The Jefferson Key cm-7

by Steve Berry

  “You wanted me to handle it,” she’d said. “Let me handle it.”

  WYATT REACHED INTO HIS POCKET AND FOUND THE FLASH bomb. His own invention, developed years ago. He’d taken Carbonell’s warning to heart and anticipated that there might be visitors waiting here, people not all that friendly, and it was reasonable to assume that they might come equipped with night-vision goggles.

  “Close your eyes,” he whispered to Voccio.

  He freed the igniter pin and tossed the paper-wrapped wad out into the hall.

  A blinding flash of light lit up inside his closed lids, lingered a couple of seconds, then faded.

  Cries rang out.

  He knew what was happening.

  The two assailants, caught unawares, were momentarily blinded, their pupils, dilated by the goggles, violently closing to the unexpected brightness.

  Pain would be next, then confusion.

  He found his gun, swung around the doorway, and fired.

  MALONE HEARD TWO SHOTS. HE WAS IN THE STAIRWAY, WAITING at a metal door that led into the second floor. Cracks around the frame illuminated with a bright flash, which immediately diminished. Something pinged off the other side, then the door flung open and two forms bolted into the stairwell, both reaching for their heads, cursing, ripping night goggles from their faces. He used their confusion to slip up the stairs, toward the next floor, and hide on the landing.

  “Son of a bitch,” one of the men breathed.

  A moment of quiet passed as the two reclaimed their emotions and readied their weapons.

  “Leave the eyes off,” one of them said.

  He heard the door ease open.

  “They have to be headed toward the far side.”

  “Hopefully for the other stairway down.”

  “Three, this is Two,” he heard a man say in a low voice. A pause. “Subjects are headed your way.” Another pause. “Out.”

  “Let’s finish this,” one of the men said.

  A gentle click signaled the metal door had closed.

  He risked a look down through the darkness.

  Both men were gone.

  “WHY WOULD I KILL STEPHANIE NELLE?” KNOX ASKED CARBONELL.

  “Because you have no choice. If the captains learn of your betrayal, how long do you think you’d last? It’s a simple task, killing one person. Shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  “Is that what you think I do? Kill people all the time?”

  “You certainly have in the past few hours. I have two dead agents as proof, and two more in the hospital.”

  “All thanks to you.” And he was curious as to her reversal. “You realize that Hale went to a lot of trouble to capture her for you. Your instructions were that she not be harmed in any way.”

  She shrugged. “He was accumulating a favor from me. I get that. But things have changed. Nelle is more of a problem now.”

  “I assume you won’t explain why.”

  “Clifford, you wanted out. I offered you a way out. Now I’m telling you the price.”

  Her tone bore no trace of anger, contempt, or amusement.

  “Once the Commonwealth ceases to exist,” she said, “which is going to happen, you’ll be free to do as you please. You can live your life. Enjoy your spoils. And no one will know a thing. If you like, I’ll even hire you.”

  He wanted to know, “Did you actually solve the Jefferson cipher?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I want to know.”

  Carbonell hesitated a moment before saying, “Yes. We did.”

  “So why didn’t you just kill Nelle yourself? Why involve us in the first place with her?”

  “First off, I didn’t have the cipher key when I asked Hale to move on Nelle. I do now. Second, contrary to the movies, it’s not that easy eliminating targets in my line of work. People who do those types of jobs want too much in return for their silence.”

  “And I don’t?”

  She shrugged. “Not anything I can’t provide.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. What if Hale doesn’t want Nelle dead?”

  “I’m quite sure that he doesn’t, not at the moment anyway. But I do. So find a way to make it happen. Quickly.”

  He was exasperated. This was way too much. “You said you sold out another source. Hale knows the identity?”

  “He knows where to start looking, which I’m sure he’s doing right now. He’ll surely turn that matter over to you soon enough. His faithful servant, returned from doing battle in New York. See what I’ve done for your image? You’re a hero. What more could you want? And to demonstrate my good faith, to make clear that we’re all one-for-all-and-all-for-one, I’m going to tell you the name of my source and exactly how to prove he’s a traitor.”

  That was exactly what he wanted to know. The captains would demand that the man be tried, convicted, and punished immediately. If he personally managed to accomplish that task, his value would rise immeasurably.

  Most of all, it would divert even more attention from himself.

  Damn her.

  “Give me the name and I’ll make sure Stephanie Nelle goes away.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA

  CASSIOPEIA SAID HELLO TO THE WOMAN WHO ANSWERED THE door. The house was a large, airy Georgian filled with plants, three cats, and exquisite antiques. The exterior had been awash with yellow light and an iron gate blocking a brick-paved drive had hung open. Her host wore a loose-fitting Nike jogging suit with Coach tennis shoes. She was clearly a contemporary of the First Lady, their ages and appearances not far off except that Shirley Kaiser’s wavy hair hung long and was tinted a faint golden-red.

  Their attitudes were also different.

  Where Pauline Daniels’ face had stayed pale and drawn, Kaiser’s brimmed with civility, her animated features highlighted by firm cheekbones and bright brown eyes. They stepped into a room lit by crystal wall sconces and Tiffany lamps. She was offered and refused a drink, though a glass of water would have been welcomed.

  “I understand you have some questions for me. Pauline told me that you were a person I could trust. I wonder. Can we?”

  She caught the use of third-person plural and decided to approach this woman with greater care than she’d used with Pauline. “How long have you and the First Lady known each other?”

  A crease of amusement marked Kaiser’s face. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you? Get me talking about me first.”

  “I’m not new to this.”

  The amusement increased. “I bet you aren’t. What are you, Secret Service? FBI?”

  “Neither.”

  “No, you don’t look like either one.”

  She wondered what that look entailed, but only said, “Let’s just say I’m a friend of the family.”

  Kaiser smiled. “That one I like. Okay, friend, Pauline and I have known each other twenty years.”

  “Which makes that about a decade after her daughter died.”

  “Something like that.”

  She’d already surmised that Kaiser was a night person. Eyes that should be misty brimmed with life. Unfortunately, this woman had been given two hours to prepare herself. The First Lady would not allow an unannounced visit. Cellphones had been used to send a brief text message.

  “Have you known the president for twenty years?” she tried.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “I assume then that you didn’t vote for him.”

  “Hardly. I wouldn’t have married him, either.”

  Where Pauline had wanted to purge, this woman sought to vent. But Cassiopeia had no time for anger. “How about you quit with the games and explain what’s on your mind.”

  “I’d love to. Pauline is dead inside. Couldn’t you see that?”

  Yes, she had.

  “Danny has known that from the day they buried Mary. But does he care? Does he give a damn? Has anyone asked themselves, if he treats his wife with such callousness, imagine how he treats his enemies. Is
it any wonder somebody took a shot at him?”

  “How do you know what he feels?”

  “I’ve been there for twenty years. I’ve never once heard him mention Mary’s name. Never has he even acknowledged that there was a daughter. It is as if she never lived.”

  “Maybe that’s how he handles his grief,” she had to say.

  “That’s just it. He has no grief.”

  WYATT USED THE MOMENTS THE FLASH BOMB BOUGHT HIM TO advance himself and Voccio toward another stairway that the doctor had told him existed on the far side of the second floor, used by employees as a quick route down to the cafeteria. His charge was in a panic, clearly never having been in a fight like this before.

  Luckily, this was not his first.

  Somebody had come to sweep and clean, as they said in the trade. He’d been a party to a few himself. He wondered if it was CIA, NSA, some other combination, or whether Carbonell herself sent them.

  That actually made the most sense.

  He rushed down the hall and opened the exit door, listened, then motioned for Voccio to follow. He lead the way down the black stairway, using the metal railing as his guide, keeping Voccio close behind him.

  He halted just before they found the ground.

  “How far to your car?” he whispered.

  Wyatt heard deep, ragged breaths, but Voccio did not answer him.

  “Doctor, to get us out of here I need your help.”

  “Not far… just outside the rear exit door. To the right… when we get to the bottom and the lobby.”

  He eased down the remaining few risers. His hand found the exit door and he eased it open.

  The lobby loomed still.

  He motioned for them to crouch low and head right.

  They cleared the doorway.

  And shooting started.

  MALONE HAD WATCHED FROM THE STAIRWAY DOOR AS THE TWO gunmen negotiated the doglegged hallway and turned about fifty feet away. He noticed an ambient glow from one of the office doorways. Odd, considering the power was gone.

  He hustled ahead and glanced inside.

  Three computer screens glowed. A nameplate on the door read VOCCIO. The man he’d come to see.

  He started to search the office, but a cacophony of gunfire erupted below.

  CASSIOPEIA FELT THE NEED TO DEFEND DANNY DANIELS. WHY, she wasn’t sure, but this woman seemed unapologetic in her harsh judgments.

  “What Danny has,” Kaiser said, “is guilt, not grief. Once, about a year before Mary died, his smoking caused a small fire at the house. That one only destroyed a chair. Pauline begged him to stop, or smoke outside, or something-anything but what he was doing. For a while, he did. Then he did what Danny always does. Whatever he wants. That fire should have never happened, and he knows that.”

  She decided to come to the point of her visit. “When did you and the First Lady first speak of the New York trip?”

  “You don’t want to hear my opinions anymore?”

  “I want you to answer my question.”

  “To see if my answer and Pauline’s match?”

  “Something like that. But since you two have already communicated, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Kaiser shook her head. “Look, missy, Pauline and I talk every day, sometimes more than once. We discuss everything. She told me about Danny’s New York visit about two months ago. She was home alone in the White House. People haven’t really noticed, but she’s doing less and less in the way of appearances. I was here.”

  Which was exactly what she already knew. The First Lady had also made clear that she never used a mobile or cordless phone when talking to Kaiser. Always a landline. So she asked, and was told the same was true on this end.

  “The text earlier was a first for us,” Kaiser said. “Did I pass the test?”

  She stood. “I have to check for listening devices.”

  “That’s why I’m up at this hour. Do what you have to do.”

  She removed from her pocket an EM detector provided by the Secret Service. She doubted the house itself was wired. That would require every square inch being within range of a listening device. So she decided to start with the phones themselves.

  “Where are the outside electrical, cable, and phone boxes?”

  Kaiser stayed seated. “On the side of the garage. Behind the hedge. The floodlights are already on for you. I’m here to please.”

  She left the house and followed the brick-paved drive around to the side. They hadn’t even approached the most uncomfortable questions, but they would have to be asked either by her, or by people whom neither one of these two women wanted to talk to. She told herself to be patient. There was a lot of history here, most of it bad.

  She located the junction boxes where utility service tied to the house. She eased her way down the side of the building, between damp chest-high hedges, and activated the EM detector. Not a one hundred percent accurate device, but good enough to sniff out any electromagnetic emissions that might warrant closer inspection.

  She pointed the unit at the metal boxes.

  Nothing.

  Wires ran from the telephone connector up through the soffit, into the house, feeding each of the inside jacks. She’d need to check them individually, since what she was looking for could well be concealed within the phones themselves.

  “Find anything?” a voice asked.

  Startled, she lost her grip on the detector and it dropped to the ground.

  She turned.

  Kaiser watched from the corner of the building, beyond where the hedge ended. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  She didn’t believe a word of that.

  The detector began to pulsate, its green indicator light shifting to red, blinking at an ever-increasing rate. If she hadn’t muted its audio, a beep would now be disturbing the night. She bent down and pointed the unit in several directions, finally determining that down was correct. She dug through the wet soil, her fingers scraping something hard. Clearing away the mud she discovered a small plastic box, about eight centimeters square, the underground telephone wire running through it from one end to the other.

  The detector continued to alert.

  A bad situation had just became worse.

  Kaiser’s phones had been tapped.

  THIRTY-TWO

  WYATT DOVE TO THE TILED FLOOR AND MADE SURE VOCCIO was low alongside of him.

  Bullets banged off the walls.

  He couldn’t tell how many shooters they faced. The lobby remained in darkness, only a peripheral glow from the parking lot offering any assistance. Two wide chairs blocked them from the source of the gunfire, about fifty feet away.

  He pulled Voccio closer to him.

  “Stay down,” he whispered.

  The glass doors he sought, the ones Voccio had said led to the rear parking lot, were twenty feet away at the end of a short alcove. He was determined to get them both out of here. His heart pounded with a familiar alarm, the silence around him broken only by Voccio’s nervous breathing. He laid a reassuring hand on the other man’s arm and shook his head, signaling for him to remain calm. If he could hear each breath, so could their attackers.

  He was curious about Malone. How had his adversary fared? He hadn’t seen the end of the parking lot standoff and wondered if Captain America was hurt, dead, or across the room firing.

  Outside, the rain had slackened.

  “I can’t take this anymore,” Voccio said.

  He was in no mood for defeatism.

  “Stay with me. I know what I’m doing.”

  MALONE DESCENDED THE STAIRS, RETRACING HIS ROUTE TO the ground floor, coming ever closer to the loud retorts. He found the exit door, eased it open, and caught sight of shadows advancing across the lobby. Not much light, but enough to see two men with automatic rifles concerned with a target on the far side of the room. These could not be the same two from before. They’d disappeared down the second-floor corridor, headed to the other side of the building and another staircase.
>
  These must be the ones on the other end of the radio.

  Whoever these people were after, their quarry was now caught in a pincer, men ahead and behind. He could not reveal himself, as anonymity seemed his best defense, but he also could not just wait to see what happened.

  So he aimed and fired.

  WYATT HEARD SHOTS AND SAW MUZZLE FLASHES BEYOND WHERE he’d spotted the shadows advancing.

  Somebody was behind his two problems.

  Malone?

  Had to be.

  MALONE FIRED AGAIN, CATCHING ONE OF THE SHADOWS IN THE shoulder, hurling the form forward into the wall with a dull thump. The other shadow reacted, whirling around and unleashing a burst of rounds. He jerked himself back inside the stairway and allowed the metal door to close.

  Bullets dinged off the other side.

  Apparently, his presence had not been expected.

  WYATT HEARD THE STAIRWAY DOOR-BEHIND WHERE HE AND Voccio lay-open and he turned as movement disturbed the darkness.

  Men were also behind him.

  The shooter whom he assumed was Malone had taken down one of the men in the lobby, and the other was now firing at a second illuminated exit. He rotated on the floor, spine down, and fired at the door less than ten feet away.

  They had to get out of here.

  Voccio was apparently thinking the same thing. The doctor belly-crawled toward the outside exit.

  Not smart.

  Little cover existed between here and there, though the main threats across the lobby seemed occupied.

  He watched as Voccio found the glass doors, slammed a hand into a quick-release latch, and slipped outside. The other gunman, the one firing at Malone, heard the escape, turned, and aimed toward the doors. Before he could fire a shot, Wyatt sent three bullets the man’s way. The form spun, flailed backward, then shrank to the floor.

  Two attackers down.

  Voccio raced outside.

  An instant later both downed forms came to their feet, rifles in hand.

  Then he realized.

  They wore body armor.