by Steve Berry
He found the two loose disks and studied how to add them. A metal rod ran through the center of the other twenty-four disks, attached to the frame and held in place by a retaining pin. He noticed that the disks, about a quarter inch wide, fit tightly, no spare room except at the end where there was space for two more.
He examined the two loose ones. Each, like the others, contained the letters of the alphabet, carved into their edge, broken by crooked lines above and below. He’d read enough about the wheel to know that the disks had to be arranged on the rod in a certain order. But Jackson had not included any instructions as to that, only adding the five curious symbols at the end. He decided to try the obvious and rotated the first visible disk on the rod and saw a carved 3 on its inside face. The two loose disks showed a 1 and 2 in the same spot.
Perhaps the order was simply numerical.
He freed the center post from the frame, held it firm so the remaining disks would not shake loose, and slipped the two disks onto the rod in the correct order.
He reattached the rod and found Andrew Jackson’s message, which he’d jotted down earlier.
HALE COULD FEEL THE TENSION IN THE ROOM, THICK AFTER only one selection.
Now it was Bolton’s turn.
His adversary glared at the remaining five glasses. Surcouf and Cogburn watched in apparent disbelief. Good. Those two should understand that he was not a man to challenge.
Bolton focused on the glasses.
Interesting that the usually hapless fool showed no fear. Was it anger that protected him? Or recklessness?
Bolton chose, lifting the glass and swallowing its contents.
One second. Two. Three. Four.
Nothing.
Bolton smiled. “Back to you, Quentin.”
WYATT STUDIED THE SEQUENCE OF TWENTY-SIX LETTERS THAT Andrew Jackson had hidden behind the Jefferson cipher.
GYUOINESCVOQXWJTZPKLDEMFHR
Starting at the left, and the disk he knew was labeled 1, he rotated until he found a G. He continued with the next disk, locating a Y. He kept finding the relevant letters in the sequence.
The chopper brushed the outskirts of Charlottesville, flying over the University of Virginia. Carbonell was waiting for him a few miles ahead. They’d agreed to no calls or radio contact during the flight to lessen the chance of anyone listening in or following. The pilot was payroll NIA, loyal to his boss. He began to realize why the disks were so tightly packed on the spindle. Friction kept them from moving once the desired letter was found.
A forest of foliage spread out below as they flew westward toward more trees.
He had little time left.
So he kept finding letters.
HALE GULPED HIS SECOND GLASS OF WHISKEY, WASTING NO time in his selection. He waited five seconds, knowing that the poison worked incredibly fast.
His father had told him about another challenge, one that happened long ago with Abner Hale. After the failed attempt on Andrew Jackson’s life, and the gutting of the Commonwealth’s letters of marque, tension among the four captains reached a climax when a Surcouf challenged a Hale. Kentucky bourbon had been the beverage of choice then. On the second selection, the one he’d just swallowed, Abner’s eyes had rolled to the top of his head and he’d dropped dead. That had happened not in the room they now occupied, but somewhere within the current house’s footprint in a parlor not all that dissimilar to this one. Abner Hale’s death had relieved the pressure within the Commonwealth. His successor, Hale’s great-grandfather, was more moderate and did not suffer the stigma of what his father had done.
That was another thing about pirate society.
Each man proved himself.
The whiskey settled in his stomach.
No poison.
The odds had just worsened for Bolton.
One in three.
WYATT SPOTTED THEIR DESTINATION ABOUT A MILE AWAY. AN
underdeveloped industrial park with a paved lot that spanned out before a couple of dilapidated metal buildings. Two SUVs waited. A single person stood on the asphalt, looking his way.
Andrea Carbonell.
He found the twenty-sixth letter.
An R.
He pressed the tips of his fingers on the far left and far right disks and rotated all twenty-six in unison. He knew that somewhere in the circle, among the twenty-six different arrangements of letters there should be a coherent message that spanned the disks’ length.
A quarter turn later he saw it.
Five words.
He committed them to memory, then rescrambled the disks.
KNOX SAW EDWARD BOLTON LABOR OVER HIS SECOND CHOICE and, for the first time, spotted hesitation as the captain debated the remaining three glasses.
Just watching rattled his nerves.
He never dreamed that he would actually witness a challenge. His father had told him about them, none of which had ever gone this far. But that was the whole point of something so unpredictable, its message clear. Don’t fight. Work it out. Still, no captain had ever wanted to show cowardice, so Edward Bolton held firm, knowing that one of the three remaining glasses would prove fatal.
Hale’s dark eyes, oily and alive, stared unblinking.
Bolton brought a glass to his lips.
Mouth open, he threw the contents to the back of his throat and swallowed.
Five seconds passed.
Nothing.
Surcouf and Cogburn exhaled together.
Bolton grinned, an undisguised hint of relief at the corners of his mouth.
Not bad, Knox thought.
Not bad at all.
FIFTY-ONE
HALE STUDIED BOTH REMAINING GLASSES. SIX INCHES OF POLISHED wood separated them.
One contained death.
“Enough of this,” Cogburn said. “You’ve both proven your point. Okay. You’re men, you can take it. Stop this now.”
Bolton shook his head. “No way. It’s his turn.”
“And if I choose wrong, you’re rid of me,” Hale said.
“You challenged me. We’re not stopping. Choose a damn glass.”
Hale stared down. The amber liquid lay still as a pond in each. He lifted one glass and swirled its contents.
Then, the other.
Bolton watched him with an intense glare.
He reached for a glass. “This one.”
He lifted it to his lips.
All three captains and Knox stared at him. He kept his eyes locked on their faces. He wanted them to know that he possessed true courage. He poured the contents into his mouth, swished the liquor between his gums, and swallowed.
His eyes went wide, his breathing shallow.
He choked, as the muscles in his face contorted.
He reached for his chest.
Then he dropped to the floor.
WYATT WAITED AS THE HELICOPTER SETTLED ON THE LANDING area, the wheel back in the nylon bag. He’d worked intelligence since graduating from college, recruited while in the military. He was neither liberal nor conservative, neither Republican nor Democrat. He was simply an American who’d served his country until deemed too reckless to be kept on the payroll. He’d made his contribution to intelligence gathering in some of the hottest spots on the planet. He’d been instrumental in uncovering two sleeper agents within the CIA, both tried and convicted as spies. He’d also taken down a double agent, carrying out a clandestine order to kill the man, despite the fact that, officially, America assassinated no one.
Never once had he violated orders.
Not even that day with Malone, when two men died. But he was no longer bound by any rules or ethics.
He could do as he pleased.
Which was another reason why he’d stayed in this fight.
He stepped from the chopper, which immediately lifted from the ground and departed. Most likely it would soon be in a hangar, safe from any prying eyes.
Carbonell waited for him alone. No driver in the SUV.
“I see you were successful,” she said
.
She’d changed, and was now dressed in a short navy-blue skirt and white jacket that clung to her curvy frame. Sandals with medium heels adorned her feet. He stood a few feet away, holding the bagged wheel. His gun rested at the base of his spine, tucked behind his belt.
“What now?” he asked her.
She motioned at one of the vehicles. “The keys are in it. Take it wherever you want.”
He feigned interest in the SUV. “Can I keep it?”
She chuckled. “If it’ll make you happy. I don’t really give a damn.”
He faced her.
“You worked the wheel and know the location, don’t you?” she asked.
“I do.”
“Can you get those two missing pages?”
“I’m the only person on the planet who can.”
He realized the unique position he presently found himself in. Standing here, holding the one thing in the world that this woman needed more than anything else. With it she could find the missing two congressional pages and complete whatever scheme she’d devised. Without it, she was no better off than anyone else.
He slammed the nylon bag to the pavement and heard two-hundred-year-old wooden disks shatter.
“You can glue them back together. Should take a week or so. Good luck.”
And he walked toward the SUV.
KNOX LOCKED HIS EYES ON THE BODY OF QUENTIN HALE, LYING on the floor. Neither Surcouf nor Cogburn had moved.
Bolton stared with visible relief, before saying, “Good riddance.”
One glass remained on the table.
The victor reached for it. “Hales are the reason we’re in this mess, and they never would have gotten us out. I say we use that woman in the prison to our advantage and make a bargain.”
“Like that’s going to work,” Cogburn said.
“You got a better idea, Charles?” Bolton asked. “Do you, John? How about you, Quartermaster?”
But Knox could not have cared less about them. He wanted only to save himself, and now more than ever. These men were not simply reckless, they were idiotic. None of them paid attention to anything.
Bolton lifted the final glass in a toast. “To our fallen captain. May he enjoy hell.”
Knox lunged forward and slapped the whiskey from Bolton’s fingers. The glass rattled across the wood floor, its contents scattering.
Bolton stared at him in shock. “What the hell-”
“Dammit, Clifford,” Hale said, rising from the floor.
Shock invaded the three captains’ faces.
“I had him right where I wanted him,” Hale said. “He would have drunk himself straight to death.”
Bolton was visibly shaken.
“That’s right, Edward,” Hale said. “Another second and you would have been dead.”
“You cheating bastard,” Bolton spat out.
“Me? Cheating? Tell me. If I had not faked dying, would you have drunk the last glass, knowing it contained the poison?”
Which would have been expected by the others to complete the challenge. Of course, if the final glass was the one with the poison, the captain faced with the choice of drinking could always withdraw, thereby declaring the other the winner.
“I need to know, Edward. Would you?”
Silence.
Hale chuckled. “Just what I thought. I wasn’t cheating. I was merely helping you along a path you never would have taken.”
Knox had immediately realized Hale was not dead. The way he’d reacted to the poison was atypical. He’d used the substance enough to know precisely how it affected the human body, Scott Parrott being the latest example just a few hours ago.
Hale glared at his three compatriots. “I do not want to hear another word out of any of you. Do not screw with me anymore.”
None of them spoke.
Knox was pleased on two counts.
First, Edward Bolton knew that he’d just saved his life. Second, so did the other two captains.
Both should definitely count for something.
FIFTY-TWO
MONTICELLO
MALONE ENTERED THE GRIFFIN DISCOVERY ROOM, LOCATED on the ground floor of the visitor center. The curator had explained that the facility was designed as a hands-on activity center for children, intended to teach them about the estate, Jefferson, and life in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. Scattered about the organized space was a reproduction of the estate, a facsimile of Jefferson’s alcove bed, a nail-making shop, a slave dwelling, a weaver’s studio, an exhibit that allowed the wielding of a blacksmith’s hammer, and a duplicate of Jefferson’s polygraph machine. Several children, their parents watching, enjoyed the self-directed activities.
“This place is popular,” the curator told him.
Cassiopeia, Edwin Davis, and the estate manager had come, too.
He spotted the replicated wheel. Three kids were spinning its tan-colored disks.
“It’s made of resin,” the curator said. “The original is far more fragile. Those disks are carved wood, over two hundred years old, about a quarter inch thick, and crack easily.”
He caught the concern in her voice. “I’m sure the thief is going to be careful.”
At least until he deciphers the message, he silently added.
The kids fled the wheel exhibit heading for something new. Malone walked over and examined the twenty-six disks threaded onto a metal rod. On the edge of each were black letters, separated by black lines.
“Do you have the sequence written down?” the curator asked.
“He doesn’t need it,” Cassiopeia said, adding a smile.
No, he didn’t.
His eidetic brain rattled them off.
GYUOINESCVOQXWJTZPKLDEMFHR
He spun the disks, assembling them in the correct order.
WYATT KEPT WALKING TOWARD THE CAR.
“I knew you’d read the message,” she called out.
He stopped and turned.
She stood in the sun, her face a mask. The nylon bag remained on the asphalt. He realized that her calculating brain had rattled through the options and quickly determined that there was no play left, except to deal with him. Destroying the disks had ensured his safety, since now only he knew the location.
She walked toward him and kept coming, stopping only when she was inches away. “Triple your fee. One-half deposited within the next two hours in the bank of your choice. The remaining part when you deliver the two documents to me intact.”
There was the obvious. “You realize the Commonwealth would pay far more for them.”
“Of course. But, like this morning, you apparently need something only I can provide. That’s why you’re talking with me right now instead a driving away in your new SUV.”
She was right. In order to do as Andrew Jackson directed he required a few items and had no time to procure them himself. “I need a clean passport.”
“And where would you be going?”
Since he doubted he could shield his movements from her anyway, he told her about Paw Island, Nova Scotia, then made clear, “Only you and I know this location. So only you and I can tell someone else.”
“Your way of keeping me honest?”
“If anyone else appears there, whatever I find goes up in flames. And you and the Commonwealth can go to hell.”
“This your way of showing that you’re better than me?”
He shook his head. “It’s just my way.”
She tossed him an understanding grin. “That’s what I like about you, Jonathan. You know exactly what you want. Okay. We’ll do this your way.”
CASSIOPEIA GLANCED OVER COTTON’S SHOULDER AS HE ARRANGED the disks. She and Edwin Davis had never finished their conversation, and there was much still to be said, but it would have to wait. And to think that she’d flown to New York simply to have a romantic weekend. Now she was embroiled in a true sticky wicket. She smiled at the phrase, one her father liked to use. He’d loved cricket, sponsoring several Spanish national teams. Sport
s had been important to him. Unfortunately, she hadn’t inherited his passion. But this was one sticky wicket, and just as hard crust atop wet soil caused a cricket ball to bounce in any direction, the same was true here. Lots of secrets, egos, and personalities. Not to mention the fact that two of the players were among the best-known people on the planet.
Cotton finished his task and said, “Those five symbols at the end of Jackson’s message are not on these disks. So they must be part of something else.”
He held all twenty-six disks in place and rotated them as a unit.
“There it is,” he said.
She focused on the black letters. One row, all the way across, formed words connected without spaces.
PAWISLANDMAHONEBAYDOMINION
“We need a computer,” Cotton said.
The curator led them to an office off the exhibit room where a desktop waited. Cassiopeia decided to do the honors and typed PAW
ISLAND, MAHONE BAY.
The screen filled with sites. She selected one.
Mahone Bay was located at 44°30?N, 64°15?W, just off the coast of Nova Scotia, a respectable body of water that opened to the Atlantic Ocean. Named after the French mahonne, which was a type of boat once used by the locals. Dotted with nearly 400 islands, the most famous of which was Oak Island, where for more than two hundred years treasure hunters had excavated a deep pit into the bedrock, searching to no avail for gold. Paw Island was south of Oak, upon which lay a British fort, long abandoned, once called Dominion.
“Jackson chose his site with care,” Cotton said. “That’s about as out of the way as you can get. But it’s appropriate. That area has long been associated with piracy. It was a haven for pirates in the 18th century.” He faced Davis. “I’m going.”
“I agree. It’s the best thing for Stephanie. We need those pages.”
