by Steve Berry
Quartermasters were not bound by the same rules of silence.
“I know who the traitor is.”
THIRTY-FOUR
MARYLAND
MALONE DOVE INTO THE OFFICE SIX FEET AWAY. THE BULLET fired his way thudded into drywall. More slugs cracked and hummed through the air. He readied his gun and scampered for the desk. But all he heard was the click of a door closing from out in the hall.
The man had left.
An explosion rattled the windows, followed by a flickering glow that signaled something was burning outside.
He approached the glass, keeping low, alternating his attention between the doorway behind him and a flaming car below. Across the hall, in another office, he caught a spray of light across more windows. He quickly made his way there and spotted a man leaping into a car in the front parking lot, then speeding away. He should leave, too, and fast. Though this facility was in the countryside, somebody may have heard the gunfire or the explosion and called the police.
But first …
He hustled back into Voccio’s office and noticed that the three computer screens still burned. He squinted at the glare off the first machine and caught a break.
The displayed file explained the solution to the Jefferson cipher.
Voccio had apparently left in a hurry.
He closed the file, found the machine’s email program, attached the document to a message, and forwarded it to himself. He then deleted the message and file from the machine.
No great security measure, but enough to buy him time.
He stared past the black square of night framed by the window.
The car still burned.
Needles of rain clawed the glass. To his right, a hundred yards away from the flaming chaos, he spotted a dark figure.
Running.
Away.
WYATT DECIDED THAT A PROPITIOUS RETREAT SEEMED THE BEST option. Voccio was dead. He’d told the frightened idiot to stick with him, and if he’d done that the man would still be alive.
So he shouldn’t feel bad. Yet he did.
He kept running.
Carbonell had lured him here with a double fee, wanting him not to escape. Those men were hers.
They needed to chat.
On his terms.
And he knew exactly how to do that.
KNOX ENTERED THE HALL AND STARED AT ADVENTURE’S CREW. Quentin Hale stood silent, clearly waiting to see what his quartermaster had to say.
“Captain Hale, when we spoke earlier I could not say all that I knew since we were on an open phone line.”
He was practicing, to the max, one of the strategies his father had taught him. Always have a plan. Contrary to popular myth, buccaneers never attacked anything blind. Whether their target be on land or sea, to ensure success an advance party would first reconnoiter. The preferred time for any assault was dawn, or a Sunday, or a holy festival, or, as here, late at night, the element of surprise used to prevent escapes and to overwhelm resistance.
“Periodically, I run checks,” he said. “Looking for anything out of the ordinary. Big purchases. Unusual lifestyle. Trouble at home. It’s strange, but a woman can drive a man to do crazy things.”
He allowed the last sentence to linger and watched the yacht’s crew. He was careful to keep his gaze roving, from one man to the next, never settling in one place.
Not yet, anyway.
He was playing to an audience of one. Quentin Hale. So long as Hale was convinced, that was all that mattered.
He focused.
Make your case.
Then figure out how to kill Stephanie Nelle.
MALONE FLED THE BUILDING AND MADE A QUICK INSPECTION of the destroyed car. Indeed, somebody had been behind the wheel, the body now burning with a fury. The license plate was charred but readable and he committed the numbers to his eidetic memory.
He rounded the building and found his government-issued sedan. The rear windshield and most of the windows were gone, the sidewalls riddled with holes. No gas had leaked, though, and the tires were intact, so at least two things had gone right. Soon this place would be awash with the corona of blue and red revolving lights, police everywhere.
The wind moaned through the trees, as if telling him to leave. He glanced up at the sky, clearing of clouds and rain, revealing half-lit stars.
The wind was right.
Time to go.
THIRTY-FIVE
CASSIOPEIA SAT IN SHIRLEY KAISER’S LIVING ROOM. HER PARENTS had owned a similar parlor in their Barcelona home. Though billionaires, they’d been simple, private souls, staying to themselves, devoting their lives to her, to each other, and to the family business. Never once had she heard a hint of scandal associated with either. They seemed to live exemplary lives, both dying in their seventies within months of each other. She’d always hoped to find someone to whom she could equally devote herself.
Perhaps she had in Cotton Malone.
At the moment, though, she was concerned with the woman sitting across from her who, unlike her parents, harbored a great many secrets.
Starting with 135 telephone calls.
“Quentin Hale and I are lovers,” Kaiser said.
“How long?”
“Off and on for the past year.”
She listened as Kaiser explained. Hale was married with three grown children. He’d been separated from his wife going on a decade—she lived in England, he in North Carolina. They met at a social occasion and immediately liked each other.
“He insisted that we keep things discreet,” Kaiser said. “I thought he was concerned about my reputation. Now I see it may have been something else altogether.”
Cassiopeia agreed.
“I’m a fool,” Kaiser said. “I’ve gotten myself into a deep mess.”
No argument there.
“I never had children. My husband … he couldn’t. The fact never really bothered me. No motherly instincts overtook me.” A squint of regret appeared on Kaiser’s face. “But as I get older, I find myself rethinking my attitude toward children. It’s lonely sometimes.”
She could relate to that. Though a good twenty years younger than Kaiser, she, too, had felt those motherly pangs.
“Are you going to tell me how my relationship with Quentin connects to what’s in the ground outside?” Kaiser asked. “I’d like to know.”
Answering that inquiry could prove difficult. But since she’d already determined that they were going to require this woman’s cooperation, she decided to be honest. “Hale may have been involved with trying to kill the president.”
Kaiser did not react. Instead, she sat contemplative.
“We often spoke of politics,” Kaiser finally said. “But he seemed to care nothing about it. He was a supporter of Danny’s, contributing a lot of money to both presidential campaigns. He never had anything bad to say. Contrary to myself.” The words were expressionless, as if Kaiser was talking to herself, arranging her thoughts in order, readying her mind for what she was about to be asked. “But why would he say anything bad? He was gaining my trust.”
“Who exactly did you tell about the trip to New York?”
“Only Quentin.” Kaiser stared at her with a look of undisguised fear. “We talked about Pauline often. You have to understand, Pauline and Quentin are my two closest friends.”
She heard the unspoken comment.
And one betrayed me.
“We discussed it a couple of months ago, right after Pauline mentioned the New York trip. I didn’t think anything of it. Pauline never said the trip was a secret. I had no idea it wasn’t being publicly announced. She simply said Danny was headed to New York for a retirement dinner.”
Which meant Hale had grasped the significance of the White House withholding the information and decided to act.
“I need to know more about you and Hale,” Cassiopeia said. “The Secret Service is going to want every detail.”
“It’s not complicated. Quentin is well known in social circles. He�
��s an avid yachtsman. He participated twice in the America’s Cup. He’s rich, handsome, charming.”
“Does Pauline know about him?”
Kaiser shook her head. “I kept that relationship to myself. There was no need to tell her.”
The cocky attitude had been shed, the voice growing more penitent as the realization of what had happened pounded its way home.
“He used you.”
She could only imagine the emotions churning inside the older woman.
“Ms. Kaiser—”
“Don’t you think we can be Shirley and Cassiopeia? I have a feeling you and I will be seeing more of each other.”
So did she. “I’m going to have to report everything, but it will stay contained. That’s why I’m here and the Secret Service isn’t. I do have a proposition for you. Would you like an opportunity to repay the favor to Hale?”
She’d already been thinking on how to do just that since they now possessed a way to draw Hale from the shadows. What better route than a source he thought his own?
“I’d like that,” Kaiser said. “Truly, I would.”
But something was still bothering her. What Pauline Daniels had said. A friend I don’t want my husband talking to. Pauline was afraid of what Kaiser knew about her. Something that might not remain secret if questions were asked.
And she suddenly realized what that was.
“The First Lady is having an affair. Isn’t she?”
The question did not catch Kaiser off guard. It was as if she’d been expecting it.
“Not exactly. But close enough.”
MALONE STEPPED FROM THE CAR, NOW STOPPED UNDER THE covered entrance of The Jefferson, Richmond, Virginia’s most impressive hotel. The Beaux-Arts-style building, built at the end of the 19th century, sat downtown a few blocks from the state capitol. Its grand lobby was reminiscent of the Gilded Age, highlighted by a white marble statue of Jefferson himself. Malone had stayed there several times. He liked the place. He also liked the strange look the bellman tossed him when he handed over a five-dollar bill and the keys to the bullet-ridden car.
“Soon-to-be-ex-wife found me.”
The guy seemed to understand.
Though it was pushing three AM the front desk was manned and ready. A room was available but, before he headed up, a twenty-dollar tip bought him entrance to the locked business center. Inside, with the door closed, he rubbed his temples, closed his eyes, and tried to empty his mind. His body was drained with fatigue but, even though he understood the risk he was about to take, he had to do it.
He tapped the keyboard and found the email he’d sent to himself.
HALE STARED AT THE ACCUSED TRAITOR. ONE OF ADVENTURE’S crew, a man who’d been with the company for only eight years. Not one of the generationals, but a trusted associate nonetheless. A trial had been immediately convened—presided over, as specified in the Articles, by the quartermaster. Hale, along with the rest of Adventure’s crew, served as jury.
“My contact in the NIA bragged they had a spy among us,” Knox said. “He knew all about today’s execution aboard Adventure.”
“Exactly what do they know?” Hale asked.
“That your accountant is at the bottom of the Atlantic. The names of the crewmen who tossed him, and all the others on board. All of them, yourself included, being guilty of willful murder.”
He saw how those words sent a shiver through the jury, each one of them now implicated. This was justice at its purest. Men who lived, fought, died, and sat in judgment together.
“What say you?” Knox asked the accused. “Do you deny this?”
The man said nothing. But this was not a court of law. No Fifth Amendment privileges existed. Silence could, and would, be used against him.
Knox explained how the prisoner’s marriage was in trouble and he’d turned to another woman who’d become pregnant. He’d offered her money for an abortion, which she refused, telling him she intended on having the baby. She also threatened to inform the wife if he did not support her.
“The NIA offered cash for information,” Knox said. “And this man took it.”
“How do you know that?” one of the crewmen asked.
Questions were encouraged and could be offered at will.
“Because I killed the man who made the deal.” Knox faced the accused. “Scott Parrott. A NIA agent. He’s dead.”
The accused stood stoic.
“I spoke to Parrott at length,” Knox said. “He was gloating about how he knew exactly what we were doing. That’s how he was ready today to stop the attempt on President Daniels’ life. He knew exactly where and when. He was planning on killing me as well, which is why he was so free with information. Fortunately, he failed.”
Hale stared straight at the accused and wanted to know, “Did you sell us out?”
The man bolted for the door.
Two men cut off his escape and tackled him to the floor, where he struggled to get free.
Knox faced the jurors. “Have you seen and heard enough?”
They each nodded.
“The judgment is guilty,” one of them shouted.
Knox asked, “Does anyone object?”
None did.
The prisoner kept struggling, screaming, “No way. This is wrong.”
Hale knew what the Articles provided. To betray the crew, desert, or abandon a battle is punished as the Quartermaster or Majority shall think fit.
“Bring him,” Hale ordered.
The man was yanked to his feet.
This sorry no-good had placed him in an untenable position with Andrea Carbonell. No wonder she’d been so damn smug. She knew it all. Everything he’d anticipated might now be compromised. This man’s death would be excruciating. An example to everyone.
Knox produced a gun.
“What are you doing?” he asked the quartermaster.
“Meting out punishment.”
A panic came over the accused’s face as he realized his fate. He renewed his struggle against the two men restraining him.
“It’s as the quartermaster, or majority, shall think fit,” Hale said, quoting the Articles. “What say the majority?”
He watched as Adventure’s crew took their cue from him and, to a man, echoed, “Whatever you want, Captain,” each grateful that it wasn’t him about to die. Normally, a captain never questioned the quartermaster in front of the crew or vice versa. But this was wartime, when the captain’s word went unquestioned.
“He’ll die at seven AM, with the entire company present.”
THIRTY-SIX
3:14 AM
CASSIOPEIA DROVE AWAY FROM SHIRLEY KAISER’S NEIGHBORHOOD, found an empty shopping mall parking lot, and called the White House.
“You’re not going to like this,” she said to Edwin Davis.
And she told him everything, holding back only the last thing she and Kaiser had discussed.
“This has potential, though,” she said. “We could draw Hale out, if played right.”
“I see that.”
There was a lot more to say, but she was tired, and it could wait. “I’m going to get some sleep. We can talk in the morning.”
A moment of silence passed before Davis said, “I’ll be here.”
She ended the call.
Before she could restart the motorcycle and find a motel the phone dinged again. She checked the display. Cotton. About time.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Just another fun night. I need the Secret Service to run a license plate. But I think I already know who the car belongs to.”
He gave her information for a Maryland tag.
“But there’s a bright spot,” he said.
She could use one of those.
“The cipher’s been broken. I now know the message Andrew Jackson left for the Commonwealth.”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Richmond. At a lovely hotel called The Jefferson.”
“I’m in Fredericksburg. Is that
nearby?”
“About an hour away.”
“I’ll join you.”
DURING MY PRELIMINARY RESEARCH IN THE NATIONAL ARCHIVES, I found correspondence that Robert Patterson, a mathematics professor at the University of Pennsylvania, wrote to Thomas Jefferson in December 1801. By then, Jefferson was president of the United States. Both Patterson and Jefferson were officials at the American Philosophical Society, a group that promoted scholarly research in the sciences and humanities. Both were also enthusiasts of ciphers and codes, regularly exchanging them. Patterson wrote, “The art of secret writing has engaged the attention both of the statesman and philosopher for many ages.” But Patterson noted that most ciphers fall “far short of perfection.” For Patterson the perfect code came with four properties: (1) It should be adaptable to all languages; (2) be simple to learn and memorize; (3) easy to read and write; and (4) most of all, “be absolutely inscrutable to all unacquainted with the particular key or secret for deciphering.”
Patterson included with his letter an example of a cipher so difficult to decode that it “would defy the united ingenuity of the whole human race.” Bold words from a man of the 19th century, but that was before the existence of high-speed computer algorithms.
Patterson made the task especially difficult, explaining in his letter that, first, he wrote a message text vertically, in column grids, from left to right, using lowercase letters or spaces, with rows of 5 letters. He then added random letters to each line. To solve the cipher meant knowing the number of lines, the order in which those lines were transcribed, and the number of random letters added to each line.
Here are the letters from Andrew Jackson’s message:
The key to deciphering this code is a series of two-digit number pairs. Patterson explained in his letter that the first digit of each pair indicated the line number within a section, the second digit the number of letters added to the beginning of that row. Of course, Patterson never revealed the number keys, which has kept his cipher unsolved for 175 years. To discover this numeric key, I analyzed the probability of diagraphs. Certain pairs of letters simply do not exist in English, such as dx, while some almost always appear together, such as qu. To ascertain a sense of language patterns for Patterson and Jefferson’s time I studied the 80,000 letter characters contained in Jefferson’s State of the Union addresses and counted the frequency of diagraph occurrences. I then made a series of educated guesses such as the number of rows per section, which two rows belong next to one another, and the number of random letters inserted into a line. To vet these guesses I turned to a computer algorithm and what’s called dynamic programming, which solves massive problems by breaking the puzzle down into component pieces and linking the solutions together. The overall calculations to analyze were fewer than 100,000, which is not all that tedious. It’s important to note that the programs available to me are not available to the general public, which might explain why the cipher has remained unbroken. After a week of working the code, the computer discovered the numerical key.
