The Jefferson Key: A Novel

by Steve Berry

  Abner Hale.

  But surviving had been a lot easier in the mid-19th century, as the world was a much larger place. You could actually disappear. He’d often imagined what it would have been like to sail the oceans back then, going about, as one chronicler had written, like roaring lions seeking whom you might devour. An unpredictable life on a rolling sea, no home, no bounds, few rules save for those all aboard had agreed upon in the articles.

  He sucked a few deep breaths, straightened his clothes, then walked down the corridor, entering his library, a spacious rectangle with a vaulted ceiling and a wall of windows framing a view of the orchards. He’d remodeled the room a decade ago, removing most of his father’s influences and purposefully evoking the mood of an English country estate.

  He closed the library doors and faced three men seated in tufted, burgundy velvet chairs.

  Charles Cogburn, Edward Bolton, and John Surcouf.

  Each was lean, two wore mustaches, all bore sun-squinted eyes. They were men of the sea, like him, signers of the Commonwealth’s current Articles, heads of their respective families, bonded to one another by a sacred oath. He imagined that their stomachs were tossing similar to Abner Hale’s in 1835 when he, too, had acted like a fool.

  He decided to start with a question he already knew the answer to. “Where is the quartermaster?”

  “In New York,” Cogburn said. “Doing damage control.”

  Good. At least they planned to be reasonably honest with him. Two months ago he’d been the one to inform them of Daniels’ unannounced New York trip, wondering if perhaps an opportunity might present itself. They’d debated the proposed course at length, then voted. “I don’t have to say the obvious. We decided not to do this.”

  “We changed our minds,” Bolton said.

  “Which I’m sure you championed.”

  Boltons had always displayed irrational aggression. Their ancestors had helped found Jamestown in 1607, then made a fortune supplying the new colony. On one of those voyages they imported a new strain of tobacco, which proved the colony’s saving grace, thriving in the sandy soil, becoming Virginia’s most valuable export commodity. Bolton descendants eventually settled in the Carolinas, at Bath, branching out into piracy, then privateering.

  “I thought the move would solve the problem,” Bolton said. “The vice president would have left us alone.”

  He had to say, “You have no idea what would have happened, if you’d been successful.”

  “All I know, Quentin,” John Surcouf said, “is that I’m at risk of going to prison and losing everything my family has. I’m not going to sit by and allow that to happen. Even if we failed, we sent a message today.”

  “To whom? Do you plan on taking responsibility for the act? Does someone in the White House know that you three sanctioned the assassination? If so, how long do you think it will be before you’re arrested?”

  None of them spoke.

  “It was foolish thinking,” he said. “This is not 1865, or even 1963. It’s a new world, with new rules.”

  He reminded himself that Surcouf family history differed from the others. They’d started as shipbuilders, immigrating to the Carolinas just after John Hale founded Bath. Surcoufs eventually financed much of the town’s expansion, reinvesting their profits in the community and helping the town grow. Several became colonial governors. Others took to the sea, manning sloops. The early part of the 18th century had been piracy’s Golden Age, and Surcoufs reaped their share of those spoils. Eventually, like others, they legitimized themselves with privateering. One interesting story came at the dawn of the 19th century when Surcouf money helped finance Napoleon’s wars. Enjoying friendly relations, the Surcouf then living in Paris asked the emperor if he might build a terrace at one of his estates tiled of French coins. Napoleon refused, not wanting people traipsing across his image. Undaunted, Surcouf built the terrace anyway but with the coins stacked upright, edges to the surface, which solved the problem. Unfortunately, later Surcouf descendants had been equally foolish with their money.

  “Look,” Hale said, softening his voice, “I understand your anxiety. I have my share as well. But we are in this together.”

  “They have every record,” Cogburn muttered. “All my Swiss banks caved.”

  “Mine, too,” Bolton added.

  Combined, several billion dollars of their deposits lay overseas, on which not a dime of income tax had ever been paid. Each of them had received a letter from the U.S. attorney notifying him that he was the target of a federal criminal investigation. Hale assumed that four separate prosecutions—as opposed to one—had been chosen to divide their resources, pit one against the other.

  But those prosecutors underestimated the power of the Articles.

  The Commonwealth’s roots lay squarely within pirate society, a raucous, reckless, rapacious bunch for sure, but one with laws. Pirate communities had been orderly, geared to profit and mutual gain, always advancing the enterprise. They’d smartly adhered to what Adam Smith had observed. If there is any society among robbers and murderers, they must at least abstain from robbing and murdering one another.

  Which pirates did.

  What became known as the custom of the coast called for articles to be drawn before every voyage specifying the rules of behavior, all punishments, and dividing the booty among officers and crew. Each swore on a Bible to obey the articles. While swallowing a swig of rum mixed with gunpowder they would sign along the borders, never beneath the last line, which demonstrated that no one, not even the captain, was greater than the whole. Unanimous consent was required for the articles’ approval, and any who disagreed were free to search elsewhere for more satisfactory terms. When multiple ships joined together additional articles were drawn for the partnership, which was how the Commonwealth had been formed. Four families united to further a singular goal.

  To betray the Crew, or each other, desert, or abandon a battle is punished as the Quartermaster, and or the Majority, shall think fit.

  None would turn on the other.

  Or at least, none would live to enjoy the benefit.

  “My accountants are under siege,” Bolton said.

  “Deal with them,” Hale said. “Instead of killing a president, you should have been killing them.”

  “It’s not that easy for me,” Cogburn said.

  He stared at his partner. “Killing never is, Charles. But occasionally it has to be done. The skill is in choosing the right time and how.”

  Cogburn did not reply. He and the others had clearly chosen the wrong time.

  “I’m sure the quartermaster has done his job,” Surcouf said, attempting to break the tension. “Nothing will lead back to us. But we still have a problem.”

  Hale stepped over to an English bamboo console table flanking one of the pine-paneled walls. None of this should be happening. But perhaps that had been the whole idea. Toss out the threat of prosecution, then wait and see what happened when fear set in. Maybe it was thought they would self-destruct and save everyone the trouble of trials and jail. But surely no one had assumed that the president of the United States would be attacked.

  He’d tried his own form of diplomacy, which had failed. The humiliation of his White House trip remained fresh in his mind. Similar to a visit made in 1834 by Abner Hale, which also failed. But he intended to learn from his ancestor’s mistakes, not repeat them.

  “What are we going to do?” Cogburn asked. “We’re about at the end of the plank.”

  He smiled at the reference to the stereotype of a blindfolded man being forced to walk into the sea at the end of a plank. In reality that punishment had been used only by squeamish captains, those who avoided bloodshed or wanted to convince themselves that they were not responsible for another’s death. The bold and daring adventurers, the ones who forged legends that continued to be told in countless books and movies, were not afraid to stare their adversaries down, even in the face of death.

  “We shall raise the flag,�
� he said.

  EIGHTEEN

  AIR FORCE ONE

  CASSIOPEIA LISTENED AS DANNY DANIELS EXPLAINED HOW THE voice on the recorder had alerted everyone where to look.

  “He had to be there,” Malone said. “In the lobby of the Grand Hyatt. It’s the only way he would have known where I went. They were clearing the place out as I left.”

  “Our mystery man also knew what to say and how,” Davis noted.

  She caught the implications. One of their own, or at least someone who knew all about their own, was involved. She spotted a look in Daniels’ eye, one she’d seen before—at Camp David, with Stephanie—one conveying that this man knew more.

  Daniels nodded at his chief of staff. “Tell ’em.”

  “About six months ago, I received a visit at the White House.”

  Davis stared at the man sitting across from his desk. He knew him to be fifty-six years old, a fourth-generation American, with family ties that dated to before the American Revolution. He was tall, with luminous green eyes and a shadowy chin that appeared as tough as armor. His smooth head was bounded by a crescent of long, thick silver-black hair, swept back like the mane of an aging lion. His teeth shone like pearls, marred only by a noticeable gap in the front two. He wore an expensive suit that fit as comfortably as his voice projected.

  Quentin Hale commanded a massive corporate empire that involved manufacturing, banking, and retail. He was one of the largest landowners in the country, mainly shopping malls and office buildings located in nearly every major city. His net worth lay in the billions and he consistently made the Forbes wealthiest list. He was also a supporter of the president, having contributed several hundred thousand dollars to both campaigns, a fact that had earned him the right to personally meet with the White House chief of staff.

  But what Davis just heard took him aback. “Are you saying that you’re a pirate?”

  “A privateer.”

  He knew the difference. One was a criminal, the other worked within the law on an official grant from the government to attack its enemies.

  “During the American Revolution,” Hale said, “there were but 64 warships in the Continental navy. Those vessels captured 196 enemy ships. At the same time, there were 792 privateers, sanctioned by the Continental Congress, which captured or destroyed 600 British ships. During the War of 1812 it was even more dramatic. Only 23 navy ships, 254 enemy vessels captured. At the same time, 517 congressionally authorized privateers captured 1,300 ships. You can see the service we performed for this country.”

  He could, but wondered about the point.

  “It wasn’t the Continental army who won the Revolutionary War,” Hale said. “It was the devastation on English commerce that turned the tide. Privateers brought the war across the Atlantic to the shores of England and threw the British coasts into continual alarm. We endangered shipping within their harbors and nearly halted trade. That sent merchants into an uproar. Insurance rates for shipping rose to the point that the Brits started using French ships to transport their goods, something unheard of until that time.”

  He caught a tinge of genteel dignity in the recounting.

  “Those merchants ultimately pressured King George to abandon the fight in America. That’s why the war ended. History makes clear that there would have been no victory in the American Revolution without privateers. George Washington himself publicly acknowledged that on more than one occasion.”

  “How does this relate to you?” he asked.

  “My ancestor was one of those privateers. Together with three other families, we floated many ships during the Revolution and organized the rest into a cohesive fighting force. Somebody had to coordinate the attack. We did it.”

  Davis delved through his brain and tried to remember what he could. What Hale had said was true. A privateer bore a letter of marque, authorizing him to prey on a nation’s enemies, free from prosecution. So he asked, “Your family possessed a letter?”

  Hale nodded. “We did, and still do. I brought it.”

  His guest reached into his suit jacket and removed a folded sheet of paper. Davis opened it to see a photocopy of a two-hundred-plus-year-old document. Most of it printed, some of it handwritten:

  George Washington, President of the United States of America

  To all who shall see these presents, greeting:

  Know Ye, that in pursuance of an Act of Congress of the United States, on this case provided and passed on the Ninth day of February, One Thousand Seven Hundred and Ninety-Three, I have commissioned and by these presents do commission Archibald Hale, licensing and authorizing the said individual, his lieutenants, officers and crews, to subdue, seize, and take all property and wealth of any and all enemies of the United States of America. All items seized, including apparel, guns, appurtenance, goods, property, effects, and valuables shall belong to the recipient of this grant, after paying an amount equal to twenty percent of the value seized to the government of the United States of America. To further encourage a robust and continuous attack on our said enemies, in a manner that we have all enjoyed during the recent conflict, the said Archibald Hale shall be exempt from all regulatory and pecuniary laws of the United States, and any State thereto, that may affect or discourage any and all aggressive actions, except that of willful murder. This compilation is to continue in force from the date of this grant in perpetuity and shall inure to the benefit of any and all heirs of the said Archibald Hale.

  Given under My Hand and the Seal of the United States of America, at Philadelphia, the Ninth day of February, in the year of our Lord, One Thousand Seven Hundred and Ninety-Three and of the Independence of the said States, the Twenty-Seventh.

  George Washington

  Davis glanced up from the page. “Your family essentially has a grant from the United States to wreak havoc on our enemies? Exempt from the law?”

  Hale nodded. “Given in thanks by a grateful nation for all that we did. The other three families likewise have letters of marque from President Washington.”

  “And what have you done with this grant?”

  “We were there in the War of 1812 and helped end that conflict. We were involved in the Civil War, the Spanish-American War, and both world wars. When the national intelligence community was created after World War II, we were recruited to assist them. Of late, for the past twenty years, we have plagued the Middle East, disrupting financial activities, stealing assets, denying funds and profits. Whatever is needed. Obviously we have no sloops or corsairs today. So instead of sailing off in ships armed with men and cannons, we travel digitally, or work through established financial systems. But as you can see, the letter of marque is not explicit to ships.”

  No, it was not.

  “Nor to time.”

  Davis rose and reached for a small pamphlet he kept handy on a shelf titled The Constitution of the United States.

  Hale saw the title and said, “Article One, Section 8.”

  The man had read his mind. He was looking for legal authority and found it exactly where Hale had said.

  The Congress shall have the power to declare War, grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal, and make Rules concerning Captures on Land and Water.

  “Letters of marque have existed since the 1200s,” Hale said. “Their first recorded use was by Edward III in 1354. It was considered an honorable calling, combining patriotism with profit. Contrary to pirates, who are but thieves.”

  That rationalization was interesting.

  “For 500 years privateering flourished,” Hale said. “Francis Drake was one of the most famous, devastating Spanish shipping for Elizabeth I. European governments routinely issued letters of marque not only in war, but in peacetime. It was so common a practice that the Founding Fathers specifically granted Congress the power to issue such letters, and the people approved when the Constitution was ratified. That document has been amended twenty-seven times since our founding, and never has that power been modified or removed.”

  Hale seemed
not to attack his listeners so much as to persuade them. Instead of thundering out his point, he dropped his voice, exhibiting a focused attention.

  Davis raised a half-open hand to say something, then changed his mind as the pragmatist within him reasserted itself. “What do you want?”

  “A letter of marque grants the holder legal protection. Ours is quite specific on that. We simply want our government to honor its word.”

  “He’s a damn pirate,” Daniels blurted out. “So are the other three.”

  Malone nodded. “Privateers were the nursery of pirates. That’s not my observation, but Captain Charles Johnson’s. He wrote a book in the 18th century, A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates. A big seller for its time, still in print today. An original edition is worth a fortune. It’s one of the best records of pirate life that exists.”

  Cassiopeia shook her head. “I didn’t realize you had such an interest.”

  “Who doesn’t love pirates? They declared war against the world. For a century they attacked and looted at will, then they vanished, leaving almost no record of their existence. Hale’s right about one thing. It’s doubtful America would be here except for privateers.”

  “I admit,” Daniels said, “that I never knew just how much these opportunists did for us. A lot of brave and honest men took to privateering. They gave their lives, and obviously Washington felt an obligation toward them. But our merry band today isn’t quite that noble. They can call themselves what they want, but they’re pirates, pure and simple. Incredibly, though, the 1793 Congress sanctioned their existence. I bet there aren’t too many Americans who know that the Constitution allowed that to happen.”

  They sat in silence for a moment while the president seemed lost in thought.

  “Tell them the rest,” he finally said to Davis.