The Jefferson Key: A Novel

by Steve Berry

  She decided to come to the point of her visit. “When did you and the First Lady first speak of the New York trip?”

  “You don’t want to hear my opinions anymore?”

  “I want you to answer my question.”

  “To see if my answer and Pauline’s match?”

  “Something like that. But since you two have already communicated, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Kaiser shook her head. “Look, missy, Pauline and I talk every day, sometimes more than once. We discuss everything. She told me about Danny’s New York visit about two months ago. She was home alone in the White House. People haven’t really noticed, but she’s doing less and less in the way of appearances. I was here.”

  Which was exactly what she already knew. The First Lady had also made clear that she never used a mobile or cordless phone when talking to Kaiser. Always a landline. So she asked, and was told the same was true on this end.

  “The text earlier was a first for us,” Kaiser said. “Did I pass the test?”

  She stood. “I have to check for listening devices.”

  “That’s why I’m up at this hour. Do what you have to do.”

  She removed from her pocket an EM detector provided by the Secret Service. She doubted the house itself was wired. That would require every square inch being within range of a listening device. So she decided to start with the phones themselves.

  “Where are the outside electrical, cable, and phone boxes?”

  Kaiser stayed seated. “On the side of the garage. Behind the hedge. The floodlights are already on for you. I’m here to please.”

  She left the house and followed the brick-paved drive around to the side. They hadn’t even approached the most uncomfortable questions, but they would have to be asked either by her, or by people whom neither one of these two women wanted to talk to. She told herself to be patient. There was a lot of history here, most of it bad.

  She located the junction boxes where utility service tied to the house. She eased her way down the side of the building, between damp chest-high hedges, and activated the EM detector. Not a one hundred percent accurate device, but good enough to sniff out any electromagnetic emissions that might warrant closer inspection.

  She pointed the unit at the metal boxes.

  Nothing.

  Wires ran from the telephone connector up through the soffit, into the house, feeding each of the inside jacks. She’d need to check them individually, since what she was looking for could well be concealed within the phones themselves.

  “Find anything?” a voice asked.

  Startled, she lost her grip on the detector and it dropped to the ground.

  She turned.

  Kaiser watched from the corner of the building, beyond where the hedge ended. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  She didn’t believe a word of that.

  The detector began to pulsate, its green indicator light shifting to red, blinking at an ever-increasing rate. If she hadn’t muted its audio, a beep would now be disturbing the night. She bent down and pointed the unit in several directions, finally determining that down was correct. She dug through the wet soil, her fingers scraping something hard. Clearing away the mud she discovered a small plastic box, about eight centimeters square, the underground telephone wire running through it from one end to the other.

  The detector continued to alert.

  A bad situation had just became worse.

  Kaiser’s phones had been tapped.

  THIRTY-TWO

  WYATT DOVE TO THE TILED FLOOR AND MADE SURE VOCCIO was low alongside of him.

  Bullets banged off the walls.

  He couldn’t tell how many shooters they faced. The lobby remained in darkness, only a peripheral glow from the parking lot offering any assistance. Two wide chairs blocked them from the source of the gunfire, about fifty feet away.

  He pulled Voccio closer to him.

  “Stay down,” he whispered.

  The glass doors he sought, the ones Voccio had said led to the rear parking lot, were twenty feet away at the end of a short alcove. He was determined to get them both out of here. His heart pounded with a familiar alarm, the silence around him broken only by Voccio’s nervous breathing. He laid a reassuring hand on the other man’s arm and shook his head, signaling for him to remain calm. If he could hear each breath, so could their attackers.

  He was curious about Malone. How had his adversary fared? He hadn’t seen the end of the parking lot standoff and wondered if Captain America was hurt, dead, or across the room firing.

  Outside, the rain had slackened.

  “I can’t take this anymore,” Voccio said.

  He was in no mood for defeatism.

  “Stay with me. I know what I’m doing.”

  MALONE DESCENDED THE STAIRS, RETRACING HIS ROUTE TO the ground floor, coming ever closer to the loud retorts. He found the exit door, eased it open, and caught sight of shadows advancing across the lobby. Not much light, but enough to see two men with automatic rifles concerned with a target on the far side of the room. These could not be the same two from before. They’d disappeared down the second-floor corridor, headed to the other side of the building and another staircase.

  These must be the ones on the other end of the radio.

  Whoever these people were after, their quarry was now caught in a pincer, men ahead and behind. He could not reveal himself, as anonymity seemed his best defense, but he also could not just wait to see what happened.

  So he aimed and fired.

  WYATT HEARD SHOTS AND SAW MUZZLE FLASHES BEYOND WHERE he’d spotted the shadows advancing.

  Somebody was behind his two problems.

  Malone?

  Had to be.

  MALONE FIRED AGAIN, CATCHING ONE OF THE SHADOWS IN THE shoulder, hurling the form forward into the wall with a dull thump. The other shadow reacted, whirling around and unleashing a burst of rounds. He jerked himself back inside the stairway and allowed the metal door to close.

  Bullets dinged off the other side.

  Apparently, his presence had not been expected.

  WYATT HEARD THE STAIRWAY DOOR—BEHIND WHERE HE AND Voccio lay—open and he turned as movement disturbed the darkness.

  Men were also behind him.

  The shooter whom he assumed was Malone had taken down one of the men in the lobby, and the other was now firing at a second illuminated exit. He rotated on the floor, spine down, and fired at the door less than ten feet away.

  They had to get out of here.

  Voccio was apparently thinking the same thing. The doctor belly-crawled toward the outside exit.

  Not smart.

  Little cover existed between here and there, though the main threats across the lobby seemed occupied.

  He watched as Voccio found the glass doors, slammed a hand into a quick-release latch, and slipped outside. The other gunman, the one firing at Malone, heard the escape, turned, and aimed toward the doors. Before he could fire a shot, Wyatt sent three bullets the man’s way. The form spun, flailed backward, then shrank to the floor.

  Two attackers down.

  Voccio raced outside.

  An instant later both downed forms came to their feet, rifles in hand.

  Then he realized.

  They wore body armor.

  Neither he nor Malone had stopped a thing.

  MALONE ABANDONED THE STAIRWELL DOOR, CLIMBING BACK to the first floor, negotiating another hall nearly identical to the one a floor above and finding the second stairway on the far side. He was going to make an end run on the two men he’d seen earlier, but just as he turned the corner for the exit, the stairway door opened.

  He darted into the first office he saw and carefully peered around the jamb. A man with a rifle took measure of the hall, then, satisfied that all appeared quiet, emerged. Malone laid his gun down on the carpet and prepared himself, keeping his back to the wall, waiting for the target to pass. As that happened, he lunged, wrapping an arm around the man’s
neck from behind, the other hand going for the rifle.

  He wrenched the weapon free, spinning the man around and driving a knee into his groin. He’d already felt the body armor and knew that blows above the waist would be futile.

  His opponent buckled forward and cried out in pain.

  Another knee into the man’s jaw and the body recoiled backward. He readied a third blow, this time a fist to the face, when the man suddenly planted a foot into Malone’s left kidney.

  A mist of pain engulfed him.

  His adversary ignored the rifle on the carpet and beat a retreat toward the stairway door.

  Malone shook off the blow and started his pursuit.

  The fleeing shadow turned, pistol in hand.

  A backup weapon.

  The gun fired.

  WYATT CROUCHED LOW AND HEADED FOR THE EXIT DOORS. AS he came close to the glass he turned back, ready to fire, but no one was there.

  He took advantage of the quiet and released the doors, fleeing out into the night. Immediately he assumed a position adjacent to the exit, using the exterior brick wall as cover, glancing with caution through the doors back into the lobby.

  Three men rushed from the building, out the main entrance.

  At first he thought they were circling, readying an attack from the outside, but then he saw the glow of headlights from the front parking lot, the three bolting toward a waiting vehicle.

  No way these guys were such bad shots.

  They’d been waiting for him and Malone, prepared and equipped, but they’d accomplished nothing except making a lot of noise and shooting up the lobby.

  Another shot disturbed the silence.

  From inside, an upper floor.

  Where was Voccio?

  He scanned the blackness and caught sight of the doctor, fifty yards away, hustling toward a parked car. He tore out the gun’s magazine and slammed home a fresh one from his pocket. He glanced back inside and spotted another form emerging from the stairway across the lobby and leaving through the front doors.

  Apparently the party was over.

  Something was wrong.

  He stared back toward where Voccio was entering the car. He should leave, too, with the doctor.

  Then it hit him.

  That’s exactly what they wanted him to do. His mind performed a rapid calculation and the result struck him like iron.

  A growl signaled a cold engine starting.

  He opened his mouth to yell.

  Voccio’s car exploded.

  THIRTY-THREE

  FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA

  CASSIOPEIA EXAMINED THE DEVICE REVEALED BY HER DIGGING. Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to listen in on Kaiser’s telephone. Somebody who knew exactly where and what to listen for.

  “Who knows you talk to the First Lady?” she asked Kaiser. “And it has to be someone who knows those conversations are numerous and intimate.”

  “It’s Danny Daniels. Who the hell else?”

  She stood from the wet ground and walked closer, exiting the shrubbery that encased the garage.

  “It’s not the president,” she said in a whisper.

  “He knows Pauline and I are close.”

  “Are you married?”

  The question seemed to take Kaiser aback. Edwin Davis had told her about the house, the neighborhood, and that Kaiser was a player in both the Virginia and the capital social scenes. Her extensive charity work included serving on the board of directors for the Library of Virginia and on several state advisory councils. But he hadn’t mentioned much about her personal life.

  “I’m a widow.”

  “Mrs. Kaiser, somebody tried to kill the president of the United States today. Somebody who knew exactly when and where he would be in New York. Your phones are being monitored. I need you to answer my question. Who would know to do this? Either talk to me or I’m calling the Secret Service and you can talk to them.”

  “Pauline is on the verge of a nervous breakdown,” Kaiser said. “I’ve heard it in her voice for weeks now. She’s been through hell far too long. What happened today with Danny could send her over. If you keep this pressure on her, she’s going to snap.”

  “Then she needs professional help.”

  “That’s not so easy when you’re the First Lady.”

  “It’s not so easy for a woman who wants to blame her husband for the tragic death of their daughter. A woman who did not have the courage to leave the man, but instead stays, keeps everything welled inside her, and makes life all his fault.”

  “You’re one of Danny’s groupies, aren’t you?”

  “Yep. I love men with power. It’s a turn-on.”

  Kaiser caught the sarcasm. “That’s not what I meant. He has an effect on women. They did a poll a few years ago and nearly eighty percent of women favored him. Since they’re a majority of the voters, it’s easy to see why he’s never lost an election.”

  “Why do you hate him?”

  “I don’t. I just adore Pauline, and I know he could not care less about her.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” she said.

  “Nor you mine.”

  She appreciated strong women. She was one herself. She assumed Kaiser’s talent was simply being herself—easy, natural—giving and accepting without question, never thinking much beyond the moment. She’d hoped there would be nothing to find here. A dead end. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

  “Pauline has always needed someone to talk to,” Kaiser said. “A person she could trust. Long ago, I became that for her. Since she moved into the White House, that’s become even more important.”

  “Except that you can’t be trusted.”

  She saw that Kaiser realized the implications of what lay in the ground a meter or two away.

  “Who else knew about that New York trip?” she asked her again.

  “I can’t say.”

  “Okay. We can do this another way.”

  She found her cellphone and hit the speed dial button for the White House. Two rings and a male voice answered.

  “Do it,” she told him, then ended the call.

  “There’s a Secret Service agent in contact with your telephone provider, both landline and mobile. You have two accounts. The company has already been served a subpoena and has the information prepared. Under the circumstances, we weren’t going to invade your privacy unless necessary.”

  Her phone rang. She answered, listened, then clicked off.

  Defeat filled Shirley Kaiser’s face.

  As it should.

  “Tell me about the one hundred and thirty-five calls between you and Quentin Hale.”

  HALE ENTERED WHAT HAD ONCE BEEN AN OUTDOOR KITCHEN and smokehouse. Now the building, with its pine walls, sash windows, and glazed cupola, served as a meeting hall that all four families utilized. The sixteen members of Adventure’s crew had been roused from their beds, including the yacht’s captain. Most lived within half an hour of the estate on land bought by their families generations ago. He could not fathom that any one of them would betray their heritage.

  But apparently someone had.

  All sixteen men standing before him had signed the current Articles, pledging their loyalty and obedience in return for a specified portion of the Commonwealth’s plunder. Granted, their respective percentages were small, but combined with health insurance, workers’ compensation, and disability pay, theirs was a comfortable living.

  He caught the uncertain looks on their faces. Though it wasn’t unusual for things to happen in the middle of the night, it was definitely unusual for events to involve the entire complement on land.

  “We have a problem,” he told them.

  He watched the faces, assessing them, recalling the four who’d lifted the gibbet and tossed his screaming accountant into the ocean.

  “One of you is a traitor.”

  He knew those words would grab their attention.

  “Today we all were involved on a mission, one that was of gre
at concern to the entire company. A traitor died, and one of you breached the silence we all pledged to maintain.”

  None of the sixteen said a word. They knew better. The captain spoke until he said he was ready to listen.

  “It saddens me to think that one of you betrayed us.”

  And that was how he viewed his world. Us. A grand society, built on loyalty and success. Long ago pirate ships learned to strike with speed, skill, and urgency, the crews functioning as tight, cohesive units. Laziness, incompetence, disloyalty, and cowardice were never tolerated since those endangered everyone. His father had taught him that the best plans were simple, easy to understand, and flexible enough to deal with any contingency.

  And he was right.

  He paced the floor.

  Captains must always be bold and daring tacticians. Crews intentionally elected them in defiance of a naval tradition that bestowed leadership regardless of competency.

  But captains today were not elected.

  Heredity accounted for their ascendency. He often imagined himself at the helm of one of those long-ago ships, stalking prey, following at a safe distance for days, all the while determining strengths and weaknesses. If the target proved a powerful man-of-war, he could veer away and seek weaker prey. If she seemed vulnerable they could take her either by surprise or by frontal attack.

  Choices.

  All born through patience.

  Which he intended to exercise here tonight.

  “None of you will leave this room until I find the traitor. When morning breaks your bank accounts will be examined, your houses searched, your phone records obtained. You will sign whatever releases are needed, or grant whatever permissions required—”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  He was taken aback by the interruption until he realized the voice belonged to Clifford Knox, who’d entered the room.