The Jefferson Key: A Novel

by Steve Berry

  He’d wondered about that.

  “You cut that close,” he said to her. “I wasn’t sure you were going to end it or not. The guy dangling out the window. Yours?”

  “An unplanned complication, but it worked out. Good work on Scott Parrott.”

  He’d killed Parrott only because that’s what the captains would have expected from their quartermaster. Duplicity could never be tolerated. Anything less than direct force would have been suspect.

  “You gave him up easily,” he said to her.

  “Would you have preferred one more live witness around who could sell you out?”

  No. He wouldn’t. Which was another reason why he’d acted. “Were you going to kill me in New York?”

  She laughed. “Far from it. That was a favor from me to you. In the event that, for some reason, you didn’t move on Parrott.”

  He didn’t understand.

  She said, “How better to shield the fact that you’re a traitor to all those you once held dear than to place your life in dire jeopardy, from which you manage to escape?”

  “That whole thing was an act?”

  “Not from the agents’ perspectives. They knew nothing, except to stop you. But I knew you could handle yourself.”

  “So you sacrificed them, too? Do you care anything for the people who work for you?”

  She shrugged. “They had a better-than-fair shot at besting you. Five against one. It’s not my fault they failed.”

  Damn her. None of that had been necessary.

  Or had it?

  Both incidents would indeed provide him with excellent cover.

  “Captain Hale,” she said, “and the rest of the Commonwealth are surely in a panic. But it seems the captains work together about as efficiently as the intelligence community.”

  He could not argue with that conclusion. They were all becoming more combative, more irrational. He knew about what Hale had done earlier, killing his long-term accountant. Who was next?

  “Hale wants the cipher solution,” she said. “But I don’t particularly want to give it to him.”

  “So don’t.”

  “I wish it were that easy.”

  “Like I said, we’re through. I’ve done my part.”

  “I taped our conversations. I’m taping you right now. Your captains might find our talks enlightening.”

  “And I could kill you right now.”

  “I’m not alone.”

  He glanced around at the darkness and realized that if the captains learned of his treachery, there would be nowhere on the planet for him to hide. Though they called themselves privateers, there was a pirate within every one of them. Treason had never been tolerated—and the higher on the pole you were the more grotesque the punishment.

  “Not to worry, Clifford,” Carbonell finally said, “I did you one other favor.”

  He was listening.

  “I cultivated a second informant. One who provided information to me independent of you.”

  More news.

  “And I just sold that source out to Hale.”

  He’d wondered how he was going to satisfy the captains’ demand that the spy be found.

  “All you have to do in gratitude,” she said, “is one little thing.”

  He realized that any gesture from her came with a price.

  “Kill Stephanie Nelle.”

  THIRTY

  WASHINGTON, DC

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 9

  12:10 AM

  CASSIOPEIA GUNNED THE MOTORCYCLE AND SPED ONTO INTERSTATE 95, heading south toward Virginia. Edwin Davis had offered her a choice of transportation, and she’d selected one of the Secret Service’s two-wheelers. She’d also changed, donning jeans, leather boots, and a black sweater.

  Her talk with the First Lady still disturbed her.

  Pauline Daniels was one conflicted woman.

  “I don’t hate my husband,” the First Lady told her.

  “You just resent him, and you’ve kept that bottled up for thirty years.”

  “Politics is a powerful drug,” the older woman said. “If you’re successful at it, the effects are like a sedative. Adoration. Respect. Need. These can make you forget. And sometimes those of us who receive too much of this drug begin to believe that everyone loves us, that the world would be worse off if we weren’t around to help run it. We even begin to feel entitled. And I’m not talking about being president of the United States. Political worlds can be as big or small as we create for ourselves.”

  She roared on, quickening her pace down the blackened highway. Not much traffic out at this hour beyond a procession of eighteen-wheelers taking advantage of uncrowded asphalt.

  “When Mary died,” Pauline said, “Danny was a city councilman. He became mayor the next year, a state senator after that, then governor. It seemed that the depths of our tragedy gave birth to his success. He suppressed his grief through politics. He succumbed to the sedative. I wasn’t so lucky.”

  “Have you two discussed this? Dealt with it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not his way. He never spoke of Mary again after the funeral. It is as if she never existed.”

  “But that’s not what happened for you.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t say that. I’m afraid I wasn’t immune to politics, either. As Danny rose, so did I.” The voice drifted farther away and she wondered, Who was she really talking to? “God forgive me, but I tried to forget my daughter.” Tears welled in the older woman’s tired eyes. “I tried. I just couldn’t.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “When Edwin told me you were coming, he also told me you’re a good person. I trust him. He’s a good person. Maybe it’s time I rid myself of this burden. All I know is that I’m tired of carrying the grief.”

  “What are you saying?”

  A few moments of strained silence passed.

  “I’ve come to expect Danny to be around,” the First Lady said, her voice still a mono tone. “He’s always been there.”

  But she heard what had not been spoken. Yet you still blame him for Mary’s death. Every day.

  “But when they told me that someone had tried to kill him—”

  She waited for the sentence to be finished.

  “I found myself glad.”

  She roared passed a car and crossed into Virginia, headed for Fredericksburg, which lay about forty kilometers away.

  “Living with Danny isn’t easy,” Pauline said. “He compartmentalizes everything. Moves from one thing to the next without a problem. I suppose that’s what makes him a good leader. And he does it all without emotion.”

  Not necessarily, she thought. The same had been said about her—even Cotton had chastised her once on her lack of feeling. But just because they weren’t shown didn’t mean emotions did not exist.

  “He’s never gone to her grave,” the First Lady said. “Not once since the funeral. We lost everything we owned in that fire. Mary’s room, and the rest of the house, was nothing but ash. Not a photo of her survived. I think he was almost glad. He wanted no reminders.”

  “And you wanted too many.”

  Eyes brimming with pain stared back at her.

  “Perhaps I did.”

  She noticed that the black sky overhead was shrouded in clouds. Not a star visible. The asphalt was damp. Rain had come and gone. She was headed to a place that she preferred not to go. But Pauline Daniels had confided in her, telling her something only two other people knew—neither one of which was Danny Daniels. Before leaving, the president had questioned her on her destination, but she’d refused to tell him.

  “You wanted me to handle it,” she’d said. “Let me handle it.”

  WYATT REACHED INTO HIS POCKET AND FOUND THE FLASH bomb. His own invention, developed years ago. He’d taken Carbonell’s warning to heart and anticipated that there might be visitors waiting here, people not all that friendly, and it was reasonable to assume that they might come equipped with night-vision goggles.

 
; “Close your eyes,” he whispered to Voccio.

  He freed the igniter pin and tossed the paper-wrapped wad out into the hall.

  A blinding flash of light lit up inside his closed lids, lingered a couple of seconds, then faded.

  Cries rang out.

  He knew what was happening.

  The two assailants, caught unawares, were momentarily blinded, their pupils, dilated by the goggles, violently closing to the unexpected brightness.

  Pain would be next, then confusion.

  He found his gun, swung around the doorway, and fired.

  MALONE HEARD TWO SHOTS. HE WAS IN THE STAIRWAY, WAITING at a metal door that led into the second floor. Cracks around the frame illuminated with a bright flash, which immediately diminished. Something pinged off the other side, then the door flung open and two forms bolted into the stairwell, both reaching for their heads, cursing, ripping night goggles from their faces. He used their confusion to slip up the stairs, toward the next floor, and hide on the landing.

  “Son of a bitch,” one of the men breathed.

  A moment of quiet passed as the two reclaimed their emotions and readied their weapons.

  “Leave the eyes off,” one of them said.

  He heard the door ease open.

  “They have to be headed toward the far side.”

  “Hopefully for the other stairway down.”

  “Three, this is Two,” he heard a man say in a low voice. A pause. “Subjects are headed your way.” Another pause. “Out.”

  “Let’s finish this,” one of the men said.

  A gentle click signaled the metal door had closed.

  He risked a look down through the darkness.

  Both men were gone.

  “WHY WOULD I KILL STEPHANIE NELLE?” KNOX ASKED CARBONELL.

  “Because you have no choice. If the captains learn of your betrayal, how long do you think you’d last? It’s a simple task, killing one person. Shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  “Is that what you think I do? Kill people all the time?”

  “You certainly have in the past few hours. I have two dead agents as proof, and two more in the hospital.”

  “All thanks to you.” And he was curious as to her reversal. “You realize that Hale went to a lot of trouble to capture her for you. Your instructions were that she not be harmed in any way.”

  She shrugged. “He was accumulating a favor from me. I get that. But things have changed. Nelle is more of a problem now.”

  “I assume you won’t explain why.”

  “Clifford, you wanted out. I offered you a way out. Now I’m telling you the price.”

  Her tone bore no trace of anger, contempt, or amusement.

  “Once the Commonwealth ceases to exist,” she said, “which is going to happen, you’ll be free to do as you please. You can live your life. Enjoy your spoils. And no one will know a thing. If you like, I’ll even hire you.”

  He wanted to know, “Did you actually solve the Jefferson cipher?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I want to know.”

  Carbonell hesitated a moment before saying, “Yes. We did.”

  “So why didn’t you just kill Nelle yourself? Why involve us in the first place with her?”

  “First off, I didn’t have the cipher key when I asked Hale to move on Nelle. I do now. Second, contrary to the movies, it’s not that easy eliminating targets in my line of work. People who do those types of jobs want too much in return for their silence.”

  “And I don’t?”

  She shrugged. “Not anything I can’t provide.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. What if Hale doesn’t want Nelle dead?”

  “I’m quite sure that he doesn’t, not at the moment anyway. But I do. So find a way to make it happen. Quickly.”

  He was exasperated. This was way too much. “You said you sold out another source. Hale knows the identity?”

  “He knows where to start looking, which I’m sure he’s doing right now. He’ll surely turn that matter over to you soon enough. His faithful servant, returned from doing battle in New York. See what I’ve done for your image? You’re a hero. What more could you want? And to demonstrate my good faith, to make clear that we’re all one-for-all-and-all-for-one, I’m going to tell you the name of my source and exactly how to prove he’s a traitor.”

  That was exactly what he wanted to know. The captains would demand that the man be tried, convicted, and punished immediately. If he personally managed to accomplish that task, his value would rise immeasurably.

  Most of all, it would divert even more attention from himself.

  Damn her.

  “Give me the name and I’ll make sure Stephanie Nelle goes away.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA

  CASSIOPEIA SAID HELLO TO THE WOMAN WHO ANSWERED THE door. The house was a large, airy Georgian filled with plants, three cats, and exquisite antiques. The exterior had been awash with yellow light and an iron gate blocking a brick-paved drive had hung open. Her host wore a loose-fitting Nike jogging suit with Coach tennis shoes. She was clearly a contemporary of the First Lady, their ages and appearances not far off except that Shirley Kaiser’s wavy hair hung long and was tinted a faint golden-red.

  Their attitudes were also different.

  Where Pauline Daniels’ face had stayed pale and drawn, Kaiser’s brimmed with civility, her animated features highlighted by firm cheekbones and bright brown eyes. They stepped into a room lit by crystal wall sconces and Tiffany lamps. She was offered and refused a drink, though a glass of water would have been welcomed.

  “I understand you have some questions for me. Pauline told me that you were a person I could trust. I wonder. Can we?”

  She caught the use of third-person plural and decided to approach this woman with greater care than she’d used with Pauline. “How long have you and the First Lady known each other?”

  A crease of amusement marked Kaiser’s face. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you? Get me talking about me first.”

  “I’m not new to this.”

  The amusement increased. “I bet you aren’t. What are you, Secret Service? FBI?”

  “Neither.”

  “No, you don’t look like either one.”

  She wondered what that look entailed, but only said, “Let’s just say I’m a friend of the family.”

  Kaiser smiled. “That one I like. Okay, friend, Pauline and I have known each other twenty years.”

  “Which makes that about a decade after her daughter died.”

  “Something like that.”

  She’d already surmised that Kaiser was a night person. Eyes that should be misty brimmed with life. Unfortunately, this woman had been given two hours to prepare herself. The First Lady would not allow an unannounced visit. Cellphones had been used to send a brief text message.

  “Have you known the president for twenty years?” she tried.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “I assume then that you didn’t vote for him.”

  “Hardly. I wouldn’t have married him, either.”

  Where Pauline had wanted to purge, this woman sought to vent. But Cassiopeia had no time for anger. “How about you quit with the games and explain what’s on your mind.”

  “I’d love to. Pauline is dead inside. Couldn’t you see that?”

  Yes, she had.

  “Danny has known that from the day they buried Mary. But does he care? Does he give a damn? Has anyone asked themselves, if he treats his wife with such callousness, imagine how he treats his enemies. Is it any wonder somebody took a shot at him?”

  “How do you know what he feels?”

  “I’ve been there for twenty years. I’ve never once heard him mention Mary’s name. Never has he even acknowledged that there was a daughter. It is as if she never lived.”

  “Maybe that’s how he handles his grief,” she had to say.

  “That’s just it. He has no grief.”
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  WYATT USED THE MOMENTS THE FLASH BOMB BOUGHT HIM TO advance himself and Voccio toward another stairway that the doctor had told him existed on the far side of the second floor, used by employees as a quick route down to the cafeteria. His charge was in a panic, clearly never having been in a fight like this before.

  Luckily, this was not his first.

  Somebody had come to sweep and clean, as they said in the trade. He’d been a party to a few himself. He wondered if it was CIA, NSA, some other combination, or whether Carbonell herself sent them.

  That actually made the most sense.

  He rushed down the hall and opened the exit door, listened, then motioned for Voccio to follow. He lead the way down the black stairway, using the metal railing as his guide, keeping Voccio close behind him.

  He halted just before they found the ground.

  “How far to your car?” he whispered.

  Wyatt heard deep, ragged breaths, but Voccio did not answer him.

  “Doctor, to get us out of here I need your help.”

  “Not far … just outside the rear exit door. To the right … when we get to the bottom and the lobby.”

  He eased down the remaining few risers. His hand found the exit door and he eased it open.

  The lobby loomed still.

  He motioned for them to crouch low and head right.

  They cleared the doorway.

  And shooting started.

  MALONE HAD WATCHED FROM THE STAIRWAY DOOR AS THE TWO gunmen negotiated the doglegged hallway and turned about fifty feet away. He noticed an ambient glow from one of the office doorways. Odd, considering the power was gone.

  He hustled ahead and glanced inside.

  Three computer screens glowed. A nameplate on the door read VOCCIO. The man he’d come to see.

  He started to search the office, but a cacophony of gunfire erupted below.

  CASSIOPEIA FELT THE NEED TO DEFEND DANNY DANIELS. WHY, she wasn’t sure, but this woman seemed unapologetic in her harsh judgments.

  “What Danny has,” Kaiser said, “is guilt, not grief. Once, about a year before Mary died, his smoking caused a small fire at the house. That one only destroyed a chair. Pauline begged him to stop, or smoke outside, or something—anything but what he was doing. For a while, he did. Then he did what Danny always does. Whatever he wants. That fire should have never happened, and he knows that.”