by Steve Berry
“But we also aided the South, didn’t we?”
His father nodded. “That we did. But how could we abandon them?”
His father started coughing. That was happening more and more of late. He was approaching eighty, and sixty years of heavy smoking and hard drinking had finally caught up with him. He was wasting away. The last will and testament was ready, all of its provisions reviewed by the lawyers and the children informed as to what was expected of them once he was gone. He’d provided for everyone with great generosity, as was expected of Hale patriarchs. Quentin, though, was the recipient of an additional private bequest, which only one Hale heir could receive.
Membership in the Commonwealth.
Which came with the house and land in Bath.
“When Lincoln died,” his father said, “the country fell into chaos. Political factions fought one another with no room for compromise. Andrew Johnson, who succeeded Lincoln, was caught up in this fighting and impeached. Corruption and scandal marred the federal government for decades. Garfield served in the House during this time. Finally, in 1880, he was chosen by the Republicans as a compromise candidate, selected at the party’s convention on the thirty-sixth ballot.”
His father shook his head.
“Just our luck. We fought against him in the general election. Spent time and money. Winfield Hancock ran for the Democrats and took every state south of the Mason Dixon line. Garfield claimed the North and Midwest. Nine million ballots were cast that November and Garfield beat Hancock by only 1,898 votes. That election remains the smallest margin of victory in all our history. They each also carried 19 states, but Garfield’s brought him 59 more electoral votes than Hancock and he won.”
His father told him what happened next.
Garfield was sworn in on March 4, 1881, and immediately began an investigation of the Commonwealth. He was intent on prosecuting all four principals, who were still alive sixteen years after the Civil War. He convened a special military court and handpicked its panel. The four captains had expected no less from him and used the time between the 1880 election and the March 1881 inauguration to prepare. Charles Guiteau, a deranged lawyer from Illinois who’d convinced himself that he alone had been responsible for Garfield’s election, was recruited. His personal requests for some type of government position after Garfield was sworn in had all been rejected. For months he roamed both the White House grounds and the State Department seeking his reward. He became so insidious that he was banned from those premises. Eventually, he became convinced that God had commanded him to kill the president. After money was provided he bought a .44 Webley British Bulldog revolver, with an ivory handle, because he thought it would look better as a museum exhibit after the assassination.
He then stalked Garfield for the month of June 1881.
“Presidents then had no protection,” his father said. “They walked among the crowds just as anyone else. They used public transportation. Amazing, really, considering that, by then, one had already been slain. But we were still innocent.”
Finally, on July 2, 1881, Guiteau confronted Garfield at a Washington railroad station and shot him twice. Garfield’s two sons, Secretary of State James Blaine, and his Secretary of War, Robert Todd Lincoln, were eyewitnesses.
One bullet grazed the shoulder, but another lodged in his spine.
“The damn fool shot him at point-blank range and didn’t kill him,” his father said. “Garfield lingered eleven weeks before he died. Nine months later Guiteau was hanged.”
Hale smiled at another of the Commonwealth’s successes.
Bold and brilliant.
Guiteau had been the perfect choice. At his trial he recited epic poems and sang “John Brown’s Body.” He solicited legal advice from spectators and dictated his autobiography to The New York Herald. Even if he implicated anyone, nobody would have believed him.
Hale’s father had died three months after telling him about Garfield. The funeral had been a grand affair. The entire company had attended. Hale had been immediately inducted as captain.
Thirty years ago.
Men still spoke of his father in reverent terms. Now he was about to do what his father had never accomplished.
Find their salvation.
A knock on the study door interrupted his thoughts.
He glanced up from the chair to see his secretary, who said, “She’s on the line, sir.”
He reached for the phone, a landline, secured, checked daily.
“What is it, Andrea?”
“Wyatt is weather-delayed in Boston. His plane was returned to the terminal. I’m told he should leave within the next two hours. I assume your man is away.”
“Gone.”
“He should arrive first, even though he has a longer flight. He can make it to the fort and be waiting. You see, Quentin, I’m trying to be cooperative.”
“Something new for you?”
Carbonell chuckled.
“Knox will handle the matter,” he said. “He’s good. But I do need to know something. Do you have a second spy in this company?”
“How about I answer that question after we see how successful your quartermaster will be.”
“All right. We’ll wait. That shouldn’t be but a few hours from now. Then I will want an answer to my question.”
“I’m assuming, Quentin, that once you have those two missing pages and your letters of marque are fortified, you will handle that other matter we discussed.”
Killing Stephanie Nelle.
“You can’t release her,” she said.
No, he couldn’t. But two could play her game.
“How about I answer that question after you answer mine.”
WYATT WAS GROWING IMPATIENT. RAIN BLANKETED THE Boston airport, and the gate attendant had informed everyone that the weather should pass within the next hour and flights would resume shortly after that. That meant it would be close to nightfall before he reached the island.
No matter. Whatever was there had waited 175 years, another few hours would not be a problem.
His cellphone vibrated in his pocket. He’d switched the unit back on once he was inside the terminal. It was a prepaid disposable bought yesterday in New York. Only one person had the number.
“I understand the weather is awful,” Carbonell said.
“Bad enough.”
“I just came from the White House. The president knows all about you.”
No surprise there, once Malone had spotted him.
“Lucky for me I’m leaving under another name,” he said in a low voice, huddled across the concourse at an empty gate.
“CIA, NSA—none of them knows a thing,” she said. “Malone erased his copy of the solution off his email and his Danish server doesn’t keep backups. But Malone doesn’t have the cipher wheel.”
“You gluing it back together?”
“Why do I have to? I have you.”
“And the point of this call?”
“I thought you’d like to know where you stand, considering your weather problem. Though the White House is investigating, you still have an open-field run to the goal line.”
Like he believed her. Nothing was ever that easy.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Be successful.”
And he ended the call.
FIFTY-EIGHT
HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA
4:10 PM
MALONE DROVE INTO THE TOWN OF MAHONE BAY—FOUNDED, the sign welcoming him proclaimed, in 1754. It nestled close to the inlet of the same name, crisscrossed by winding streets and lined with Victorian-era architecture. Three towering church spires kept watch. Yachts and sailboats rimmed the waterfront. A late-afternoon sun cast weak rays of smoky light through refreshingly cool air.
Before landing a few miles south of town, they’d overflown and he’d studied the island-strewn bay. They’d found Paw Island and reconnoitered it from the air, a mass of dark rock, tumbled grass, oaks, and spruce. Limestone cliffs dominated the sho
re that supported the ruined fort. He’d noted several places to beach a boat on the south shore and also saw the birds. Thousands of them scattered across the decaying walls, on the cliffs, in trees. Gannets, kittiwakes, gulls, terns, and murres massed so thick they obscured the ground in places.
He parked near a cluster of shops, art galleries, and cafés. Though it was late on a Sunday afternoon, he was glad to see that most of the businesses remained open. A bakery drew his attention and he told himself to pay it and a nearby fruit market a visit before heading out. Food would be good. He had no idea how long he’d be on the island.
Buildings backed to the bay above boulders that protected the shore from a restless tide. Kayaks, motorboats, and sailboats were all available for hire, and he decided that a fast and sturdy powerboat would do the trick. Paw Island was about six miles away by water.
Some local knowledge could also help.
So he decided to make a few inquires about the fort before heading for the island.
CASSIOPEIA STUFFED HER DIRTY CLOTHES INTO THE SHOULDER bag. She’d packed light for the New York weekend, bringing only a few items. Davis had offered her use of what he called the Blue Bedroom on the White House’s second floor. It came with its own bath, so she’d been able to shower. While she bathed and rested—a lack of sleep had caught up with her—the staff had laundered her clothes. There was no rush to head back to Fredericksburg. Shirley Kaiser would not be home for another four hours. They’d told Kaiser to do nothing out of the ordinary. Stay as long as usual. Be herself.
A light knock drew her across the room.
She opened the door to see Danny Daniels standing outside.
Her guard immediately went up.
“I need to speak with you,” he said in a soft voice.
He came in and sat on one of the twin beds. “I’ve always liked this room. Mary Lincoln lay in shock here following ol’ Abe’s assassination. She refused to enter their bedroom down the hall. Reagan used it as a gym. Other presidents had their small children live here.”
She waited for what he wanted.
“My wife betrayed me, didn’t she?”
She wondered about the question. “In what way?”
“I listened to Edwin when he told me what happened with Shirley. He’s convinced that Pauline’s motives were innocent.” The president paused. “But I wonder.”
She had no idea how to respond to that comment.
“Edwin told you about Mary?”
She nodded.
“I asked him to do that. I don’t speak of her. I can’t. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Why are telling me this?”
“Because I can’t tell anyone else.”
“You should tell your wife.”
Daniels’ eyes seemed distant. “I’m afraid there’s little left to say between us. Our time has come and gone.”
“Do you love her?”
“Not anymore.”
The admission shocked her.
“I haven’t in a long time. It’s not malice, or hate, or anger. Just nothing.”
His mellow tone unnerved her. She was accustomed to the booming voice.
“Does she know?”
“How could she not?”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked again.
“Because the one other person I could speak to about this is in trouble and needs your help.”
“Stephanie?”
Daniels nodded. “Last Christmas, with all that happened with Cotton’s father, she and I began to talk. She’s an extraordinary woman who’s led a tough life.”
Cassiopeia had known Stephanie’s late husband and had been there, in the Languedoc, a few years ago when the tragic events finally played out.
“She told me about her husband and son. I think she wanted me to tell her about Mary, but I couldn’t.”
Pain clouded the president’s face.
“Stephanie went out there because of me. Now she’s gone. We have to find her. My gut wants to send a hundred FBI agents into that pirate compound at Bath. She could be there. But I know that’s foolishness. What you’re planning is the better way.”
“Are you and Stephanie … involved?”
She hoped the question would not offend him, but she had to ask. Particularly considering what she already knew.
“Not at all. I doubt she even gave our talks a thought. But I liked that she listened. Stephanie has a great respect for you. I don’t know if you know that. That’s why I agreed with Edwin. We need you both on this.”
A moment of strained silence passed between them.
“Stephanie told me that you and Cotton are an item. Is that true?”
Strange, having this conversation with the president of the United States. “It looks that way.”
“He’s a good man.”
Speaking of which, “What do you think is going to happen in Nova Scotia?”
“Cotton and Wyatt will be there. It remains to be seen if the Commonwealth appears. If Carbonell is in league with them, that’s a definite possibility. But Cotton is tough. He can handle things.” Daniels stood from the bed. “A little advice from an old fool?”
“Of course. Not that you’re a fool.”
“Actually, I’m one of the biggest. But follow your heart. It rarely leads you astray. It’s thinking that gets us into trouble.”
FIFTY-NINE
MAHONE BAY
MALONE CHOSE TO RENT A TEN-FOOT V-HULLED WITH A SINGLE outboard and two spare gas tanks. The time was approaching five PM. He was running behind, thanks to the weather delay back in DC, but he hoped Wyatt was, too. He’d been told that flights all along the eastern seaboard had been affected.
He’d visited the bakery and the market. The boat came equipped with a heavy-duty flashlight and spare batteries. It definitely appeared that he’d be spending the night on Paw Island. Thankfully, he was armed, the benefit of arriving on a Secret Service jet with official Canadian clearance. No questions from anybody. Wyatt would not have that luxury if he’d flown commercial, or even a charter, as customs would search both the plane and his belongings.
Before leaving town he decided to visit a bookstore that’d caught his eye. When he’d worked for Stephanie Nelle at the Justice Department, after assignments ended he’d always found one wherever he was in the world. This shop was located inside a brightly colored clapboard house with nautical touches that included maps, knots, even a ship’s figurehead. The shelves lining the walls were crowded with tales about the bay, the towns, and Oak Island. Davis had explained a possible connection between the five symbols in Jackson’s message and a mysterious slab found ninety feet belowground by treasure seekers on Oak Island. He located the slab in one of the books and showed it to the woman behind the counter. She was older, with brown hair streaked by waves of red.
“This drawing,” he asked her. “The stone, with writing on it. Where is this located?”
“Not far. It’s a replica of the original, on display. You into the Oak Island thing?”
“Not really. Seems like the only real treasure there is the money made from people who come to visit.”
“No reason to be so cynical. You never know. There could be something to it.”
He could not argue with that.
“The symbols are unique. Is there any explanation where they might have come from?
“You’ll find them on several islands in the bay.”
That was news.
“They’re common around here. Carved into rocks, trees. But, of course, nobody knows when they were put there.”
He caught her drift. Which came first, the Oak Island slab that no one had ever seen or the other symbols? Davis had told him that the stone was supposedly found in 1805 so, if the slab actually existed, symbols in other places could have appeared after. He recalled Rennes-le-Château, in France, and the mystique associated with that place, nearly all of it manufactured by a local hotel owner to generate business.
“Is Paw Island
one of those places where the symbols can be found?” he asked.
She nodded. “There are a few scattered around near the fort.”
“I flew over coming in. Quite a few birds live there.”
“You could say that, and they don’t like visitors. You headed there?”
He closed the book. “I don’t know. Thought I’d just tour the bay and see what’s out there.”
“Paw’s restricted,” she said. “National preserve. You have to get permission to go there.”
“Since I can’t go,” he said. “You have any books on it?”
She pointed to a shelf across the store. “Two or three. Picture books, some stuff on the fort. What’s your deal?” She apprised him with suspicious eyes. “You’re one of those bird-watchers, aren’t you? We get a lot. Paw Island is like Disneyland to them.”
He smiled. “Guilty. How much trouble will I get into if I go?”
“Plenty, and the Coast Guard Auxiliary patrol it all the time.”
“You know where I can find those symbols on the island?”
“You’re going to end up in jail.”
“I’ll take the chance.” He handed her three hundred-dollar bills. “I’d like an answer to my question.”
She accepted the money and handed him a card for the shop.
“I’ll tell you about the symbols. But I also know a lawyer. You’re going to need one after you get to jail.”
WYATT MADE HIS WAY THROUGH THE TREES ON PAW ISLAND, heading south from where he’d hidden his boat on the north shore.
He’d finally arrived in Halifax after several delays. He’d then rented a car and driven south to Chester, a quaint town that extended out into the northern reaches of Mahone Bay, its two natural harbors dotted with expensive sailboats and yachts. More wealth appeared in the form of brightly colored clapboard houses, meticulously maintained, that clung to a rocky shore, the streetscape right out of the 18th century.
It was after six when he arrived and most of the businesses were closed. He’d walked the empty docks and spied the moored motorboats. One, a twelve-footer with a respectable outboard, seemed right. So he’d used some of his old skills—how to start an engine without a key—and stolen transportation.
