The Jefferson Key: A Novel

by Steve Berry

  He did not like the sound of that.

  “We have to go back to Paw Island,” she said.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “There’s nowhere for you to go.”

  What did that mean?

  “Your precious Commonwealth is being attacked, as we speak.”

  “By you?”

  She nodded. “I decided Stephanie Nelle needs rescuing. And if Hale or one or two of the captains is killed in the process? That would be good for us all, wouldn’t it?”

  Her right arm moved and he caught the silhouette of a weapon in her hand. “Which brings me to the other reason why we’re here.”

  He heard a pop, then felt something pierce his chest.

  Sharp.

  Painful.

  A second later, the world vanished.

  SEVENTY

  NOVA SCOTIA

  MALONE RECALLED WHAT THE BOOKSTORE OWNER HAD TOLD him about the symbols. That they could be found at various points inside the fort and on stones and markers around the island, but she’d said nothing about them appearing beneath. Understandable, considering that this was surely off limits.

  The passage they were trapped in seemed to span from one end of the fort to the other. Dark yawns dotted the walls at varying heights. None of it was natural, the cut stones all man-made. He examined one of the yawns and noted that the rectangular chute, which extended into blackness, had also been crafted by hand. Positioned at points about three and six feet high, each dripped with remnants of the last high tide. He knew what these were.

  Faucets and drains.

  “Whoever built this place made sure it would flood completely,” he said to Wyatt. “These openings are the only way out.”

  He began to feel what those 74 British soldiers must have felt. Underground spaces were not his favorite. Especially confined ones.

  “I didn’t sacrifice those two agents,” Wyatt said to him.

  “I never thought you did. I simply thought you were reckless.”

  “We had a job to do. I just did it.”

  “Why does that matter right now?”

  “It just does.”

  And then he realized. Wyatt truly regretted those deaths. He hadn’t thought so at the time, but now he saw different. “It bothers you they died.”

  “It always did.”

  “You should have said that.”

  “It’s not my way.”

  No, he supposed not.

  “What happened up there?” he asked. “The Commonwealth came to kill you?”

  “NIA sent the Commonwealth to kill me.”

  “Carbonell?”

  “An act she will regret.”

  They came to a point where two more tunnels opened into the rock, forming a Y-shaped junction. With the flashlight Wyatt examined another of the chutes that opened from the wall, this one about shoulder-high. “I hear water at the other end.”

  “Can you see anything?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “I’m not staying here and waiting for high tide. These have to lead out to the sea. Now’s the time to find out—before they start filling.”

  He agreed.

  Wyatt laid down the flashlight and removed his jacket. Malone grabbed the light and shone it around the junction point. As long as they were here they might as well make a full reconnoiter.

  Something caught his attention.

  Another symbol, chiseled into the stone to the left of where the main passage broke into two.

  He recalled it from Jackson’s message. He studied the remaining walls and spotted a second symbol opposite the first.

  :

  Then directly across from those, on the far wall of the first passage, two more, about eight feet apart.

  That made four of the five Jackson had included in his message. And something else. They were positioned in relation to one another.

  Wyatt noticed his interest. “They’re all here.”

  Not quite.

  He sloshed through the water to the center of the intersection of the three tunnels. Four markers surrounded him. The fifth? Down? He doubted it. Instead, he glanced up and shone the light at the ceiling.

  “Triangle marks the spot,” he said.

  Water burst from the lower chutes, surging through the chamber, swamping the floor in a cold wave.

  He walked back to Wyatt, switching the flashlight from his right to his left hand.

  He whirled his right arm up and smashed a fist across Wyatt’s jaw.

  Wyatt staggered back, splashing into the water on the floor.

  “Are we done now?” he asked.

  But Wyatt said nothing. He simply came to his feet, hopped into the closest chute, and disappeared into the blackness.

  CASSIOPEIA SOUGHT COVER IN A STAND OF TREES, WATCHING the house that stood fifty meters away. Wind chimes performed a symphony of high-pitched tones. She glimpsed dark forms scurrying from one side of the house to the other, and more shots were fired. She decided to take a chance and found her phone, dialing Davis’ number.

  “What’s happening there?” he immediately asked her.

  “This place is under siege.”

  “We can hear the gunfire. I’ve already checked with Washington. It’s nobody that I can identify.”

  “It’s good cover,” she said. “Just sit tight and stick to the plan.”

  She sounded like Cotton. He was rubbing off on her.

  “I don’t like it,” Davis said.

  “Neither do I. But I’m already here.”

  She ended the call.

  WYATT WIGGLED DOWN THE TIGHT TUNNEL, NO MORE THAN three feet high and a little more than that wide. Cold water continued to drain from outside toward him with an ever-increasing intensity, the rush from its source growing more distinct.

  He was coming to the end.

  In more ways than one.

  He’d allowed Malone the violation. He would have done the same, or worse, if the roles were reversed. Malone remained too self-important for his taste, but the cocksure SOB had never lied to him.

  And there was something to be said for that.

  Andrea Carbonell had sent him to Canada, assuring him repeatedly that the journey was between the two of them. Then she promptly informed the Commonwealth.

  He could imagine the deal she’d made.

  Kill Jonathan Wyatt and you get to keep whatever there was to find.

  And that rattled him more than Cotton Malone.

  He’d done okay the past few days, stopping the assassination of the president of the United States and managing to come as close as anyone to solving the puzzle Andrew Jackson had created long ago. He would have saved Gary Voccio’s life, too, if the man had not panicked. His physical confrontation with Malone seemed to quell whatever anger had lingered inside him from eight years ago.

  Instead, a new fury raged.

  Faint rays of light appeared ahead.

  In the absolute darkness, any glow, however minor, was welcome. The chilly water now rose to his elbows. He continued to crawl on all fours. The end of the shaft appeared and he saw a pool inside a rocky cavern. Surf lapped its sides as water rose to the chute. Beyond the cavern entrance he spotted open sea, bright streaks of moonlight glimmering off the restless surface.

  He began to understand the engineering. The shafts had been cut into the rock at varying heights, emptying beneath the fort. As the tide rose so would the pool, flooding each of the tunnels in turn, forcing water into the chambers. When the tide receded, so would the water. A simple mechanism utilizing gravity and nature, but he wondered what its purpose had been in the first place.

  Who cared?

  He was free.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  KNOX AWOKE.

  Cool air rushed across his body. His head hurt and his vision was blurred. He heard the monotonous drone of an engine and felt himself jostled up and down. Then he realized. He was back on Mahone Bay. In a boat. With three people on board.

  Two men and Carbonell.

  He pus
hed himself up on his feet.

  “My little dart works, doesn’t it?” Carbonell called out.

  He recalled the weapon in her hand, the pop, then the sting to his chest. She’d tranquilized him. He didn’t have to ask where they were headed. He knew. Paw Island.

  “It’s the same boat you stole earlier,” she said.

  He rubbed his aching head and longed for a shot of bourbon. “Why are we going back?”

  “To finish what you started.”

  He steadied himself. Everything tossed and turned, and not from the boat. “You understand that Wyatt is not going to be happy to see you.”

  “Actually, I’m counting on that.”

  CASSIOPEIA WATCHED THE ATTACK ON HALE’S RESIDENCE. WHOEVER these assailants were, they weren’t being subtle. The shooting had subsided, but there was still plenty of movement, both sides seemingly jockeying for a better position. She blinked rain from her eyes and tried to focus on the black house, every window devoid of light. In fact, there were no lights burning anywhere she could see.

  From a side door, someone slipped outside.

  A man, who immediately crouched low and crept to the veranda steps, where he slowly descended, staying down. Open hands signaled that he held no gun. Was this Hale? She watched as the figure hustled into the rain, toward the trees, using the wind and thick trunks for cover, advancing away, toward the dock from where she’d come.

  More crackling gunfire raged in the distance.

  She headed toward where the man had gone, keeping her steps light. Wet leaves, roots, and fallen branches challenged her balance. Thankfully the soil was more sand than dirt and seemed to drain fast. No mud. She found the graveled road that led to the dock, the one she’d just paralleled to the house, and spotted her quarry, maybe twenty meters away, trotting down the right side of the road.

  She ran and came within ten meters of him before he realized she was approaching. As his head whirled around, she stopped, leveled her gun, and said, “Stay right where you are.”

  The man froze. “Who are you?” he asked.

  The voice was not of the age she knew Hale to be. So instead of answering his question, she asked one of her own. “Who are you?”

  “Mr. Hale’s secretary. I’m not a pirate or a privateer. I don’t like guns and I don’t want to be shot.”

  “Then you’d better answer my questions, or you’re going to find out what a bullet wound feels like.”

  MALONE SWAM OUT OF THE CAVERN AND INTO MAHONE BAY. The sea was cold. He shook water from his eyes and stared up at Fort Dominion. The shaft he’d negotiated had emptied into a rocky cleft. He wondered about Wyatt. He hadn’t seen or heard any more from him. The shaft Wyatt had chosen apparently opened into another cavern. If he made it, Wyatt should be out here somewhere swimming, but Malone could not see or hear much beyond where he floated. He should be a hell of a lot angrier at Wyatt. But there was one thing. If Wyatt had not involved him, he wouldn’t be in a position to help Stephanie.

  Strange, but for that he was grateful.

  He had to get out of the water, so he started swimming toward a flat part of the island, south of the fort. He found a small beach and emerged from the bay. Night air chilled his bones. His jacket was back in the chamber, left there as Wyatt had done, since it would have been little more than an anchor. Thank goodness he’d come prepared with a change of clothes.

  The stench of the birds returned as he plunged inland, turning toward where he’d beached his boat. He recalled a coil of nylon rope that he could use to reenter the underground chamber. He’d wait for low tide, which should provide a few hours to safely explore. Surely, Andrew Jackson had known of Fort Dominion and what had happened here during the Revolutionary War. Why else would he have selected such an out-of-the-way locale? Perhaps because, even if Jefferson’s cipher had been cracked and the cipher wheel found, nature would stand guard, ready to thwart all but the cleverest of hunters.

  He pushed through the last of the foliage and found his boat. An easterly breeze stirred up tiny funnel clouds of sand near the water. He yanked off his wet shirt. Before changing he checked his cellphone. Edwin Davis had called four times. He hit REDIAL.

  “How are things there?” Davis asked.

  He reported the disaster, but also the success.

  “We have a problem here,” Davis said.

  He listened to what Cassiopeia had done, then said, “And you let her go?”

  “It seemed the only course. The storm is excellent cover. Apparently, though, we’re not the only ones who think that.”

  “I’m coming down there.”

  “Shouldn’t you get those pages?”

  “I’m not going to sit around here with my head up my ass and wait for low tide while Stephanie and Cassiopeia are now in trouble.”

  “You don’t know that. Cassiopeia can handle herself.”

  “Too much can go wrong. I’ll contact you from the air. Keep me posted.”

  He ended the call and stripped off the remaining wet clothes, replacing them with the dry ones from the boat. Before pushing off from the beach, he called the Secret Service pilots and told them to stand by to leave, he was on his way.

  WYATT FOUND HIS BOAT ON THE ISLAND’S NORTH SHORE. HIS body was chilled, his clothes soaked from the cold swim. He’d anticipated spending the night on the island and, not knowing what to expect, had brought an extra shirt and pants. He’d also packed a knapsack with supplies, including matches, which he used to start a fire just beyond the beach.

  What had happened to Malone?

  He had no idea, not seeing or hearing anything while in the choppy bay. He was tired from the fully clothed swim, his muscles unaccustomed to such a workout. He huddled close to the flames and increased the warmth with more brush and sticks. He hoped Knox had made it back to shore and delivered his message to the captains. He hadn’t meant a word of what he’d said about selling them the missing two pages.

  He was concerned with only one thing.

  Killing Andrea Carbonell.

  He changed into the spare clothing and wished for another jacket like the one he’d left underground. The ride back across the bay would be brisk. He was hungry, and found a couple of energy bars along with a container of water. He would return the stolen boat to shore and leave it where it would not be found for a couple of days.

  He checked his watch.

  11:50 PM.

  Lights on the bay caught his attention. He spotted a boat speeding toward the island from the direction of Chester. This late? He wondered if it was law enforcement, alerted by the gunfire.

  He quickly extinguished the fire and hid among the foliage.

  The boat changed course and headed his way.

  KNOX SAT AT THE STERN AND TRIED TO CLEAR HIS HEAD.

  “What do you hope to gain by going back?” he called out to Carbonell.

  She stepped close to him. “First, we have to clean up your mess. Aren’t the bodies of two of your men still there? You apparently weren’t concerned with that. Or were you so intent on killing me you didn’t care?”

  How did this woman read his mind?

  “That’s right, Clifford. I heard what Wyatt said to you. I had a man on site, watching everything. You decided the smart play was to do as Wyatt asked and leave. Take me out. Once I’m dead, you’re in the clear since no one else knows of our … arrangement. Am I wrong?”

  “Why are you attacking the Commonwealth?” he asked.

  “Let’s just say that Stephanie Nelle’s dying would no longer be good for any of us. And if I manage to find those two missing pages in the process, my stock rises even higher. If you’re a good boy and behave, you can keep breathing. I might even give you that job I mentioned. And the captains?” She paused. “They still go to prison.”

  He had to point out, “You don’t have those two missing pages.”

  “But either Wyatt or Malone does, or will. I know them both. Our task is to figure out which, then kill them both.”

&nbs
p; One of the men signaled to Carbonell, pointing toward the middle of the island’s flat topography. Knox looked, too. For a moment there was light, like a fire burning, then it was gone.

  “You see,” Carbonell said. “There’s one of them now.”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  NORTH CAROLINA

  HALE HAD COMMAND OF THE SITUATION. HE KEPT ABOUT A dozen crewmen on the estate at all times, each more than capable of defending himself. He’d ordered the armory opened, and everyone had been provided weapons. The thrust of the attack seemed to be centered on the main house and the prison. But at least four armed men were outside, in the trees, firing on the prison. Power had been cut, as at the main house, but this building was equipped with a backup generator.

  “Shackle both prisoners,” he ordered. “And gag them.”

  His crewman hustled off.

  He was in constant radio communication with the security center. More crewmen had been summoned to the estate, and he’d decided a relocation of the prisoners to Adventure was the prudent course. He turned to the other jailer. “I want those men out front occupied. Pin them down.”

  The man nodded.

  He headed toward the ground-floor rear and a secondary entrance used to service the prison. It was built into the outer wall façade, invisible to anyone who did not know it existed. A man he’d stationed there half an hour ago reported all was quiet out back. With no windows and no visible entrance on that side of the building, he wasn’t surprised. Apparently, Carbonell had decided to deal with Stephanie Nelle herself. But he had to wonder. Was this a rescue mission? It was the only thing that made sense. Never would she draw this much attention to killing Nelle.

  Things had changed.

  Again.

  Fine. He could adapt.

  Nelle and Kaiser were carried from the cell, their hands and feet secured with tape, their mouths gagged. Both were trying to resist.

  He raised a hand and halted their removal.

  He stepped close to a writhing Stephanie Nelle and nestled the barrel of his pistol to her skull. “Stay still or I’ll shoot you both and be done with it.”