The Jefferson Key: A Novel

by Steve Berry

  33, 28, 71, 12, 56, 40, 85, 64, 97.

  To utilize the key, let’s return to the cipher rows themselves and lay them one after the other, per Patterson’s instructions:

  If we apply the first numerical key, 33, to the letters we would count 3 over on the first row then identify the next 5 letters, FEETH. The next number, 3, indicates the original position of this letter row. Using 28, you would count 2 more letters over and identify 5 letters that would be placed in the row 8 position. By applying the remaining keys to the letters, the grid reappears in its original order:

  The message can be read vertically down the 5 columns from left to right:

  Malone read again Voccio’s report and Andrew Jackson’s coded message.

  Jefferson Wheel.

  Followed by twenty-six random letters and five symbols.

  He’d already surfed the Internet and determined what the words Jefferson Wheel meant. Twenty-six wooden disks, upon which were carved the letters of the alphabet in random sequence. Each disk was numbered 1 through 26 and, depending on the order in which the disks were threaded onto an iron spindle, and the manner in which they were aligned, coded messages could be passed. The only requirement was that the sender and receiver had to possess the same collection of disks and arrange them in the same order. Jefferson conceived the idea himself from cipher locks he’d read about in French journals.

  The problem?

  Only one wheel still existed.

  Jefferson’s own.

  Which had been lost for decades but now was on display at Monticello, Jefferson’s Virginia estate. Malone assumed the twenty-six random letters in Jackson’s message would align the disks.

  But what order should the disks be in?

  Since none was specified, he would assume numerically. So when the disks were threaded in the correct sequence, then properly arranged, twenty-five lines would contain nonsense.

  One would reveal a cohesive message.

  He hadn’t told Cassiopeia what he’d found.

  Not on the phone.

  Monticello was less than an hour to the west.

  They’d go there tomorrow.

  WYATT FOUND A HOTEL JUST OUTSIDE WASHINGTON, A BOUTIQUE establishment that came with a computer in the room. He figured in the not-too-distant future that accessory would be as standard as a hair dryer and a television.

  He inserted the flash drive and read what Voccio had deciphered.

  Smart guy.

  A shame he was dead, but it was his own fault. Those men had come to herd them both to that waiting car. Just fire some shots, allow him to do his thing and think he succeeded, then wait and watch as the bomb took care of two problems at once.

  Carbonell was covering her tracks. The NSA and CIA moving on him may have spooked her. One less witness against you was never a bad thing.

  He was mad with himself, though. He knew better. But he’d wanted the money, and thought he could stay a step ahead.

  Thank goodness for a little luck.

  On a website for Monticello, he read about the Jefferson Wheel, noting that it was on display inside the mansion. The estate was located not far away. He’d go there tomorrow and do what he had to do to obtain the wheel.

  He checked his watch.

  4:10 AM.

  A few clicks on the keyboard and he learned that Monticello opened at nine AM.

  That gave him five hours to deal with Andrea Carbonell.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  WASHINGTON, DC

  5:00 AM

  WYATT ADMIRED THE CONDOMINIUM. ROOMY, STYLISH, PRICEY. He’d easily gained entry, the door secured by a simple lock. No alarm, no dog, no lights. It was located outside the Beltway in an upscale area replete with trendy stores and upscale eateries, the attractive complex iron-gated. He assumed a remote-controlled entry made for a good selling point to potential tenants who liked the status of having their guests wait for the bars to open. His own condominium in Florida came with gate and guard, which cost him and several thousand others a few hundred dollars a month in assessments.

  But it was worth it. Kept the riffraff out.

  He studied the décor, an odd mixture of minimalist style and Caribbean influences from onyx, wrought iron, and terra-cotta. Dim light leaking past the windows revealed a vibrant mixture of color and tone. He found a CD stack and noted a theme—mostly mambo, salsa, and Latin jazz. None of it his taste, but he could see how it would suit the condo’s owner.

  Andrea Carbonell.

  He’d called on longtime sources and learned where she lived. Unlike most of her colleagues, she resided beyond the DC limits and was ferried to and from work each day in a government car with driver. That same source had also told him that Carbonell was aboard an NIA helicopter that would land at Dulles in thirty minutes. She’d already informed her office that she would not be at her desk until eight AM. He hoped that meant she planned to come home for a quick stop. She’d been out all night, traveling somewhere south after she’d dropped him in Maryland. For someone so careful about her thoughts and plans, he wondered about her carelessness when it came to her schedule. He also wondered about the attack in Maryland. Did Carbonell already know that Dr. Gary Voccio was dead? No doubt.

  All yesterday she’d stayed a step ahead of him.

  Today was his turn.

  He noticed nothing personal or intimate on display anywhere. No photographs, keepsakes, nothing. She apparently had no husband, boyfriend, children, girlfriend, pet.

  But who was he to talk?

  He possessed none of those, either. He lived alone, always had. There hadn’t been a woman in years. Several prospects—divorced, widowed, or still married—had expressed an interest, but he’d never reciprocated. Simply the thought of sharing himself, in return for the other person offering up their vulnerabilities, turned his stomach. He preferred solitude, and the quiet that now enveloped him.

  But a sound intruded.

  His gaze shot toward the front door.

  A scraping.

  Not of a key entering the lock, but of someone working the mechanism.

  As he’d just done.

  He found his gun and retreated into one of the bedrooms, positioning himself so that he could spy around the jamb.

  The front door slowly opened and a dark formed stepped inside.

  Male. About Wyatt’s height and build, wearing black clothing, moving in silent steps.

  Apparently, he was not the only one interested in Carbonell.

  KNOX DETOURED TO HIS HOUSE FOR A SHOWER AND CHANGE OF clothes. His wife greeted him with her usual cheerfulness, not asking a thing about where he’d been or what he’d done. That was made clear long ago. His work for the Commonwealth was confidential. Of course, she believed the reasons for that involved legitimate corporate concerns and trade secrets. Not presidential assassinations, kidnappings, murder, and a variety of other lesser felonies he committed on an almost daily basis. She knew only that her husband loved her, their children were provided for, and they were happy. The secrecy of his life had afforded him countless opportunities to do as he pleased. He’d learned from his father, who’d also been a quartermaster, that with risk came reward.

  Is it unfair to your mother, his father had said, that I have other women? Damn right it is. But I’m the one out there, not her. I’ll go to prison, if caught. Not her. Always, in the end, I come home to her. I provide for her. I’ll grow old with her. But while I can, I’m entitled to live as I please.

  He hadn’t understood that selfish attitude until his turn came and he witnessed the demands of the job firsthand. Two hundred fourteen men made up the current company, spread among the four families. He served at their pleasure and they counted on him. But the four captains also demanded that he safeguard their interests. And though the captains could not fire him, they could make his life an utter hell.

  Fail either and the penalty was severe.

  A good quartermaster came to understand that balance. And yes, an occasional roll in the sack her
e and there with women he encountered might relieve the stress. But he’d never succumbed. He loved his wife and his family. Cheating on either was not an option. His father had not been right about everything. Not on married life—nor the Commonwealth. Things had changed since his father’s time, and he often wondered what that man would have done if faced with the current challenges. The captains fought among themselves with a rising intensity, one that was threatening the company’s existence. The long-standing ties that bound them together seemed ready to snap. Even so, he’d made a horrible mistake becoming entangled with Andrea Carbonell. Thank God the traitor she’d pointed him toward had implicated himself beyond question. In a strange way, he could sympathize with that doomed soul.

  Trapped. Nowhere to go.

  At the mercy of others.

  “You look tired,” his wife said to him from the bathroom door.

  He was about to shower and shave. “Long night.”

  “We can go to the beach next weekend and rest.”

  They had a cottage near Cape Hatteras, which he’d inherited from his father.

  “That sounds great,” he said. “You and me. Next weekend.”

  She smiled and hugged him from behind.

  He studied her face in the mirror.

  They’d been together twenty-five years, marrying young and raising three children. She was his best friend. Unfortunately, a huge part of his life remained a mystery to her. Where his father had kept secrets and cheated, he only kept secrets. He wondered what she’d do if she knew what he really did.

  That he killed people.

  “The weather should be great,” she said. “Nice and cool.”

  He turned and kissed her, then said, “I love you.”

  She smiled. “That’s always nice to hear. I love you, too.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to go back to the estate.” He saw she registered what he meant.

  “How about tonight?”

  He smiled at the prospect. “You’ve got a date.”

  She kissed him again, then left him alone.

  His thoughts returned to the problem.

  He needed the matter of the traitor ended. The captains’ fears must be eased. Nothing could point his way. He now knew why Carbonell had allowed him to kill Scott Parrott. Why not? Sure, it helped him with the captains, doing what they expected, but Parrott’s death also eliminated the only other person at NIA he’d ever dealt with.

  Making him totally dependent on her.

  Not good.

  He steadied himself.

  Two more hours and he should be in the clear.

  WYATT WATCHED THE NEWCOMER. THE BURGLAR HAD MADE no search, apparently aware that the condo would be empty. He’d toted in a dark bundle, laying the bag on the floor and quickly emptying its contents. A chair from the dining area was brought close to the front door. What looked like a gun was attached with clamps to its back, the legs braced with the couch that was slid into position. He then installed screw eyes in the ceiling, the jamb, and the door itself, threading string from the gun’s trigger, through each one, to the knob.

  He realized what was being created.

  A spring gun.

  Once used to protect property in remote locations. Rigged to a door or window so anyone who broke inside would be shot. They’d been illegal for decades. A bit old-fashioned and out of date.

  But effective.

  The man finished his work, testing the string’s tautness, then he carefully opened the door and slipped out.

  He wondered.

  Who else’s patience had run out?

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  BATH, NORTH CAROLINA

  HALE COULD NOT SLEEP. HE’D HOPED TO AFTER THE TRIAL, RETURNING home and retiring to his bedroom. But too many troubling thoughts swirled through his head. At least the matter of the traitor seemed resolved. Knox had handled the situation exactly as a quartermaster should. Shortly, the captains would demonstrate to the entire company what happened to those who violated the Articles. Reminders of that fact were never a bad thing. What truly concerned him, though, was the cipher’s solution.

  Could Carbonell provide it?

  Parrot had lied to Knox.

  Was she lying to him?

  Would he finally succeed where his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather failed?

  “It is indecipherable,” his father told him. “Just letters on a page. No order or reason.”

  “Why do we need it?” he asked with the innocence of someone not yet twenty. “We’re not threatened. Our letter of marque is being respected.”

  “That’s true. This president has been mindful, and most have been. Wilson, during World War I, was grateful for all our efforts. Roosevelt, too, during the Second World War. But four times our government chose not to honor its agreement, resting on the fact that there was no express congressional approval for our letter. They laughed at us, as Andrew Jackson did, knowing that, legally, our letter of marque was not enforceable. Those four men became problems.”

  His father had never spoken of this before.

  “Which four?”

  “The ones who died from a gun.”

  Had he heard right?

  “Quentin, your brother and sisters know nothing of what I do, only that we own and control many business entities. They, of course, are aware of our sea heritage, as you are, and they are proud of the role we played in forming this country. But they are ignorant of what we have done afterward.”

  And so was he, but his father was teaching him by the day.

  “During the Civil War, the Union called on us to stop the Confederacy from being supplied by sea. We were encouraged to attack French and English cargo vessels. While the Union navy blockaded key southern ports, we ravaged ships at sea. But we could not forget that we were of the South. So we allowed some to sneak through. Enough that the Confederacy lingered longer than it should have.”

  He’d never heard this before.

  “Lincoln was furious. During the war, he needed us. He knew what Jackson had done—that our letters of marque were foundationless—but he ignored that weakness and encouraged our strengths. When the war was won, he changed course. Arrest warrants were issued, and the Commonwealth was to be tried for piracy.” His father paused, the dark eyes focused intently on his son. “I remember when Papa told me what I am about to tell you.”

  His father was nearing seventy and in poor health. Hale was the youngest of the brood, not coming along until his father was nearly fifty. His older brother and sisters were far more accomplished and successful than him, yet he’d been chosen.

  “Lincoln knew that with two missing pages from the congressional journals our letters of marque were flawed. Foolishly, we’d trusted him. If tried, we had no defense. The captains would have gone to prison, or perhaps shot as traitors.”

  “But no Hale has ever gone to jail.”

  His father nodded. “Because he made sure that Abraham Lincoln died.”

  He still recalled the amazement when his father told him what the Commonwealth had done, completing the connection between Andrew Jackson and Abraham Lincoln.

  “Abner Hale tried to assassinate Andrew Jackson. He recruited and encouraged Richard Lawrence to kill the president. Jackson realized this immediately. That’s why he retaliated, gutting the letters of marque. The reason Abner acted was because Jackson refused to pardon two pirates convicted of robbing an American ship. It was a popular case in its time, one with all the things we’ve come to expect: celebrated lawyers, interesting personalities, allegations of official misconduct. The guilty verdicts were so controversial that they inspired death threats on Jackson. One came from a flamboyant Shakespearean actor. He wrote a scathing note and threatened to cut the president’s throat while he was sleeping, or to have him burned at the stake in Washington, DC, if a pardon was not issued. The man who wrote those words was Junius Brutus Booth.” His father paused. “The father of John Wilkes who, twenty-six years later, was used by the
Commonwealth to assassinate Abraham Lincoln.”

  Now he knew how the captains in 1865 escaped prosecution.

  “We ended the threat,” his father said, “by recruiting the younger Booth, which wasn’t all that difficult. People with causes in their hearts are common. Most are unstable and easily manipulated. Lincoln’s assassination threw the government into chaos. All talk of arrests ended. Even better, Booth died while trying to escape. Four other conspirators were quickly arrested, tried, and hung. Five more were imprisoned. Those nine knew nothing of us. So we survived.”

  And the Commonwealth would this time, too.

  But everything rested on Andrea Carbonell, and how desperately she wanted Stephanie Nelle dead.

  He had to play that card carefully.

  A knock on his bedroom door caught his attention.

  His secretary stepped inside. “I saw the light and decided to alert you.”

  He was listening.

  “The prisoner has asked to see you.”