by Steve Berry
The estate manager stood beside him.
A wave of people had fled the house a moment ago through the main doors behind him, their voices excited, their eyes alight with fear.
“What’s that way?” he asked, motioning to the left where the commotion now seemed centered.
“Jefferson’s private rooms. The library, cabinet, bedroom.”
“Is that where the wheel is displayed?”
The man nodded.
He found his gun. “Out. And don’t let anybody in.”
He realized there was no bomb. Just flash and pan. A diversion. The same swishing sound from last night and the attack on the men with the night-vision goggles.
Who the hell was here?
WYATT SLIPPED THE NYLON CARRYALL HE’D BROUGHT WITH him from his pant pocket. The wheel was larger than he’d expected, but the thin bag could handle it. He’d have to be careful since the wooden disks seemed brittle. Understandable, considering they were over two hundred years old.
He climbed off the bed into the cabinet, removed the glass cover, and lifted out the spindled disks. Carefully, he worked the device into the nylon bag. He then grabbed two loose disks that had been displayed separately and laid them in the bag. He would have to cradle the bundle in his arms, holding it close to his chest to ensure no damage.
He tested the weight.
About five pounds.
No problem.
MALONE PASSED THROUGH A ROOM WITH PALE GREEN WALLS and a fireplace. A placard identified it as the South Square Room. Above a white mantel hung a woman’s portrait. Another door led into what he recalled from some reading as Jefferson’s sanctum sanctorum, which consumed the entire south end of the building.
Gun in hand, he opened the door and was met by a wall of smoke.
He stared through the fog and caught glimpses of people outside, through the room’s windows, which stretched floor-to-ceiling, opening like doors into a sunlit porch bright with potted plants. He grabbed a breath and plunged into the smoke, keeping close to the wall, seeking cover behind a wooden cabinet. Ahead, to his left, rose narrow bookshelves lined with old leather-bound volumes. Archways supported the ceiling and led to the far end where, in a semi-octagonal alcove, he spotted a man, bagging up the wheel.
He focused on the face.
One he knew.
And everything made sense.
WYATT CAUGHT MOVEMENT THROUGH THE FOG. SOMEBODY had entered the library at the far end.
He finished his task, cradled the wheel in one arm, and found his gun.
He saw a man staring at him.
Cotton Malone.
And fired a shot.
MALONE DROPPED BEHIND THE WOODEN CABINET AS WYATT sent a bullet his way. What had it been? Eight years. At least. He’d never known what had happened to Wyatt after he was forced out, though he’d heard something about freelancing.
The person who’d set the trap using Stephanie Nelle as bait, luring him to that hotel room. The author of the note left for him to find. The voice on the radio from the Grand Hyatt that fingered him. The manipulation of the police and the Secret Service.
All Wyatt.
Something flew through the fog and landed on the floor.
Small, round, rolling his way.
He knew what was coming and whirled his head to the right, shutting his eyes.
WYATT ABANDONED THE CABINET, THEN THE BEDROOM, AND made his way back into the parlor, away from Malone. As much as he’d like to stay and play, he couldn’t.
Not now.
He had the wheel and that was all that mattered. He could use it to discover what lay next in the search for the two missing congressional pages. Or maybe he’d just destroy the thing and be done with it.
That way, nobody would win.
At the moment, he was unsure.
MALONE DECIDED NOT TO FOLLOW WYATT. HE KNEW THE ground-floor rooms wound their way back to the center, so he opened a door to his right, revealing a short corridor that emptied twenty feet ahead into the entrance hall.
Smoke drifted his way.
Visibility wasn’t good, and Wyatt certainly wasn’t going to walk out the front door. To his immediate right, a set of narrow, wedge-shaped steps rose in a vertical spiral to the second floor. A chain with a sign indicated no admittance. He recalled the entrance hall and the open second-floor railing and decided the high ground might be better, so he stepped over the chain and headed up.
WYATT INTENDED ON LEAVING, BUT NOT FROM THE GROUND floor. His plan was to make his way to the cellar, then out through the lower, north exit into the woods beyond the service road. That had always seemed the safest route, considering the excitement would be centered on the house’s east side. But Malone was just a few feet away, probably trying to make his way back toward the entrance hall.
He stopped in the parlor and listened.
Smoke remained thick. No one was around. Malone probably had the house sealed. Then a thought occurred to him and his gaze drifted to the ceiling.
Of course.
That’s exactly what he would have done.
FORTY-SEVEN
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
KNOX WATCHED THE THREE OTHER CAPTAINS AS QUENTIN Hale reveled in his moment. He, too, had been impressed when he first listened to the taped conversations. The fact was startling. The First Lady of the United States romantically involved with the White House chief of staff?
“How long has this been going on?” Cogburn asked Hale.
“Long enough that neither of them can deny it. The conversations are, at a minimum, hugely embarrassing. Never before has American politics been subjected to something like this. The sheer novelty will drive the press and the public insane. Daniels would be impotent for the remainder of his term.”
Even Edward Bolton, who as a matter of course denied all things that emanated from a Hale as either self-serving, impractical, or stupid, sat silent, certainly realizing the possibilities.
“Let’s use it,” Surcouf said. “Now. Why wait?”
“Its use must be timed with precision,” Hale said. “As you three like to remind me, when I went begging to the White House, I knew about this information. But I went there to see if we would have to use it. I asked that our letters be respected and was rebuked. So now we have little choice. Still, going straight to the president with this would be counterproductive. Instead we must pressure the two individuals involved, allow them to consider the ramifications of their actions, then wait as they do our persuading for us.”
Knox agreed, the First Lady and the chief of staff would have the most influence over President Daniels. But would they do the Commonwealth’s bidding? Hardly. This was more irrational thinking. The kind that had convinced him that making a deal with the NIA was preferable to riding out the storm on this leaky ship.
“They can choose for themselves what to tell Daniels,” Hale said. “We don’t care. We just want the U.S. government to honor the letters of marque.”
“How did you acquire these tapes?” Bolton asked. “Is there anything that leads this way? How do you know that you’re not being played? This whole thing is a bit fantastic. Too damn good to be true. We could be walking into a trap.”
“That’s a good point,” Cogburn said. “It is awfully convenient.”
Hale shook his head. “Gentlemen, why are you so suspicious? I have been involved with this woman for over a year. She shares with me things she really should not.”
“Then why tape her phone calls?” Bolton asked Hale.
“Because, Edward, do you think she tells me everything? And for this to work, we need the First Lady herself to speak about it. So I took the chance and monitored her phone line. Thank goodness I did, or we would not have such damning evidence.”
“I’m still concerned,” Cogburn said. “It could be a trap.”
“If this is a ruse, then it is one on an elaborate scale.” Hale shook his head. “This is real. I’d stake my life on it.”
“But the question is,” B
olton said, “will we stake our lives on it?”
MALONE CREPT DOWN A CORRIDOR THAT STRETCHED NORTH-TO-SOUTH, from one end of the second floor to the other. Though he’d never been inside Monticello, he knew enough about Thomas Jefferson to know that there would be another staircase at the far end. Jefferson had been an admirer of all things French. Double-height rooms, domes, bed alcoves, skylights, indoor privies, narrow staircases-all common elements in Franco architecture. As was symmetry. Which meant there should be a second stairway at the north end that would lead down. But between here and there was the balcony that opened out into the entrance hall, smoke filling the path ahead confirming that fact.
He came to the end of the corridor and gazed down into the entrance hall. Beyond the railing he spotted no movement. Smoke hung thick, dissipating as it drifted upward. He kept away from the rail, hugging the wall, and crossed the balcony to the other side. Ahead, a few feet down another hall, he spotted the second staircase, winding a steep path down and up to the third floor.
Something flew up from that stairway and bounced on the hall’s wood floor. Rolling his way. He dove back to the balcony just as the flash bomb exploded with light and smoke.
He raised his head and glanced down, beyond the railing.
Wyatt stood, aiming a gun upward.
HALE GLARED AT EDWARD BOLTON AND SAID, “I’D SAY YOU HAVE little choice but to trust this will produce the desired results.” He paused. “For us all. Unless you have a better idea.”
“I don’t trust anything you do,” Bolton said.
Charles Cogburn stepped forward. “I have to agree with him, Quentin. This could be as foolish as what we tried.”
“Assassination wasn’t foolish,” Bolton was quick to say. “It’s worked in the past. Look at what happened to McKinley. He was determined to prosecute us, too.”
Hale’s father had told him about William McKinley, who like Lincoln had at first made use of the Commonwealth. By the time of the Spanish-American War, thanks to the 1856 Treaty of Paris, more than fifty nations had outlawed privateering. And though neither Spain nor America signed that treaty, they agreed not to engage in privateering during their war at the turn of the 20th century. Not bound by any international agreement, the Commonwealth preyed on Spanish shipping. Unfortunately, the war lasted only four months. Once peace was declared the Spanish demanded retribution, calling into question America’s veracity since it had violated its prewar agreement. McKinley finally relented to pressure and authorized prosecutions, resting on the fact that the Commonwealth’s letters of marque were legally unenforceable. So a deranged would-be anarchist was covertly recruited and encouraged to kill McKinley, which he did on September 6, 1901. The assassin was apprehended at the scene. Seventeen days later he was tried and convicted. Five weeks after that he was electrocuted. The new president, Theodore Roosevelt, had no qualms with the Commonwealth’s attacks and cared nothing about appeasing the Spanish.
All prosecutions ended.
Of course, neither Roosevelt, nor anyone else, knew of the conspiracy to kill McKinley.
“That is the difference between you and me,” Hale said to Bolton. “I merely cherish our past. You insist on repeating it. As I said, bullets and violence are not the way to take down a president any longer. Shame and humiliation work in the same manner with the advantage that others willingly take up the fight for us. We have to do nothing more than light the fire.”
“It’s your damn family that created this mess,” Bolton said. “Hales were nothing but trouble in 1835, too. We were fine. No one bothered us. We’d provided a great service to the country and the government left us alone. But instead of accepting Jackson’s decision not to pardon those pirates, your great-great-granddaddy decided to kill the president of the United States.” Bolton pointed his finger at Hale. “About as stupid a move as the one we tried. The only difference is, we didn’t get caught.”
Hale could not resist. “Not yet, anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “Just that the investigations have barely begun. Don’t be so sure that there is no trail to follow.”
Bolton lunged forward, apparently taking the words as a threat, then stopped, realizing that the gun, though lowered, was still in Hale’s hand.
“You’d sell us out,” Bolton said. “Just to save your own hide.”
“Never,” Hale said. “I take my oath to the Articles seriously. It is you that I take lightly.”
Bolton faced Surcouf and Cogburn. “Are you going to stand there and let him talk to us that way? Does either of you have anything to say?”
CASSIOPEIA RODE WITH EDWIN DAVIS UP THE INCLINED ROAD toward Monticello’s main house. Buses up and down had been halted, the local sheriff called. They wheeled into a parking lot in front on the mansion. The estate manager waited at the end of a paved walk that led to a columned portico. Twenty meters away, people were being herded onto another bus.
“Where’s Cotton?” she asked.
“Inside. He told me to seal the house and let no one in.”
“What’s happened?” Davis asked.
A swoosh could be heard from inside, followed by a bright flash of light that illuminated some of the windows.
“What was that?” she asked.
“There’ve been others like that,” the manager said.
She ran down the walk toward the house.
“He said for no one to enter,” the manager called out to her.
She found her weapon. “That doesn’t apply to me.”
A loud retort echoed from inside.
That sound she knew.
Gunfire.
FORTY-EIGHT
MALONE DROPPED TO THE FLOOR JUST AS WYATT FIRED, THE bullet shattering one of the wooden spindles. He beat a hasty retreat on all fours toward the back wall, away from the railing, using the angle below for protection. Another shot and a bullet came up through the floorboards a few feet away, the two-hundred-year-old timbers offering little resistance.
A third shot.
Closer.
Wyatt was searching for him.
Something arced through the air and bounced on the balcony floor. He’d seen this movie before and quickly shielded his head as the light bomb did its thing, adding a fresh wave of smoke to the confusion.
He sprang to his feet and found the hall that led back to the stairs he’d taken earlier. Spying movement below, he stared up toward the third floor and decided to reverse the roles.
Time for Wyatt to play rabbit and for him to be the fox.
WYATT CREPT UP THE STAIRS, GUN LEADING THE WAY, SEARCHING through the smoke for Malone.
Two things happened at once.
He heard the house’s main doors open and a woman yell, “Cotton.”
Then, up above, he caught sight of Malone.
Climbing to the third floor.
KNOX WAITED FOR CAPTAINS SURCOUF AND COGBURN TO ANSWER Bolton’s question.
“I don’t know, Edward,” Surcouf finally said. “I’m not sure what to think. We’re in a mess. Frankly, I don’t like what either one of you proposes. But I have to wonder, Quentin. There’s no way you’re depending totally on Daniels caving simply from embarrassment.”
“If it were me,” Cogburn said, “I’d call the wife a lying whore and hang her out to dry. Nobody would have any sympathy for her.”
Typical, Knox thought. Cogburns had long viewed the world in black and white. He wished life were that simple. If it were, none of them would be in the mess they were in. But he, too, doubted that the tactic alone would pressure the White House into doing anything productive.
“I still have Stephanie Nelle,” Hale said.
“And what are you going to do with her?”
Knox wanted to hear the answer to that question, too.
“I haven’t decided. But she could prove valuable.”
“Talk about a thing from the past,” Bolton said. “Do you hear yourself? A hostage? In the 21st century? Like yo
u told us about the assassination attempt. Are you going to call up the White House and say you have her? Let’s make a deal? You can’t do diddly-squat with that woman. She’s useless.”
Unless her corpse could be shown to Andrea Carbonell, Knox thought. Then, she was worth a great deal.
At least to him.
“Why don’t you let me worry about her value,” Hale said.
Cogburn pointed an accusing finger. “You’re plotting something else. What is it, Quentin? Tell us or, by God, I’ll join with Edward and make your life a living hell.”
CASSIOPEIA COULD DISTINGUISH LITTLE THROUGH THE SMOKE. The two-story entrance hall was enveloped in a gray fog. She sought cover close to the wall, behind a pine table, beneath a wall dotted with antlers.
She realized what she had to do.
Not the smartest move, but necessary.
“Cotton,” she called out.
MALONE CAME TO THE TOP OF THE STAIRWAY ON THE THIRD floor. He’d made no attempt to disguise his path. Surely Wyatt had seen or heard him and was headed this way.
Or at least he hoped.
He heard his name called out.
Cassiopeia.
WYATT HAD NO IDEA AS TO THE WOMAN’S IDENTITY, BUT SHE obviously was connected to Malone. He should simply descend to the cellar and leave, but he recalled that the staircase before him led down, not into a public area, but into a private room the staff utilized. He wondered if any of them was still there, or if they’d been told to evacuate. The one thing he did not want to do was shoot anyone. That would bring immeasurable grief his way. Better to be a simple thief, inflicting nothing more than a little property damage.
He stared up.
The third floor contained the room beneath the dome. Only the north and south staircases led there. Malone was clearly drawing him that way into a confined space.
Not today, Cotton.
He crept away from the stairs to the end of the corridor and peered out into the entrance hall. The woman had taken cover on his side of the room, behind a table, near the front windows and door. He aimed the gun above her head and obliterated a set of eighteen-paned windows directly behind her.
