by Steve Berry
The conference room door opened and Cassiopeia stepped inside. She removed a navy jacket and cap, exposing damp, dark hair.
She looked great, as always.
“It’s not exactly dinner and a show,” he said. “But it is Air Force One.”
She smiled. “Never a dull moment.”
“Now that the gang’s all here,” Daniels said. “We can get down to business.”
“And what might that be?” Cassiopeia asked.
“It’s so good to see you again, too,” the president said to her.
Malone knew Cassiopeia had worked with Daniels before—on something she and Stephanie had teamed up on. The two women were close friends. Their connection stretched as far back as Stephanie’s late husband, Lars. So she, too, would be concerned that Stephanie was in trouble.
Cassiopeia shrugged. “I don’t know how good it is. I’m accused of trying to kill you. Since you’re obviously not dead, why are we here?”
Daniels’ face turned hard. “It’s not good. Not good at all.”
FIFTEEN
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
HALE STEPPED FROM ADVENTURE AND MARCHED DOWN THE dock. The crew was busy securing the sloop to the end of the two-hundred-foot expanse. The late-summer sun faded to the west, the air acquiring a familiar chill. All the land along the river, nearly twenty square miles, belonged to the Commonwealth—the tracts allocated centuries ago among the four families, the riverbank divided equally. Bath lay a couple of miles east, now a sleepy village of 267 residents—mostly weekend homes and river cottages—none of its former glory remaining. The Hales’ quarter of the estate had always been meticulously maintained. Four houses dotted the surrounding woods, one for each of the Hale children and one for himself. He lived here most of the time, occupying apartments in New York, London, Paris, and Hong Kong only when necessary. The other clans were the same. It had been that way since 1793, when the Commonwealth formed.
An electric cart awaited him and he drove through groves of oak, pine, and cypress to his home, a mansion erected in 1883 in Queen Anne style, flush with irregular forms and dramatic rooflines. Balconies and porches wrapped each of its three levels, opening off twenty-two rooms. Warmth and character sprang from olive walls, shingles mixed in pale red and gray slate, glittering diamond-paned windows, and mahogany-stained doors. Its elaborate woodwork had been crafted in Philadelphia, then shipped south and hauled from the river by oxcart.
His ancestors had certainly known how to live. They’d built an empire, then passed it down to their children. Which made his current predicament even more compelling.
He was not going to be the last in a long line.
He stopped the cart and surveyed the grounds.
The grove beyond was quiet as a church, dotted with shadows, the dwindling open patches whitened by the setting sun. Crew kept the estate in superb working order. What was once a hip-roofed dairy had been remodeled into a workshop. The old smokehouse contained a communications and security center. The privies were long gone, but the saddle-notched log barns remained, each housing farming equipment. He was particularly proud of the grape arbors, his scuppernongs some of the state’s sweetest. He wondered if any of his children were back on the property. They were all grown and married, but none, as yet, with children of their own. They worked in the legitimate family enterprises, aware of their heritage but ignorant of his responsibilities. That had always been kept between father and the singular chosen offspring. To this day his sister and brother knew nothing of the Commonwealth. The time was coming when he’d have to choose his successor and start the grooming process, just as his father had done with him.
He imagined what was happening a mile away as the other three captains, heads of their respective families, responded to his summons. He told himself to control his temper. In 1835 Hales had acted unilaterally to the detriment of the others. Now it was the other way around.
He depressed the accelerator and drove on.
The gravel road paralleled one of his most productive soybean fields, the thick woods on the opposite side loaded with deer. The deep alto of a blackbird, singing the last strophes of a ballad, could be heard in the distance. His life had always been about the outdoors. Hales first came to America from England in 1700, on a voyage across the Atlantic that took so long the pet rabbits had bred three times.
He’d always liked how that first Hale had been described.
A vigorous, intelligent man of wit and charm and diverse abilities.
John Hale arrived at Charles Town, in South Carolina, on Christmas Day. Three days later he plunged northward along trails known only to Natives. Two weeks after that he found the Pamlico River and a blue, tree-ringed bay where he built a house. He then founded a port, sheltered from attack by water, but navigable on an easterly course to the sea. He named it Bath Town, and five years later its incorporation was formally approved.
Always ambitious, John Hale built ships and made his fortune in the slave trade. As his wealth and reputation grew, so did Bath, the town becoming a center of nautical activity and a hotbed for piracy. So it was only natural that Hale became a pirate, preying off British, French, and Spanish shipping. In 1717, when King George announced his Act of Grace, granting absolution for men who swore they would not resume buccaneering, Hale pledged his oath and, openly, became a respected planter and Bath councilman. Secretly, his ships continued to wreak havoc, but he targeted only the Spanish, which the British would care little about. The colonies became an ideal market for the buying and selling of illegal goods. Under British law American exports could be shipped only on English ships with English sailors—a nightmare relative to cost and supply. Colonial merchants and governors greeted pirates with open arms since they could supply what was needed at the right price. Many American ports became pirate dens, Bath the most notable and productive. Eventually the Revolutionary War changed allegiances and led to the formation of the Commonwealth.
Ever since, the four families had been bound.
To pledge our Unity and assert our Cause, every Man has a Vote in Affairs of Moment; has equal Title to the fresh provisions, or strong Liquors, at any Time seized, and may use them at Pleasure. No man is better than Another and each Shall rise to the Defense of the Other.
Words from the Articles, which he took to heart.
He stopped the cart before another of the estate’s buildings, this one with a hipped roof, gables, dormers, and a tower at one end. It rose two stories with a cantilevered stairway. The delightful nature of its exterior concealed the fact that it acted as a prison.
He punched in a code for the heavy oak door and released the latch. Once the walls had been fashioned of only brick and timber. Now they were soundproofed with the latest technology. Inside were eight cells. Not a horrible prison, but a prison nonetheless. One that came in handy.
Like a few days ago, when Knox moved on the target.
He climbed to the second floor and approached the iron bars. The prisoner on the other side rose from a wooden bench and faced him.
“Comfortable?” he asked. The cell was ten feet square, roomy actually considering what his ancestors had been forced to endure. “Anything you need?”
“The key to the door.”
He smiled. “Even if you had that, there would be no place to go.”
“They were right about you. You’re no patriot, you’re a thieving pirate.”
“That’s the second time today I’ve been called that.”
The prisoner stepped close to the bars. Hale stood just on the other side, a foot or so away. He noted the dingy clothes, the tired face. He’d been told that his captive had eaten little over the past three days.
“Nobody gives a damn that you have me,” he was told.
“I’m not so sure about that. They don’t, as yet, realize the danger you’re in.”
“I’m expendable.”
“Caesar was once captured by Sicilian pirates,” he said. “They demanded a ransom of 25 gold talents. He thought himsel
f worth more and demanded they raise the ransom to 50, which was paid. After he was freed, he hunted his captors down and slaughtered them to a man.” He paused. “How much do you think you are worth?”
Spit flew through the bars and splattered on his face.
He closed his eyes as he slowly reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped it away.
“Stick it up your ass,” his captive said to him.
He reached into his other pocket and found his lighter, plated with German silver and engraved with his name, a gift from his children two Christmases ago. He ignited the handkerchief and tossed the flaming cloth through the bars, straight at his prisoner.
Stephanie Nelle reeled back and allowed the burning bundle to drop to the floor where she extinguished it with her shoe, never taking her gaze off him.
He’d snatched her as a favor for someone else, but over the past couple of days, he’d been thinking how to make use of her for his own purposes. She might even become expendable if Knox’s news from New York—that the cipher may be solved—proved true.
Considering what just happened he hoped that was the case.
“I assure you,” he said to her. “You will regret what you just did.”
SIXTEEN
MALONE HELD TIGHT IN HIS CHAIR AS AIR FORCE ONE ROSE from the runway and vectored south back to Washington, DC. Everyone still occupied the conference room.
“Tough day at the office, dear?” Cassiopeia asked him.
He caught the playful look in her eyes. Any other woman would be highly irritated at the moment, but Cassiopeia handled the unexpected better than any person he’d ever known. Cool, calculated, focused. He still recalled the first time they’d encountered each other—in France, at Rennes-le-Château, one dark night when she’d taken a shot at him then sped away on a motorcycle.
“Just the usual,” he said. “Wrong place, right time.”
She smiled. “You missed out on a great dress.”
She’d told him before he left the hotel about the stop at Bergdorf Goodman. He’d been looking forward to seeing her purchase.
“Sorry about our date,” he told her again.
She shrugged. “Look where we ended up.”
“It’s good to finally meet you,” Edwin Davis said to Cassiopeia. “We missed each other in Europe.”
“This trip to New York was a lark,” Danny Daniels said. “Or as much of a lark as a president is allowed to have.”
Malone listened as Daniels explained how a close friend and lifetime supporter was having a retirement gathering. Daniels had been invited but had not decided to attend until a couple of months ago. No one outside the White House was told of the journey until yesterday, and the press was informed only that the president would be visiting New York. No location, time, or extent of the visit had been provided. Once inside Cipriani, attendees would have passed through a metal detector. By not forewarning anyone, and keeping even the press in the dark until the last minute, the Secret Service thought they had the trip reasonably secure.
“It’s always the same,” Daniels said. “Every assassination, or attempted one, happened because of screwups. Lincoln, McKinley, and Garfield had no guards. Just walk right up and shoot ’em. Kennedy’s protection was waved off for political reasons. They wanted him as close to the people as possible. So they announced that he’d be parading down a crowded street in an open car. ‘Come on out and see the president.’ ” Daniels shook his head. “Reagan took a bullet solely because his layers of protection broke down. Always some screwup. This time it was mine.”
Malone was surprised to hear the admission.
“I insisted on the trip. Told everyone it would be fine. They took some precautions, and wanted to take more. But I said no.”
The plane leveled off from its climb. Malone popped his ears to the altitude.
“When you decided to go,” Cassiopeia said. “Who knew?”
“Not enough people,” Daniels said.
Malone thought the response curious.
“How did you get into that hotel room?” the president asked him.
He explained about Stephanie’s email, the key card waiting for him at the St. Regis, and what he found. Cassiopeia was handed the note from the envelope, which she read.
Daniels motioned to Davis, who produced a pocket tape recorder and slid it across the table.
“This is a recording of secured radio traffic, after the shooting, while you were trying to get out of the Hyatt,” Davis said.
Daniels activated the unit.
Alert to all agents. Suspect is wearing pale blue buttondown shirt, light trousers, no jacket at this time, presently exiting Grand Hyatt hotel from main lobby into tunnel that accesses Grand Central Terminal. I’m headed in that direction.
The president stopped the machine.
“There’s no way anyone could have known that,” Malone said.
“None of our agents posted that alert,” Davis said. “And as you know, those frequencies are not available to the general public.”
“You recognize the voice?” Daniels asked.
“Hard to say. The static and the radio mask a lot. But there is something familiar about it.”
“Seems you have an admirer,” Cassiopeia said.
“And you were set up,” Daniels made clear. “Just like we were.”
WYATT WAS DRIVEN PAST COLUMBUS CIRCLE TO MANHATTAN’S Upper West Side, an area less commercial, less congested, and loaded with quaint shops and brick-faced apartments. He was escorted to the second floor of one of the many brick buildings and into a spacious dwelling, sparsely decorated, wooden blinds covering the windows. He assumed it was some sort of safe house.
Two men waited for him.
Both deputy directors—one for the CIA, the other NSA. The National Security Agency face he knew, the other he simply recognized. Neither man seemed glad to see him. He was left alone with them, as the two who brought him waited outside in the elevator foyer.
“You want to tell us what you were doing today?” CIA asked. “How you happened to be at the Grand Hyatt?”
He hated anything and everything related to CIA. He’d only worked for them, on occasion, because they paid well.
“Who says I was there?”
CIA was antsy, pacing the room. “Don’t screw with us, Wyatt. You were there. Why?”
Interesting that these two clearly knew at least some of his business.
“You responsible for Malone showing up?” NSA asked.
“Why would you think that?”
CIA produced a pocket tape recorder and flicked it on. He heard his voice, over the radio, informing the Secret Service about Malone heading for Grand Central Station.
“I’ll ask you again. Was Malone your idea?”
“Seems it was fortunate he was there.”
“And what if he’d failed to stop things?” NSA asked.
He gave them the same response he’d provided Carbonell. “He didn’t.” And he wasn’t about to explain anything more to these idiots. But he was curious. “Why didn’t you stop things? You were obviously there.”
“We didn’t know spit,” CIA hollered back. “We’ve been playing catch-up all day.”
He shrugged. “Seems you caught up.”
“You cocksure SOB,” CIA said, his voice still loud. “You and Carbonell are interfering in our business. You’re both trying to save that stinking Commonwealth.”
“You’re confusing me with someone else.”
He’d decided to take Carbonell’s advice and play golf tomorrow. He’d actually come to enjoy the game, and the course inside his gated community was spectacular.
“We know all about you and Malone,” NSA spit out.
This man was a degree calmer than CIA, but still anxious. Wyatt knew NSA represented billions in the annual intelligence budget. They were into everything, including the covert monitoring of nearly every overseas phone call made to and from the United States.
“Malone was the chief witne
ss against you at your admin hearing,” NSA said. “You coldcocked him so you could order three men into a shoot-out. Two of whom died. Malone brought charges against you. What was the finding? Unnecessary risks taken in disregard of life. You were sectioned out. A twenty-year career gone. No pension. Nothing. I’d say you owe Cotton Malone.”
CIA pointed a finger at him. “What did Carbonell do, hire you to help out with the Commonwealth? To try and save their hides?”
He knew little about the Commonwealth besides the meager information contained in the dossier she’d provided, all of which related to the assassination attempt, little in the way of broad background. He’d been briefed about Clifford Knox, the organization’s quartermaster, who would be directing the threat on Daniels’ life. He’d watched as Knox moved about the Grand Hyatt the past few days, preparing the guns, waiting for him to leave so that he could inspect their handiwork and leave Malone the note.
“Are those pirates the ones who tried to kill Daniels?” NSA asked. “You know who planted those guns, don’t you?”
Since he doubted the trail of those automatic weapons led anywhere past the Grand Hyatt, he was not about to become their chief accuser. His immediate problem, though, was even more substantial. Obviously, he’d managed to insert himself into some sort of spy civil war. CIA and NSA apparently were at odds with NIA, and the Commonwealth was at the center of the dispute. Nothing new. Intelligence agencies rarely cooperated with one another.
Still, this feud felt different.
More personal.
And that concerned him.
SEVENTEEN
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
HALE ENTERED HIS HOUSE, STILL SEETHING FROM STEPHANIE Nelle’s insult. Just the latest example of America’s continued ingratitude. All that the Commonwealth had done for the country, during and since the American Revolution, and he got spit on.
He stopped in the foyer at the base of the main staircase and gathered his thoughts. Outside, his secretary had told him the other three captains were there. He had to handle them carefully. He stared up at one of the canvases that dotted the oak-paneled walls—his great-great-grandfather, who’d lived on this same land and attacked a president, too.
