by Steve Berry
He adjusted his aim, searching for the right trajectory.
One round found the mark, spanking off the aluminum.
The box he grasped felt thin, the aluminum pliable. He hoped the other was made of the same.
Two more high-powered rounds found the target.
A third bullet penetrated.
Blue sparks exploded.
Flames erupted as a rocket left the launcher.
WYATT FINISHED HIS SALAD AS CADILLAC ONE SPED TOWARD the intersection. He’d heard the second window shatter. Men below raced down the sidewalk and were now firing upward. But the Secret Service’s P229 Sig Sauers would do little good, and the submachine guns that usually followed the president in support vehicles had been left in Washington. As had the snipers.
Mistakes, mistakes.
He heard an explosion.
Rocket away.
He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and glanced down. Daniels’ car cleared the intersection, heading toward the United Nations building and the East River. It would probably take Roosevelt Drive and find either a hospital or the airport. He recalled from days gone by when a special subway train was kept waiting on a dedicated track near the Waldorf Astoria hotel, ready to whisk the president out of Manhattan without delay.
Not anymore.
Useless.
The two suited agents rushed from the restaurant, heading for an adjacent stairway that wound down to the Hyatt’s main entrance.
He laid his napkin down and stood.
All of the servers, the hostess, even the kitchen staff were crowded at the windows. He doubted anyone would bring a check. He recalled the price of the salad, compensated for the wine, added a 30 percent tip—he prided himself on being generous—and laid down a fifty-dollar bill. Probably too much, but he had no time for change.
The rocket never found the ground, and a second and third never fired. Obviously, the hero had completed his performance.
Now it was time to watch Cotton Malone’s luck run out.
FOUR
CLIFFORD KNOX SEVERED THE RADIO CONNECTION AND SHUT down the laptop. The rocket launcher had fired only once, and the projectile had not found the presidential limousine. The closed-circuit television feeds—courtesy of cameras installed in both automated units—had delivered jerky images, shifting right and left. He’d repeatedly had trouble keeping the rifle aimed downward, the thing not responding to his commands. He’d ordered both the propellants and the explosives modified, ensuring that the three warheads could destroy a heavily armored vehicle.
Everything had been in working order this morning.
So what had happened?
The image from the television screen, blaring at him from across his hotel room, explained the failure.
Cellphones from the street had captured pictures and videos that had already been emailed to the networks. They showed a man balancing out of a shattered window in the Grand Hyatt, high above East 42nd Street. He straddled a metal structure and jerked the device one way, then another, finally directing its rifle fire toward the rocket launcher, destroying its electronics just as the weapon fired.
Knox had delivered the firing command. Three rockets should have discharged, one after the other. But only one emerged, and it flew off into the southern sky.
The room’s phone rang.
He answered and a gravelly voice on the other end said, “This is a disaster.”
His gaze stayed on the television screen. More images showed the two devices projecting outward from dark rectangles in the Grand Hyatt’s glass facade. A scrolling banner at the bottom of the screen informed viewers that there was no word yet on the president’s condition.
“Who was the man who interfered?” a new voice asked in his ear.
He imagined the scene on the other end of the line. Three men, each in their early fifties, dressed casually, sitting in an elegant salon, crowded around a speakerphone.
The Commonwealth.
Minus one.
“I have no idea,” he said into the phone. “Obviously, I didn’t expect any interference.”
Not much could be gleaned about the intruder, except that he was Caucasian, with sandy-colored hair, a dark jacket, and light-colored pants. His face had been impossible to see thanks to the cellphone cameras’ low resolution and plenty of lens movement. The scrolling banner on the screen informed viewers that the man had appeared, been fired upon, diverted one weapon onto the other, then disappeared back inside.
“How would anyone have known about this?” came a question in his ear. “Much less be in a position to stop it.”
“We obviously have a security leak.”
Silence on the other end of the phone confirmed that they agreed.
“Quartermaster,” one of the men said, using Knox’s official title, “you were in charge of this operation. Its failure is your responsibility.”
He realized that.
Like the ship’s captain of long ago, a quartermaster was chosen by the crew, charged with safeguarding the company’s interests. While a captain retained absolute authority during any conflict, a ship’s everyday administration rested with the quartermaster. He allocated provisions, distributed spoils, adjudicated conflicts, and meted out discipline. A captain could undertake little without the quartermaster approving. That system remained today, except with the further complication that four captains commanded the Commonwealth. Knox reported to each of them, both individually and collectively. He also oversaw the crew, those who worked directly for the Commonwealth.
“We clearly have a spy among us,” he repeated.
“Do you realize what will happen from this? The repercussions will be enormous.”
Knox sucked in a breath. “The worst of which is that Captain Hale was excluded from your decision.”
His comment would not be deemed insubordinate. A good quartermaster spoke his mind, unafraid, since his power came from the crew, not the captain. He’d cautioned them a week ago that this plan was ill advised. He’d kept to himself a further observation that he thought it bordered on desperation. But when three of the four in charge issued an order, it was his duty to obey.
“Both your counsel and objections have been noted,” one of the men said. “We made the decision.”
But that might not be enough once Quentin Hale realized what the others had done. This particular course was one the Commonwealth had sailed before, but not in many decades. Knox’s father had been the last quartermaster to attempt the feat, and he’d succeeded. But that had been a different time, with different rules.
“Perhaps Captain Hale should be told,” he advised.
“Like he doesn’t already know,” one of the men said. “We’ll hear from him soon enough. In the meantime, what are you going to do?”
He’d been considering that move. No way existed for anyone to trace the mechanisms found in the two hotel rooms. They’d been manufactured in secret by crew members, every piece sanitized. No matter the outcome the machinery would have been discovered, so precautions had been taken. The two hotel rooms at the Grand Hyatt were registered to fictitious individuals—crew members who’d appeared at the front desk in disguise and paid with credit cards that relied on false identifications. Suitcases had held the various parts, and through the night he’d personally assembled the devices piece by piece. A DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door had ensured privacy all day. He’d controlled both weapons from here—blocks away—by radio, and the signals were now severed.
Everything had been carefully designed.
At times, in centuries past, quartermasters had been allowed to assume the helm, steering the ship’s course. The Commonwealth had just handed him the wheel.
“I’ll handle things.”
MALONE WRESTLED WITH A DECISION. HE’D SPOTTED AGENTS heading for the Grand Hyatt’s main entrance. The Secret Service was thorough, which meant there were most likely agents already in the hotel, stationed where they could have observed the street below. They’d surely been c
ontacted and ordered to head for both rooms. Should he leave? Or just wait for them?
Then he recalled the envelope in his pocket.
He tore it open to see a typewritten note.
I needed you to see these. Disable them before the president arrives. This could not be accomplished any sooner. I’ll explain why later. You can’t trust anyone, especially Secret Service. This conspiracy reaches far. Leave the hotel and I’ll contact you before midnight by phone.
Stephanie
Decision made.
Time to go.
Apparently Stephanie was into something huge. He should at least follow her instructions.
For now.
He realized cellphones carried cameras and the sidewalks below had been crowded. His image would soon be splattered on every media outlet. He’d only been exposed for a couple of minutes, so he hoped that whatever pictures had been captured were not of the best quality.
He opened the door, not worrying about leaving evidence. His fingerprints were all over the device dangling out the window.
He calmly walked down the deserted hall toward the elevators. A lingering scent of nicotine reminded him that this was the smoking floor. No one appeared from any of the rooms that opened on either side.
He turned a corner.
Ten elevators serviced the hotel. Nothing indicated where those cars were currently located. He decided none of them was the smart play. His gaze searched left, then right, and he spotted the stairway exit.
He opened the metal door, listened, heard nothing, then slipped out.
He climbed two stories and hesitated at the 17th floor. All quiet. He stepped out into another elevator foyer nearly identical to the one two floors below. A similar side table with a flower arrangement and mirror adorned the wall.
He stared at himself.
What in the world was happening?
Somebody had just tried to kill the president of the United States and, at the moment, he was a prime person of interest.
He removed his jacket and exposed a pale blue buttondown shirt underneath. They’d be searching for a man with light hair and a dark jacket. He spotted a trash bin, topped by more artificial flowers, between two of the elevator doors, and stuffed the jacket inside.
From his left, down the hall, a family approached. Mom, Dad, three kids. They seemed excited and were talking about Times Square and one of its neon signs. Dad pressed the UP button, summoning the elevator. Malone stood patiently with them and waited for the car to arrive. These people had somehow missed the whole thing. You’d think it would have been hard to ignore a rocket propelling out into the sky, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. Tourists, though, had always baffled him. Højbro Plads, back in Copenhagen where his bookstore sat, was filled with them daily.
The elevator arrived and he allowed the family on first. Dad inserted a room card into a slot that granted access to the thirty-first floor. Apparently, that was reserved for special guests, probably the concierge level. Malone decided it might be a good place to think.
“Oh, you got it for me,” he said.
They rode in silence up another fourteen floors, then they all stepped off. Just as he suspected, the hotel’s concierge lounge was there, available only to guests who’d paid for the privilege. He allowed Dad to go first and the guy inserted his key card into another slot and opened the glass-paneled door.
Malone followed the family inside.
The L-shaped lounge was crowded with people enjoying a cold buffet of meats, cheese, and fruit. He surveyed the room and immediately spotted two suits with ear fobs and lapel mikes glued to the windows that faced East 42nd Street.
Secret Service.
He grabbed an apple from a wooden bowl on a table, along with a copy of the day’s New York Times. He retreated to the far side of the room, munched on his apple, and sat, one eye on the newspaper, the other on the agents.
And hoped he hadn’t just made a third mistake.
FIVE
PAMLICO SOUND, NORTH CAROLINA
HALE SAT IN ADVENTURE’S MAIN SALON AND NOTICED THEY’D veered west, leaving open ocean behind and entering the sound. What had been blue-gray water now turned coffee-colored, thanks to a steady flow of sediment brought east by the meandering Pamlico River. Log-hewn canoes, pole-propelled periaugers, and shoal-draft steamboats all once plied these waters. But so had sloops, corsairs, and frigates, manned by opportunists who’d called the densely wooded shores of the isolated Carolina colony home. The Pamlico comprised some of the most complex waterways on the planet. A vast array of oyster-rock islets, tidal marshes, hammocks, and sloughs. Its farthest coasts were stunted by dangerous capes whose names—Lookout and Fear—warned of tragedy, the open sea beyond so treacherous it had earned the title Graveyard of the Atlantic.
He’d been born and raised nearby, as had Hales back to the early part of the 18th century. He learned to sail as a boy and was taught how to avoid the ever-changing shoals and negotiate the dangerous currents. Ocracoke Inlet, which they’d just traversed, was where in November 1718 Black Beard himself had finally been cut down. Locals still spoke of both him and his lost treasure with reverence.
He stared down at the table where the two documents lay.
He’d brought them with him, knowing that once the matter of his accountant had been resolved, he would need to turn his attention back to a mistake made by Abner Hale, his great-great-grandfather, who’d tried, on January 30, 1835, to assassinate President Andrew Jackson.
The first time in history that a sitting president’s life had been directly threatened.
And Jackson’s response to that attempt—a handwritten letter to Abner, now sheathed in plastic—had tortured Hales ever since.
So you have at last yielded to traitorous impulses. Your patience is no longer restrained. I am content with that. This shall be war, as great as when the martial hosts of this nation are summoned to tented fields. You have clamored for a fight and I shall not skulk in a corner now that the first shot has been fired. Because I would not yield to your advances, accede to your demands, or bow in your presence, my life is deemed unnecessary? You dare send an assassin? To retreat from such a gross offense would be shameful. My feelings are most alive and, I assure you, so am I. Your assassin spends his days muttering nonsense. You chose this servant well. He shall be adjudged insane and secreted away, not a single person ever believing a word he might utter. No evidence exists of your conspiracy, but we both are aware that you convinced the man named Richard Lawrence to aim those pistols. At this moment, when my feelings are thus so alive, I should do violence to them if I did not hasten your downfall. Yet I have been perplexed as to a response. And so, after seeking counsel and guidance from some who are wiser than I, a proper course has been chosen. My object in making this communication is to announce that what legal authority existed to shield your thievery is gone. I have stripped all reference to your letter of marque from the official congressional reports. When you approach another president and ask that your letter be respected, he will not be bound by the law as I have been. To increase your torment, and thus to prolong the agony of your helpless situation, I have not destroyed the authority. That would have been my course, I confess, but others have convinced me that such certainty might make your situation so helpless that it would inspire further acts of desperation. Since you adore secrets and plot your life along a path in the shadows, I offer you a challenge that should suit you. The sheet attached to this letter is a code, one formulated by the esteemed Thomas Jefferson. I am told he thought it to be the perfect cipher. Succeed in learning its message and you will know where I have hidden what you crave. Fail and you remain the pathetic traitors that you are today. I must admit, I like this course much better. I shall soon retire home to Tennessee and the final years of my life, awaiting the day when I will sleep beside my beloved Rachel. My sincerest hope is that the unmanly course ascribed to you shall be your ruin and that I shall live to enjoy that day.
Andrew Jackso
n
Hale stared at the second sheet, it also encased in plastic.
His family had tried to solve Jefferson’s cipher for 175 years. Experts had been hired. Money had been spent.
But the key had eluded them.
He heard footsteps approaching from the ship’s forward and his personal secretary entered the salon.
“Switch on the television.”
He saw the look of concern in the man’s eyes.
“It’s bad.”
He found the remote and activated the screen.
MALONE FINISHED HIS APPLE AND KEPT THE NEWSPAPER OPEN before him. He noticed no story about any presidential trip to New York. Odd. Presidents usually appeared with much fanfare. He should leave the hotel, and quickly. Every second he lingered was making the effort that much more difficult. He knew the Grand Hyatt lived up to its name, a massive, multistoried complex that thousands of people streamed into and out of twenty-four hours a day. Doubtful that the police or Secret Service could seal off every access, at least not this fast. Two televisions played in the room, and he saw how cellphone cameras had indeed captured images—but thankfully, most were blurred messes. No word as yet on Daniels’ condition. People chattered about the attack, remarking how it had occurred right below them. A few had heard the bangs and seen the rocket. The two suits with radios on the other side of the lounge kept their attention below, talking into their radios.
He stood to leave.
The agents abandoned the window and rushed straight for him. He braced himself to react, noting that the thick wooden table supporting the apples and newspapers could be used to break their advance.
Of course, they carried guns and he didn’t, so a table would go only so far.
The two agents brushed past him and bolted out the door, straight for the elevators, one of which they entered when an open car arrived.
He heaved a silent sigh, then left, pressing the DOWN button, deciding to take the direct approach.
