the window. Hated him for being stubborn. Hated him for not saving Mary.” She caught herself. “But I also love him.”
Cassiopeia sat silent.
“I bet you think I’m a crazy person,” the First Lady said. “But when I was told someone would be coming to interrogate me, someone from outside the White House, I knew that I had to be honest. You do believe that I’m being honest?”
That was the one thing she was sure of.
“Who did you tell about the New York trip?” she asked, trying to get back on point.
Pauline Daniels’ face cast an expression of profound sympathy. Her blue eyes seemed on the verge of tears, and Cassiopeia wondered at the thoughts swirling through this troubled woman’s mind. From everything she knew the First Lady was a poised, well-respected figure, never a cruel word uttered about her. At all times she conducted herself in a proper manner, but apparently this woman kept her emotions bottled inside, the relative safety of these walls, home to her for the past seven years, the only place where they might be exposed.
“A friend of mine. A close friend. That’s who I told.”
The eyes conveyed more.
“A friend I don’t want my husband to talk to.”
TWENTY-NINE
MARYLAND
WYATT WATCHED AS COTTON MALONE FENDED OFF THE ATTACKERS, firing at the car stopped a hundred and fifty feet away.
Carbonell had been right about the others coming, too.
“What’s happening out there?” Voccio said, stepping toward the window.
Wyatt turned to face him. “We have to go.”
More shots rang out from below. Concern filled the other man’s face, the anxious eyes like those of a cornered animal.
“We need to call the police,” Voccio said.
“Do you have all the data?”
The man nodded and produced a flash drive. “On here.”
“Give it to me.”
The academician handed over the device. “Why are you even here to get it?”
A strange question.
“I emailed it to the NIA director several hours ago.”
Really? A point Carbonell had failed to mention. But he should not be surprised. “Do you have a car downstairs?”
“In the rear parking lot.”
He gestured for the door. “Bring the keys and let’s go.”
The room suddenly went dark.
Every light extinguished with a loud bang, except for the three computer monitors. Even the rumble of the ventilation system stopped. Wyatt’s alert level moved from orange to red.
Seemed they might be the subject of this attack, too.
“The computers are on a battery backup,” Voccio said, the uneven light from the screens washing over them. “What in the world is going on?”
He couldn’t say that men were probably coming to kill them both.
So he kept it simple.
“We need to leave.”
MALONE AIMED NOT TO HIT ANYONE, BUT TO SPUR THE DRIVER to move the car, and bullets close enough to feel should do the trick.
And they did.
The engine revved, the wheels spun, and the vehicle sped away.
The gunman on the other side suddenly realized that his only cover had vanished. Now he stood in the center of an empty parking lot, awash in light from the overhead lamps, nowhere to go. So he laid down a spread from his automatic weapon, indiscriminate rounds tearing through Malone’s car, shattering glass.
Malone huddled close, listening to the thumping report of lead ripping through metal, and waited for his moment. When the firing stopped, he rose, aimed, and brought the gunman to a wavering halt with a bullet to the shoulder.
He rushed over and kicked the rifle away.
The man writhed in pain on the wet pavement, and blood poured from the wound.
The storm freshened as gusts of wind molested the trees. His eyes swept the darkness, and he noticed something.
All the lights in the building that had been illuminated were now out.
KNOX STEPPED OFF THE PLANE AT THE GREENVILLE, NORTH Carolina, airport. He’d flown to New York aboard the Commonwealth’s jet, piloting the twelve-seater himself. He’d learned to fly while in the air force. His father had encouraged him to join, and the six years he’d spent on active duty had been good for him. His sons had followed suit, one of them just finishing a Middle Eastern tour, another planned to enlist. He was proud that his children wanted to serve. They were good Americans, as was he.
The small, regional airport lay forty minutes west of Bath, and he quickly made his way to a Lincoln Navigator parked beside the Commonwealth’s private hangar. Ostensibly, both the plane and the building belonged to one of the Hale business concerns, used by executives for corporate travel. Three pilots stayed on the payroll, but Knox never used them. His trips were private, the fewer witnesses the better. He was still concerned about New York and all that had gone wrong. But at least he’d managed to escape in one piece.
He unlocked the rear door and tossed his travel bag inside. The place was quiet and still for late on a Saturday night. Movement out of the corner of his eye diverted his attention. A form emerged from the darkness and said, “I’ve been waiting.”
He stared at the faceless shadow, an inkblot on the night, and said, “I should kill you.”
The woman chuckled. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“Our deal is over.”
Andrea Carbonell stepped forward. “Hardly. We are far from through with each other.”
MALONE RETRIEVED THE WEAPONS FROM THE TWO DOWNED men then ran toward the building’s entrance. He saw that its glass doors had been shattered, the electronic latch destroyed. He entered the lobby, immediately finding cover behind a sofa grouping with chairs. A reception counter fronted one wall, two elevators another. Three sets of glass doors lead into what he assumed were other offices, but they were dark. Another set of glass doors at the far end opened out to the rear of the building. His gaze found the stairway, an EXIT sign burning a dull crimson from battery power.
He crept close and eased the door open.
He heard movement.
Footsteps.
Above him.
WYATT LED VOCCIO OUT OF THE OFFICE AND DOWN THE HALL, passing both open and closed doorways. Emergency lighting indicated where the stairs waited and, in the soft glow from the illuminated panel, he caught sight of the exit door.
Which was being eased open.
He grabbed Voccio by the arm,
signaling for quiet, then diverted them both into the first open space. Some sort of conference room, the opposite wall lined with windows, the plate glass smeared with rain and lit from the outside by lamps below. He motioned for the doctor to wait in one of the corners, then peered out into the hall, his eyes struggling to define shapes.
Two forms disturbed the darkness, both moving ahead toting automatic rifles. He thought he caught the silhouette of night goggles around their heads. It would make sense that these men would have come equipped.
Thank goodness he’d also thought ahead.
KNOX WAS IN NO MOOD FOR CARBONELL’S THEATRICS. HE’D sold his soul to her, doing something that ran counter to every fiber in his being.
But she’d made a convincing case.
The Commonwealth was finished.
All four captains would spend a decade or more in federal prison. Every penny they’d made and every tangible asset they owned would be seized by the government. No more crews. No more letters of marque. No more quartermasters.
Knox could either survive the calamity or become part of it.
God help him, he chose survival.
The NIA knew about the assassination attempt because he’d told them. That had been his bargaining chip, the one piece of information that neither NIA nor anyone else had known.
His ticket out.
Carbonell had listened to him intently.
“They’re going to kill Danny Daniels?” she asked.
“Three captains think that’s the solution.”
“And what do you think?”
“They’re crazy and desperate. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
“What do you want?”
“To see my children graduate from college. To enjoy my grandchildren. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison.”
“I can make that happen.”
Yes, she could, he thought.
“Keep their plan moving forward. Do nothing out of the ordinary. But keep me informed.”
He hated himself for selling out. He hated the captains for forcing him into the position.
“One thing,” she said to him. “If you hold out or give me one shred of bad information, the deal is off. But you won’t go down with them.”
He knew what she’d do.
“I’ll tell them that you sold out, and let them handle you for me.”
Of which he was sure.
So he’d fabricated the weapons, delivered them to New York, then provided Carbonell with card keys to both rooms, per her request. She’d then told him to carry out the attempt, as planned, with no stops.
He’d wondered about that.
“You cut that close,” he said to her. “I wasn’t sure you were going to end it or not. The guy dangling out the window. Yours?”
“An unplanned complication, but it worked out. Good work on Scott Parrott.”
He’d killed Parrott only because that’s what the captains would have expected from their quartermaster. Duplicity could never be tolerated. Anything less than direct force would have been suspect.
“You gave him up easily,” he said to her.
“Would you have preferred one more live witness around who could sell you out?”
No. He wouldn’t. Which was another reason why he’d acted. “Were you going to kill me in New York?”
She laughed. “Far from it. That was a favor from me to you. In the event that, for some reason, you didn’t move on Parrott.”
He didn’t understand.
She said, “How better to shield the fact that you’re a traitor to all those you once held dear than to place your life in dire jeopardy, from which you manage to escape?”
“That whole thing was an act?”
“Not from the agents’ perspectives. They knew nothing, except to stop you. But I knew you could handle yourself.”
“So you sacrificed them, too? Do you care anything for the people who work for you?”
She shrugged. “They had a better-than-fair shot at besting you. Five against one. It’s not my fault they failed.”
Damn her. None of that had been necessary.
Or had it?
Both incidents would indeed provide him with excellent cover.
“Captain Hale,” she said, “and the rest of the Commonwealth are surely in a panic. But it seems the captains work together about as efficiently as the intelligence community.”
He could not argue with that conclusion. They were all becoming more combative, more irrational. He knew about what Hale had done earlier, killing his long-term accountant. Who was next?
“Hale wants the cipher solution,” she said. “But I don’t particularly want to give it to him.”
“So don’t.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“Like I said, we’re through. I’ve done my part.”
“I taped our conversations. I’m taping you right now. Your captains might find our talks enlightening.”
“And I could kill you right now.”
“I’m not alone.”
He glanced around at the darkness and realized that if the captains learned of his treachery, there would be nowhere on the planet for him to hide. Though they called themselves privateers, there was a pirate within every one of them. Treason had never been tolerated-and the higher on the pole you were the more grotesque the punishment.
“Not to worry, Clifford,” Carbonell finally said, “I did you one other favor.”
He was listening.
“I cultivated a second informant. One who provided information to me independent of you.”
More news.
“And I just sold that source out to Hale.”
He’d wondered how he was going to satisfy the captains’ demand that the spy be found.
“All you have to do in gratitude,” she said, “is one little thing.”
He realized that any gesture from her came with a price.
“Kill Stephanie Nelle.”
THIRTY
WASHINGTON, DC
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 9
12:10 AM
CASSIOPEIA GUNNED THE MOTORCYCLE AND SPED ONTO INTERSTATE 95,
heading south toward Virginia. Edwin Davis had offered her a choice of transportation, and she’d selected one of the Secret Service’s two-wheelers. She’d also changed, donning jeans, leather boots, and a black sweater.
Her talk with the First Lady still disturbed her.
Pauline Daniels was one conflicted woman.
“I don’t hate my husband,” the First Lady told her.
“You just resent him, and you’ve kept that bottled up for thirty years.”
“Politics is a powerful drug,” the older woman said. “If you’re successful at it, the effects are like a sedative. Adoration. Respect. Need. These can make you forget. And sometimes those of us who receive too much of this drug begin to believe that everyone loves us, that the world would be worse off if we weren’t around to help run it. We even begin to feel entitled. And I’m not talking about being president of the United States. Political worlds can be as big or small as we create for ourselves.”
She roared on, quickening her pace down the blackened highway. Not much traffic out at this hour beyond a procession of eighteen-wheelers taking advantage of uncrowded asphalt.
“When Mary died,” Pauline said, “Danny was a city councilman. He became mayor the next year, a state senator after that, then governor. It seemed that the depths of our tragedy gave birth to his success. He suppressed his grief through politics. He succumbed to the sedative. I wasn’t so lucky.”
“Have you two discussed this? Dealt with it?”
She shook her head. “It’s not his way. He never spoke of Mary again after the funeral. It is as if she never existed.”
“But that’s not what happened for you.”
“Oh, no. I didn’t say that. I’m afraid I wasn’t immune to politics, either. As Danny rose, so did I.” The voice drifted farther away and she wondered, Who was she
really talking to? “God forgive me, but I tried to forget my daughter.” Tears welled in the older woman’s tired eyes. “I tried. I just couldn’t.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“When Edwin told me you were coming, he also told me you’re a good person. I trust him. He’s a good person. Maybe it’s time I rid myself of this burden. All I know is that I’m tired of carrying the grief.”
“What are you saying?”
A few moments of strained silence passed.
“I’ve come to expect Danny to be around,” the First Lady said, her voice still a mono tone. “He’s always been there.”
But she heard what had not been spoken. Yet you still blame him for Mary’s death. Every day.
“But when they told me that someone had tried to kill him-”
She waited for the sentence to be finished.
“I found myself glad.”
She roared passed a car and crossed into Virginia, headed for Fredericksburg, which lay about forty kilometers away.
“Living with Danny isn’t easy,” Pauline said. “He compartmentalizes everything. Moves from one thing to the next without a problem. I suppose that’s what makes him a good leader. And he does it all without emotion.”
Not necessarily, she thought. The same had been said about her-even Cotton had chastised her once on her lack of feeling. But just because they weren’t shown didn’t mean emotions did not exist.
“He’s never gone to her grave,” the First Lady said. “Not once since the funeral. We lost everything we owned in that fire. Mary’s room, and the rest of the house, was nothing but ash. Not a photo of her survived. I think he was almost glad. He wanted no reminders.”
“And you wanted too many.”
Eyes brimming with pain stared back at her.
“Perhaps I did.”
She noticed that the black sky overhead was shrouded in clouds. Not a star visible. The asphalt was damp. Rain had come and gone. She was headed to a place that she preferred not to go. But Pauline Daniels had confided in her, telling her something only two other people knew-neither one of which was Danny Daniels. Before leaving, the president had questioned her on her destination, but she’d refused to tell him.
