by Steve Berry
“I came to the White House three years ago as a deputy national security adviser. I met Pauline … the First Lady … then.”
“Don’t worry about correctness,” she said. “This is just you and me. Tell me what happened.”
“I do worry about it.” A wave of anger flashed across his face. “I’m mad at myself. Never have I behaved in such a manner. I’m sixty years old and have never placed myself in such an awkward situation. I’m not sure what’s come over me.”
“Welcome to the club. Have you ever been married?”
He shook his head. “I’ve had precious few relationships in my life. Work was always the most important thing. I was the person other people turned to in time of trouble. A steady hand. Now—”
She reached out and lightly grasped his arm. “Just tell me what happened.”
His defensiveness seemed to abate. “She’s a terribly unhappy woman and has been for a long time. Which is such a shame, because she’s a good person. What happened with her daughter profoundly affected her. She just never dealt with it.”
And neither had Danny Daniels, she thought.
“She rarely travels with the president anymore,” Davis said. “Differing schedules, which isn’t unusual. So there were times when he was gone that she and I would visit with each other. Nothing improper, mind you. Nothing at all. Just a lunch or a dinner where I’d keep her company and we’d talk. She likes to read, mainly romance novels. That’s something few know. The steamier the better. Shirley would sneak them to her.” He smiled. “They bring her joy, and not because of the sex. That isn’t the allure. It’s the happy endings. They all end on a high note, and that she likes.”
He was relaxing, opening up, as if he’d been living on his raw nerves far too long.
“We talked about books, the world, the White House. There was no reason to pretend with me. I was the closest person to the president. There was nothing I didn’t know. Eventually, we explored Mary, her husband, and her marriage.”
“She made it clear to me that she blames the president for everything.”
“That’s not true,” he quickly said. “Not in the way you think. Maybe in the beginning she did blame him. But I think she came to realize that was foolish. Sadly, a part of her died that night with Mary. A part that could never be reclaimed, and it’s taken her decades to understand that loss.”
“Were you a factor in that understanding?”
He seemed to feel the hint of criticism in her words.
“I tried hard not to be. But when I was promoted to chief of staff, we spent more time together. Our discussions progressed to ever-deeper topics. She trusted me.” He hesitated. “I’m a good listener.”
“But you were doing more than listening,” she said. “You were empathizing. Relating. Drawing something equally beneficial, for yourself, from her.”
He nodded. “Our conversations were a two-way street. And she came to know that.”
She, too, had wrestled with those same emotions. Sharing yourself with someone was tough business.
“Pauline is a year older than me,” he said, as if that mattered in some way. “She jokes that I’m her younger man. I have to confess, I like it when she says that.”
“Does Daniels have any idea?”
“Heavens, no. But like I said, absolutely nothing improper has occurred.”
“Except the two of you have fallen in love.”
Resignation filled his face. “I suppose you’re right. That’s exactly what happened. She and the president have not been man and wife for a long time, and they both seem to have accepted that. There’s no intimacy in their relationship. And I don’t mean in the physical sense. There’s no sharing of each other. No vulnerabilities exposed. It’s as if they’re roommates. Colleagues. With a physical wall between them. No marriage can survive that.”
She knew what he meant. Never before had she been intimate with anyone on the level she was with Cotton. There’d been men, and she’d shared some of herself, but never all. To reveal your hopes and fears, trusting that another person will not abuse them, involved a huge leap of faith.
And not only for her, but for Cotton, too.
Yet Davis was right.
Intimacy seemed the mortar that bound love together.
“Did you know about Quentin Hale’s connection to Shirley Kaiser?” she asked.
“Absolutely not. I’ve only met Shirley once, when she came to the White House. But I know Pauline talks to her every day. Without her, she would have folded long ago. If Pauline would tell anyone about the New York trip, it would have been Shirley. I also know that Shirley knows about me. That’s why I needed you on this one. I figured things could rapidly get out of hand.”
Which had happened.
“Now Quentin Hale knows,” she said. “But, interestingly, he hasn’t done a thing with the information.”
“When he met with me that day in the White House, he surely knew. That get-together was probably a way for him to see if he had to play the trump card.”
She agreed. That made sense. As did something else. “I’m convinced that Hale has Stephanie. Though she was looking into Carbonell, it involved the Commonwealth, too. There’s no doubt about it now.”
“But if we act imprudently, we risk not only exposure and embarrassment for all concerned, but Stephanie’s life.”
“That’s true but—”
An alarm sounded from the visitor center.
“What now?” she said.
They raced back toward the cluster of buildings and into the estate manager’s office.
Concern filled the manager’s assistant’s face. “Some sort of bomb went off in the main house.”
FORTY-SIX
WYATT’S TOYS HAD DONE THE TRICK. PANIC NOW REIGNED INSIDE the mansion. People screaming, shoving, trying to escape. He’d used a modified mixture that added smoke, which only amplified the effects. Thank goodness he’d shipped a supply to New York, since he’d been unsure just what would happen once Cotton Malone entered the picture.
He’d retreated into Jefferson’s bedroom and jammed a chair under the doorknob. He knew another tour would be making their way from the sitting room into the library, then the cabinet. He stepped lightly across the room’s plank floor toward the bed. He recalled the guide earlier babbling about how Jefferson would rise as soon as he could see the hands of an obelisk clock that sat across from the bed. A crimson silk counterpane—sewn to Jefferson’s specifications, the guide had pointed out—covered the mattress, which filled an alcove between the bedroom and the cabinet. He crawled onto the bed and carefully peered around the edge, past arches, to see people in the library, about twenty feet away. The guide seemed to be assessing the unusual situation and, upon hearing the screams from the other end of the house, asked for everyone to stay calm.
Wyatt tossed a light bomb their way, jerking his head back just as the flash and smoke appeared.
Shouts came as fear set in.
“This way,” he heard a voice say over the commotion.
He glanced back and saw the guide leading the group through the smoke, out the louvered doors, into the adjacent greenhouse and fresh air.
He turned his attention to the cipher wheel.
Which rested two feet away.
MALONE STOOD INSIDE MONTICELLO’S TWO-STORY ENTRANCE hall. Smoke billowed from open glass doors at the opposite end, followed by screams and yells that signaled something had just happened to his left.
The estate manager stood beside him.
A wave of people had fled the house a moment ago through the main doors behind him, their voices excited, their eyes alight with fear.
“What’s that way?” he asked, motioning to the left where the commotion now seemed centered.
“Jefferson’s private rooms. The library, cabinet, bedroom.”
“Is that where the wheel is displayed?”
The man nodded.
He found his gun. “Out. And don’t let anybody in.”
Who the hell was here?
WYATT SLIPPED THE NYLON CARRYALL HE’D BROUGHT WITH him from his pant pocket. The wheel was larger than he’d expected, but the thin bag could handle it. He’d have to be careful since the wooden disks seemed brittle. Understandable, considering they were over two hundred years old.
He climbed off the bed into the cabinet, removed the glass cover, and lifted out the spindled disks. Carefully, he worked the device into the nylon bag. He then grabbed two loose disks that had been displayed separately and laid them in the bag. He would have to cradle the bundle in his arms, holding it close to his chest to ensure no damage.
He tested the weight.
About five pounds.
No problem.
MALONE PASSED THROUGH A ROOM WITH PALE GREEN WALLS and a fireplace. A placard identified it as the South Square Room. Above a white mantel hung a woman’s portrait. Another door led into what he recalled from some reading as Jefferson’s sanctum sanctorum, which consumed the entire south end of the building.
Gun in hand, he opened the door and was met by a wall of smoke.
He stared through the fog and caught glimpses of people outside, through the room’s windows, which stretched floor-to-ceiling, opening like doors into a sunlit porch bright with potted plants. He grabbed a breath and plunged into the smoke, keeping close to the wall, seeking cover behind a wooden cabinet. Ahead, to his left, rose narrow bookshelves lined with old leather-bound volumes. Archways supported the ceiling and led to the far end where, in a semi-octagonal alcove, he spotted a man, bagging up the wheel.
He focused on the face.
One he knew.
And everything made sense.
WYATT CAUGHT MOVEMENT THROUGH THE FOG. SOMEBODY had entered the library at the far end.
He finished his task, cradled the wheel in one arm, and found his gun.
He saw a man staring at him.
Cotton Malone.
And fired a shot.
MALONE DROPPED BEHIND THE WOODEN CABINET AS WYATT sent a bullet his way. What had it been? Eight years. At least. He’d never known what had happened to Wyatt after he was forced out, though he’d heard something about freelancing.
The person who’d set the trap using Stephanie Nelle as bait, luring him to that hotel room. The author of the note left for him to find. The voice on the radio from the Grand Hyatt that fingered him. The manipulation of the police and the Secret Service.
All Wyatt.
Something flew through the fog and landed on the floor.
Small, round, rolling his way.
He knew what was coming and whirled his head to the right, shutting his eyes.
WYATT ABANDONED THE CABINET, THEN THE BEDROOM, AND made his way back into the parlor, away from Malone. As much as he’d like to stay and play, he couldn’t.
Not now.
He had the wheel and that was all that mattered. He could use it to discover what lay next in the search for the two missing congressional pages. Or maybe he’d just destroy the thing and be done with it.
That way, nobody would win.
At the moment, he was unsure.
MALONE DECIDED NOT TO FOLLOW WYATT. HE KNEW THE ground-floor rooms wound their way back to the center, so he opened a door to his right, revealing a short corridor that emptied twenty feet ahead into the entrance hall.
Smoke drifted his way.
Visibility wasn’t good, and Wyatt certainly wasn’t going to walk out the front door. To his immediate right, a set of narrow, wedge-shaped steps rose in a vertical spiral to the second floor. A chain with a sign indicated no admittance. He recalled the entrance hall and the open second-floor railing and decided the high ground might be better, so he stepped over the chain and headed up.
WYATT INTENDED ON LEAVING, BUT NOT FROM THE GROUND floor. His plan was to make his way to the cellar, then out through the lower, north exit into the woods beyond the service road. That had always seemed the safest route, considering the excitement would be centered on the house’s east side. But Malone was just a few feet away, probably trying to make his way back toward the entrance hall.
He stopped in the parlor and listened.
Smoke remained thick. No one was around. Malone probably had the house sealed. Then a thought occurred to him and his gaze drifted to the ceiling.
Of course.
That’s exactly what he would have done.
FORTY-SEVEN
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
KNOX WATCHED THE THREE OTHER CAPTAINS AS QUENTIN Hale reveled in his moment. He, too, had been impressed when he first listened to the taped conversations. The fact was startling. The First Lady of the United States romantically involved with the White House chief of staff?
“How long has this been going on?” Cogburn asked Hale.
“Long enough that neither of them can deny it. The conversations are, at a minimum, hugely embarrassing. Never before has American politics been subjected to something like this. The sheer novelty will drive the press and the public insane. Daniels would be impotent for the remainder of his term.”
Even Edward Bolton, who as a matter of course denied all things that emanated from a Hale as either self-serving, impractical, or stupid, sat silent, certainly realizing the possibilities.
“Let’s use it,” Surcouf said. “Now. Why wait?”
“Its use must be timed with precision,” Hale said. “As you three like to remind me, when I went begging to the White House, I knew about this information. But I went there to see if we would have to use it. I asked that our letters be respected and was rebuked. So now we have little choice. Still, going straight to the president with this would be counterproductive. Instead we must pressure the two individuals involved, allow them to consider the ramifications of their actions, then wait as they do our persuading for us.”
Knox agreed, the First Lady and the chief of staff would have the most influence over President Daniels. But would they do the Commonwealth’s bidding? Hardly. This was more irrational thinking. The kind that had convinced him that making a deal with the NIA was preferable to riding out the storm on this leaky ship.
“They can choose for themselves what to tell Daniels,” Hale said. “We don’t care. We just want the U.S. government to honor the letters of marque.”
“How did you acquire these tapes?” Bolton asked. “Is there anything that leads this way? How do you know that you’re not being played? This whole thing is a bit fantastic. Too damn good to be true. We could be walking into a trap.”
“That’s a good point,” Cogburn said. “It is awfully convenient.”
Hale shook his head. “Gentlemen, why are you so suspicious? I have been involved with this woman for over a year. She shares with me things she really should not.”
“Then why tape her phone calls?” Bolton asked Hale.
“Because, Edward, do you think she tells me everything? And for this to work, we need the First Lady herself to speak about it. So I took the chance and monitored her phone line. Thank goodness I did, or we would not have such damning evidence.”
“I’m still concerned,” Cogburn said. “It could be a trap.”
“If this is a ruse, then it is one on an elaborate scale.” Hale shook his head. “This is real. I’d stake my life on it.”
“But the question is,” Bolton said, “will we stake our lives on it?”
MALONE CREPT DOWN A CORRIDOR THAT STRETCHED NORTH-TO-SOUTH, from one end of the second floor to the other. Though he’d never been inside Monticello, he knew enough about Thomas Jefferson to know that there would be another staircase at the far end. Jefferson had been an admirer of all things French. Double-height rooms, domes, bed alcoves, skylights, indoor privies, narrow staircases—all common elements in Franco architecture. As was symmetry. Which meant there should be a second stairway at the north end that would
lead down. But between here and there was the balcony that opened out into the entrance hall, smoke filling the path ahead confirming that fact.
He came to the end of the corridor and gazed down into the entrance hall. Beyond the railing he spotted no movement. Smoke hung thick, dissipating as it drifted upward. He kept away from the rail, hugging the wall, and crossed the balcony to the other side. Ahead, a few feet down another hall, he spotted the second staircase, winding a steep path down and up to the third floor.
Something flew up from that stairway and bounced on the hall’s wood floor. Rolling his way. He dove back to the balcony just as the flash bomb exploded with light and smoke.
He raised his head and glanced down, beyond the railing.
Wyatt stood, aiming a gun upward.
HALE GLARED AT EDWARD BOLTON AND SAID, “I’D SAY YOU HAVE little choice but to trust this will produce the desired results.” He paused. “For us all. Unless you have a better idea.”
“I don’t trust anything you do,” Bolton said.
Charles Cogburn stepped forward. “I have to agree with him, Quentin. This could be as foolish as what we tried.”
“Assassination wasn’t foolish,” Bolton was quick to say. “It’s worked in the past. Look at what happened to McKinley. He was determined to prosecute us, too.”
Hale’s father had told him about William McKinley, who like Lincoln had at first made use of the Commonwealth. By the time of the Spanish-American War, thanks to the 1856 Treaty of Paris, more than fifty nations had outlawed privateering. And though neither Spain nor America signed that treaty, they agreed not to engage in privateering during their war at the turn of the 20th century. Not bound by any international agreement, the Commonwealth preyed on Spanish shipping. Unfortunately, the war lasted only four months. Once peace was declared the Spanish demanded retribution, calling into question America’s veracity since it had violated its prewar agreement. McKinley finally relented to pressure and authorized prosecutions, resting on the fact that the Commonwealth’s letters of marque were legally unenforceable. So a deranged would-be anarchist was covertly recruited and encouraged to kill McKinley, which he did on September 6, 1901. The assassin was apprehended at the scene. Seventeen days later he was tried and convicted. Five weeks after that he was electrocuted. The new president, Theodore Roosevelt, had no qualms with the Commonwealth’s attacks and cared nothing about appeasing the Spanish.
