by Steve Berry
“That should rattle their cages,” Davis said.
“Those sons of bitches irk my ass,” Daniels said. “You hear that arrogant NSA bastard as I left?”
“Carbonell is good,” Davis said. “She held her own.”
“Smug as hell, too. With balls. She’s our target. No question. In The Godfather, I love that book and movie, Don Corleone teaches Michael that ‘the one who comes to you with an offer of help will be your traitor.’ I know, I know. It’s fiction. But that screenwriter was right.”
“Why did you tell them about Stephanie?” Cassiopeia asked.
“It couldn’t hurt. At least they know finding her will please me and, right now, I imagine most of them want to do that. Maybe one of ’em will surprise me and actually do something. Is Cotton on his way?”
Davis told his boss that the Secret Service flight had been delayed because of weather, then said, “We have no idea how, or when, Wyatt will get there.”
“But he’ll be there,” Daniels said. “Did you learn about the locale?”
Davis nodded. “A letter exists in the National Archives, from a group in Cumberland, Nova Scotia, sent to George Washington. The locals expressed sympathy for the American revolutionary cause against the British and actually invited Washington and the Continental army to invade Nova Scotia. They wanted Halifax burned and the British gutted. We didn’t take them up on that offer entirely, but we did capture a few strategic sites. Fort Dominion was one of those. It helped guard our flank, keeping British ships out of Mahone Bay while our forces moved on Montreal and Quebec. When the British defeated us at Quebec, we abandoned Dominion and burned it. Jackson, as a military man, definitely would have known of Fort Dominion, and he would not have used the British name, Wildwood, for the site.”
Cassiopeia listened as Davis explained about 74 British soldiers who died at the fort under questionable circumstances during the American occupation. The colonial officers involved had been court-martialed, but were all acquitted. After the Revolution, Canada ceased being a military target, becoming more a haven for ambitious pirates and privateers. Nova Scotia ultimately attracted 30,000 British Loyalists from the newly formed United States, one-tenth of whom were fleeing slaves.
“But during the War of 1812 we tried to take Canada again,” Davis said. “We lost that one, too.”
“And what were we going to do with it?” Daniels asked, shaking his head. “Crazy thinking. Just like our roosters back there in the conference room. Accomplishing nothing but their own survival. What did you find out about the five symbols in the message?”
Davis reached for a file in his lap. “I had the national security staff do the research, people I can trust here, in house. Nothing flagged anywhere. But one of the staffers is a big conspiratorialist. Into a lot of the New Age stuff, and she recognized the symbols.”
Davis handed both Cassiopeia and the president a sheet of paper.
“That stone was supposedly found about ninety feet down in the Oak Island treasure pit. When they hit that slab they thought something valuable would be either with it or below it. Unfortunately, that was not the case.”
“What does it mean?” the president asked.
“It’s a simple transposition code.”
Davis handed them another sheet.
“It supposedly says, Forty Feet Below Two Million Pounds Are Buried.” Davis paused. “There’s just one problem. No one alive has ever seen this stone. No one knows if it ever existed. But every book about Oak Island, and there are many, mentions it.”
Davis explained the provenance.
The slab was apparently found by one of the treasure consortiums digging on the island around 1805. A local resident named John Smith subsequently used it in his fireplace for decoration. There it stayed for nearly fifty years, until Smith died. Then it disappeared.
“So how do we know what it looks like?” Daniels asked.
“An excellent question. One to which there is no good answer. That image you have is the one that’s in all the books.”
“Who deciphered it?”
“No one knows that, either. There are multiple stories.”
Daniels sat back in the chair, holding the two pages. “A stone no one has ever seen, translated by no one we know, yet Andrew Jackson uses nearly identical symbols to hide two missing congressional journal pages?”
“It’s possible,” Davis said, “Jackson could have heard tales of Oak Island. By 1835 treasure hunters had been digging there for years. Mahone Bay was also a pirate den. Perhaps he intended a touch of irony in the selection of his hiding place.”
“You’re awfully quiet,” Daniels said to her.
“We need to speak to your wife.”
“You anxious to use that phone tap?”
“I’m anxious about Stephanie.”
“We have Kaiser’s house video monitored now,” Davis said. “We snuck two agents in before dawn and installed a camera.”
“We have to send Hale a message,” she said. “Enough to flush him from the field, too.”
The president understood the importance. “I know. But I wonder. Did those damn pirates really try to kill me?”
“It’s possible,” Davis said.
“I meant what I told those people a few minutes ago,” Daniels said. “We’re going to take the whole bunch of ’em down.”
But she knew Daniels’ dilemma. There was no way this could escalate into a public fight. That would not be good for the White House, the intelligence community, or the country. Whatever he did had to be done in private. Which, she assumed, was where she and Cotton came in. Of course, only she and Davis were privy to what Quentin Hale really knew. But she agreed with Davis: Now was not the time to bring any of that up.
“Cotton needs to find those two missing pages,” Daniels said.
“It may not matter,” she said. “We can telegraph anything we want to Hale through that phone tap. We could lead him to believe that we already have them.”
“Which would help Stephanie,” Daniels said. “If the pirates have her.”
“You realize,” Cassiopeia said, “that Carbonell could have Stephanie-”
Daniels held up a hand. “I know. But I just made it clear that Stephanie’s life is important. And if Carbonell and the pirates are as close as everyone seems to think, then they’ll get that message, too. Let’s hope they all understand.”
She agreed.
“Pauline is in her office,” Daniels said. “She has to leave soon for an engagement. I asked her to wait and speak with you.”
Davis stood. So did she.
The president kept his eyes to the floor, his face solemn.
“Find Stephanie,” he said. “Do whatever you have to do. Lie, cheat, steal. I don’t care. Just find her.”
Cassiopeia and Edwin Davis entered the First Lady’s office. Pauline Daniels waited behind her desk and rose to greet them in a cordial tone. They sat at a grouping of chairs before an ornate French-style desk, the office door closed.
Cassiopeia felt like the odd person out but took charge and said, “We’re going to stage a conversation tonight on your phone. I’m told Ms. Kaiser’s out at an event until eight thirty. By the time she returns, I’ll have a script for you. Memorize the gist of it, then say it in your own words. Edwin will be here with you. I’ll be on the other end.”
The First Lady glanced at Davis. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea any of this would happen.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Danny thinks I betrayed him.”
“He said that?” Davis asked her.
“No. In fact, he didn’t say a word. And that was what said it all.” She shook her head. “I almost killed him.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Cassiopeia said in a curt tone.
“You have no sympathy for us, do you?”
“A woman’s life is at stake.”
The First Lady nodded. “So I’ve been told. Stephanie Nelle. Do you know her?”
“She’s my friend.”
“I can’t believe this is happening. Shirley and I have discussed many things. But I’m not privy to a great deal that goes on around here. As you may have gathered, the president and I exist in separate lives. I was only made aware of the New York trip in a passing remark. Honestly, I thought nothing about it. Just a quick trip up and back that would be kept quiet until the day of it.”
She heard the plea in her voice.
“I’ve been a fool,” the older woman said.
Cassiopeia didn’t disagree, but kept her mouth shut, as did Davis.
“I’m sure Edwin has made clear that nothing improper has occurred between us.”
“More than once.”
Pauline cast a weak smile. “I don’t know about you, Ms. Vitt, but this is a new experience for me. I’m unsure what to do.”
“Tell the truth. About everything.”
She waited to see if they both caught her message.
“I suppose it is time Danny and I discuss Mary. We haven’t in a long while.”
“I agree. But right now two people I care a great deal about are in danger, and we need your help.” She stood. “I’m headed back to Fredericksburg. I’ll call Edwin about seven and provide the script.”
She stepped toward the door but stopped and turned back. There was one other matter that the First Lady and Davis had ignored.
“Your husband said something to me once. ‘Don’t cut the dog’s tail off one inch at a time. If he’s going to howl, get it over with in one slice.’ I’d recommend you both follow that advice.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
HALE LISTENED TO HIS FATHER, WHO WAS SPEAKING AGAIN OF THINGS he was hearing for the first time.
“James Garfield was the only sitting member of the U.S. House of Representatives to ever be elected president. He served eighteen years in Congress before moving to the White House.”
His father had told him about Lincoln’s and McKinley’s assassinations, but he’d never mentioned the one that had occurred in between.
“Garfield was a major general who resigned his military commission in the middle of the Civil War, after being elected to Congress in 1863. He was instrumental in pushing Lincoln to prosecute us. He hated the Commonwealth and everything we did. Which is strange, considering how hawkish he was.”
“But we also aided the South, didn’t we?”
His father nodded. “That we did. But how could we abandon them?”
His father started coughing. That was happening more and more of late. He was approaching eighty, and sixty years of heavy smoking and hard drinking had finally caught up with him. He was wasting away. The last will and testament was ready, all of its provisions reviewed by the lawyers and the children informed as to what was expected of them once he was gone. He’d provided for everyone with great generosity, as was expected of Hale patriarchs. Quentin, though, was the recipient of an additional private bequest, which only one Hale heir could receive.
Membership in the Commonwealth.
Which came with the house and land in Bath.
“When Lincoln died,” his father said, “the country fell into chaos. Political factions fought one another with no room for compromise. Andrew Johnson, who succeeded Lincoln, was caught up in this fighting and impeached. Corruption and scandal marred the federal government for decades. Garfield served in the House during this time. Finally, in 1880, he was chosen by the Republicans as a compromise candidate, selected at the party’s convention on the thirty-sixth ballot.”
His father shook his head.
“Just our luck. We fought against him in the general election. Spent time and money. Winfield Hancock ran for the Democrats and took every state south of the Mason Dixon line. Garfield claimed the North and Midwest. Nine million ballots were cast that November and Garfield beat Hancock by only 1,898 votes. That election remains the smallest margin of victory in all our history. They each also carried 19 states, but Garfield’s brought him 59 more electoral votes than Hancock and he won.”
His father told him what happened next.
Garfield was sworn in on March 4, 1881, and immediately began an investigation of the Commonwealth. He was intent on prosecuting all four principals, who were still alive sixteen years after the Civil War. He convened a special military court and handpicked its panel. The four captains had expected no less from him and used the time between the 1880 election and the March 1881 inauguration to prepare. Charles Guiteau, a deranged lawyer from Illinois who’d convinced himself that he alone had been responsible for Garfield’s election, was recruited. His personal requests for some type of government position after Garfield was sworn in had all been rejected. For months he roamed both the White House grounds and the State Department seeking his reward. He became so insidious that he was banned from those premises. Eventually, he became convinced that God had commanded him to kill the president. After money was provided he bought a. 44 Webley British Bulldog revolver, with an ivory handle, because he thought it would look better as a museum exhibit after the assassination.
He then stalked Garfield for the month of June 1881.
“Presidents then had no protection,” his father said. “They walked among the crowds just as anyone else. They used public transportation. Amazing, really, considering that, by then, one had already been slain. But we were still innocent.”
Finally, on July 2, 1881, Guiteau confronted Garfield at a Washington railroad station and shot him twice. Garfield’s two sons, Secretary of State James Blaine, and his Secretary of War, Robert Todd Lincoln, were eyewitnesses.
One bullet grazed the shoulder, but another lodged in his spine.
“The damn fool shot him at point-blank range and didn’t kill him,” his father said. “Garfield lingered eleven weeks before he died. Nine months later Guiteau was hanged.”
Hale smiled at another of the Commonwealth’s successes.
Bold and brilliant.
Guiteau had been the perfect choice. At his trial he recited epic poems and sang “John Brown’s Body.” He solicited legal advice from spectators and dictated his autobiography to The New York Herald. Even if he implicated anyone, nobody would have believed him.
Hale’s father had died three months after telling him about Garfield. The funeral had been a grand affair. The entire company had attended. Hale had been immediately inducted as captain.
Thirty years ago.
Men still spoke of his father in reverent terms. Now he was about to do what his father had never accomplished.
Find their salvation.
A knock on the study door interrupted his thoughts.
He glanced up from the chair to see his secretary, who said, “She’s on the line, sir.”
He reached for the phone, a landline, secured, checked daily.
“What is it, Andrea?”
“Wyatt is weather-delayed in Boston. His plane was returned to the terminal. I’m told he should leave within the next two hours. I assume your man is away.”
“Gone.”
“He should arrive first, even though he has a longer flight. He can make it to the fort and be waiting. You see, Quentin, I’m trying to be cooperative.”
“Something new for you?”
Carbonell chuckled.
“Knox will handle the matter,” he said. “He’s good. But I do need to know something. Do you have a second spy in this company?”
“How about I answer that question after we see how successful your quartermaster will be.”
“All right. We’ll wait. That shouldn’t be but a few hours from now. Then I will want an answer to my question.”
“I’m assuming, Quentin, that once you have those two missing pages and your letters of marque are fortified, you will handle that other matter we discussed.”
Killing Stephanie Nelle.
“You can’t release her,” she said.
No, he couldn’t. But two could play her game.
“How
about I answer that question after you answer mine.”
WYATT WAS GROWING IMPATIENT. RAIN BLANKETED THE Boston airport, and the gate attendant had informed everyone that the weather should pass within the next hour and flights would resume shortly after that. That meant it would be close to nightfall before he reached the island.
No matter. Whatever was there had waited 175 years, another few hours would not be a problem.
His cellphone vibrated in his pocket. He’d switched the unit back on once he was inside the terminal. It was a prepaid disposable bought yesterday in New York. Only one person had the number.
“I understand the weather is awful,” Carbonell said.
“Bad enough.”
“I just came from the White House. The president knows all about you.”
No surprise there, once Malone had spotted him.
“Lucky for me I’m leaving under another name,” he said in a low voice, huddled across the concourse at an empty gate.
“CIA, NSA-none of them knows a thing,” she said. “Malone erased his copy of the solution off his email and his Danish server doesn’t keep backups. But Malone doesn’t have the cipher wheel.”
“You gluing it back together?”
“Why do I have to? I have you.”
“And the point of this call?”
“I thought you’d like to know where you stand, considering your weather problem. Though the White House is investigating, you still have an open-field run to the goal line.”
Like he believed her. Nothing was ever that easy.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Be successful.”
And he ended the call.
FIFTY-EIGHT
HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA
4:10 PM
MALONE DROVE INTO THE TOWN OF MAHONE BAY-FOUNDED, the sign welcoming him proclaimed, in 1754. It nestled close to the inlet of the same name, crisscrossed by winding streets and lined with Victorian-era architecture. Three towering church spires kept watch. Yachts and sailboats rimmed the waterfront. A late-afternoon sun cast weak rays of smoky light through refreshingly cool air.
