The Jefferson Key: A Novel

by Steve Berry

  He gulped another breath and yelled to Cassiopeia, “Breathe.”

  “Like I’m not trying.”

  He had more room to maneuver than she did. The sloop’s speed allowed them to hydroplane for a few precious seconds. He realized that once the speed was reduced they would sink and be dragged underwater.

  His heart rocketed in his chest.

  He had to find the latch.

  CASSIOPEIA WAS SUCKING IN AS MUCH WATER AS AIR, TRYING to spit it out and keep her lungs dry. She was rotating her upper body inside the gibbet as they rocketed in and out of the surf. A sharp pain pierced her cramped calves and she told herself to relax. She longed for speed, since slowing down meant sinking. Hale was toying with them. Enjoying their predicament.

  “I’m … going to … get you … out,” Cotton told her as they surfaced one more time, his voice coming in staccato gasps.

  “My hands,” she managed to say.

  She couldn’t swim long if she were bound.

  HALE STARED AT STEPHANIE NELLE.

  “Are you going to shoot me?” he asked her.

  “I don’t have to.”

  A strange reply.

  She motioned with the gun and he turned.

  Shirley Kaiser held another of the automatic rifles his men had toted. Her bandaged hand supported the heavy weapon, the other was placed firmly on the trigger.

  Men appeared from the main salon.

  Some with guns.

  Finally.

  MALONE’S HAND FOUND THE LATCH. HE TWISTED, THEN YANKED. Nothing gave. He yanked again, freeing the locking pin.

  The gibbet opened and Cassiopeia flew out.

  He released his hold and joined her in the water.

  The gibbet disappeared ahead, bucking across the surface.

  He snatched a breath and plunged downward, his eyes searching for movement. He saw her and wrapped an arm around her chest and, together, they kicked upward.

  Both of them coughed water.

  He kept them afloat with strong kicks and a sweep of his right arm.

  “Grab a breath and I’ll get your hands free,” he told her.

  They dropped below the surface long enough for him to peel off the thick tape that bound her wrists, then they surfaced and treaded water. Adventure was two hundred yards away, its sails unfurled to the morning air. All was quiet except for the wind and the sea swirling around them.

  Then a new sound.

  Low and rhythmic.

  A deep bass growing in intensity.

  He turned to see four helicopter gunships powering their way.

  About time.

  They swept across in formation, one lingering above, the other three circling the yacht.

  “You okay?”

  Edwin Davis’s voice through a loudspeaker.

  They both gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Hold tight,” Davis said.

  HALE HEARD HELICOPTER ROTORS AND LOOKED UP TO SEE THREE U.S. Army gunships above Adventure’s masts, circling like wolves.

  The sight enraged him.

  This ungrateful government, which his family had dutifully served, would not leave him alone. What had happened with Knox? Or the man named Wyatt? Did they have what he needed to fortify his letter of marque? And why weren’t Bolton, Surcouf, and Cogburn here to fight the battle with him? Probably because the three cowards had sold him out.

  Stephanie Nelle laid down a barrage of fire at the main salon, obliterating the windscreens, ripping through the fiberglass sheathing.

  His men disappeared back inside.

  He faced Kaiser and her gun. “It’s not that easy, Shirley.”

  He imagined himself Black Beard, facing Lieutenant Maynard on the deck of another ship named Adventure. That fight had also been close-quartered and to the death. But Black Beard had been armed. Hale’s gun lay on the deck four feet away. He had to get to it. His gaze darted between Shirley to his right and Nelle to his left.

  Just one opportunity, that’s all he needed.

  Shirley’s gun exploded.

  Bullets tore into his protective vest. The next salvo shredded his legs. Blood poured up his throat and out his mouth. He tumbled to the ground, each nerve in his body bursting into a hot flame of burning pain.

  His face betrayed the agony.

  The last thing he saw was Shirley Kaiser pointing the gun at his head and saying, “Killing you was easy, Quentin.”

  CASSIOPEIA HEARD THE DISTANCE TAP OF GUNFIRE. SHE THEN saw two people leap from the aft deck of Adventure.

  “Stephanie and Shirley just made their escape,” Davis said from above, through the helicopter’s PA system.

  They kept treading water.

  Adventure’s sails had caught the wind. No gaps existed between them. They worked as a single airfoil, propelling the striking green hull through the choppy waves. She was like the buccaneer of old, sailing away to fight another day. But this wasn’t the 17th or 18th century, and Danny Daniels was one pissed-off president. These four army gunships were not here to escort the ship back to port.

  More people leaped off the yacht.

  “The crew,” Cotton said. “You know why they’re doing that.”

  She did.

  The choppers drifted back.

  Flames erupted from the sides of two of the aircraft. Four missiles rocketed from their launchers. Seconds later they pierced Adventure, exploding their ordnance. Black, acrid smoke rose skyward. Like a wounded animal, the sloop canted to one side, then another, its sails unfurling and losing their strength.

  A final rocket from the third chopper ended its misery.

  The yacht erupted into flames, then sank, the Atlantic Ocean swallowing the offering in a single gulp.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  NOVA SCOTIA

  11:30 AM

  WYATT CLIMBED BACK INTO THE CHASM BENEATH FORT DOMINION. Five hours ago he’d left the island and returned to shore, ditching the stolen boat near Chester and renting another. He’d also purchased a few tools to go into his knapsack and waited until the tide changed.

  One last thing to do.

  He dropped to the rocky floor.

  As when he and Malone had visited, only a few inches of water remained. He switched on a flashlight and started for the junction point. Halfway, he encountered the first bloated corpse.

  Maybe late thirties, early forties, dark hair, plain face, one he recognized.

  The quartermaster.

  Clifford Knox.

  Lying spine-first on the rocky floor, eyes closed.

  He continued on and found the five symbols. No sign, as yet, of Carbonell, but there were two other tunnels and no way out. Her body could be anywhere. It could even have been drawn out to sea through one of the chutes.

  He stared up at the symbol in the ceiling.

  He hoped Malone had been right and that the triangle did indeed mark the spot. He rolled one of the larger rocks close. The ceiling was low, maybe eight feet up, so not much of a boost would be needed. He removed the hammer and chisel he’d brought with him and chipped the joint that outlined the irregular-shaped block. Nearly two centuries of tidal action had hardened the mortar, but finally it gave way. He stepped back as the rock slammed to the floor, splashing water, cracking into several pieces.

  He angled the flashlight upward into the niche.

  A foot up from the ceiling line a shelf had been carved into the stone. Something gleamed back from the probe of his beam. Shiny. Reflective. Green-tinted. He laid the light down, angling it upward and grabbed hold of what he’d discovered.

  Slick.

  Then he realized.

  Glass.

  He slid it from its perch.

  Not heavy, maybe three or four pounds. A solid chunk, perhaps a foot square, its surface and edges rounded smooth. He bent down closer to the flashlight and splashed water onto its surface, rinsing away a layer of filth.

  Something was sealed inside.

  Though blurred, the image was unmistakable.

  Two
sheets of browned paper.

  He laid the container on top of the stone that had acted as his step. He found another smaller rock and, with two blows, shattered the glass.

  For the first time in more than 175 years, the paper met fresh air.

  Two columns of printing appeared on each page along with a header.

  OF DEBATES IN CONGRESS

  And a date.

  February 9, 1793

  He scanned one of the pages until he found

  Mr. Madison. The subject of the proposition laid before the House will now, I presume, Mr. Chairman, recur for our deliberation. I imagine it to be of the greatest magnitude, a subject, sir, that requires our first attention and our united exertion. In drafting our Constitution this Congress was bestowed the specific power to grant letters of marque, as the current policy of nations so sanctions throughout the world. Indeed, our victory over England would not have occurred but for the courageous efforts of entrepreneurs possessed of both ships and the ability to make appropriate use of them. Happy it is for us that such a grant was, and remains, within our power. We are all painfully aware that we do not, as yet, possess sufficient men and ships to float an adequate navy in our common defense, so I concur in the proposal for the grant of these letters of marque to Archibald Hale, Richard Surcouf, Henry Cogburn, and Samuel Bolton, in perpetuity, so that they might continue a robust and continuous attack on our enemies.

  The motion was put by the Chairman, and was agreed upon by all in attendance. The said letters of marque were directed to be forwarded to the Senate for action. The House adjourned.

  He examined the other sheet and saw that its wording was similar, only from the Senate journal where the letters were also unanimously approved, the last line of that entry making clear “that the said enactment be forwarded to Mr. Washington for signature.”

  Here was what the Commonwealth had sought. What men had died for. These two documents meant nothing but trouble. Their reemergence would cause only problems.

  Good agents solved problems.

  He tore both sheets into confetti and scattered the pieces across the water on the floor. He watched as they dissolved away.

  Done.

  He retreated to the rope, passing Knox one last time.

  “You died for nothing,” he told the corpse.

  He climbed back to ground level. Time to leave this lonely outpost. Birds cooed all around him, their movement constant on the wall walks.

  He retrieved the rope from the hole and decided, enough. He called out, “Why don’t you come out and let’s talk?”

  He’d sensed from the moment he returned to the fort that he was not alone. At the far end of the collapsed hall, Cotton Malone appeared.

  “I thought you were gone,” Wyatt said.

  “I came back to retrieve the pages, but then I was told you were coming for them, too.”

  “I assumed the Canadian authorities would be involved at some point.”

  “We waited as long as we could. What happened down there?”

  “The Commonwealth is minus a quartermaster.”

  He noticed Malone carried no weapon, but there was no need. Six armed men appeared on the wall walks above him.

  There’d be no fighting today.

  “And the pages?” Malone asked.

  He shook his head. “An empty receptacle.”

  Malone apprized him with a tight gaze. “I guess that ends the Commonwealth.”

  “And no president will have to deal with it again.”

  “Lucky them.”

  “Whether you believe it or not, I would have never sold those pages to Hale.”

  “Actually, I do believe it.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Still the self-righteous ass?”

  “Old habit. The president says this is your one freebie, as thanks for what you did in New York, and what you did here with Carbonell.” Malone paused. “I guess he owes you one more thanks now, too.”

  The silence between them confirmed what he’d done.

  “And you can keep NIA’s money.”

  “I planned to anyway.”

  “Still defiant to authority?”

  “At least neither one of us will ever change.”

  Malone motioned to the gaping hole in the floor. “Both bodies down there?”

  “No sign of the she-devil.”

  “You think she swam out?”

  He shrugged. “Those chutes weren’t like when you and I went through them. She’d better have good lungs.”

  “As I recall, she did.”

  Wyatt smiled. “That she did.”

  Malone stepped aside. Wyatt asked, “Does my free pass extend to leaving Canada unmolested?”

  “All the way home to Florida. I’d offer you a ride, but that would be too much togetherness for us both.”

  Probably so, he thought.

  He started to leave.

  “You never answered me last night,” Malone said. “We even?”

  He stopped but did not turn back. “For now.”

  And he left.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  WHITE HOUSE

  4:40 PM

  CASSIOPEIA WAITED INSIDE THE BLUE ROOM, THE SAME BEDROOM she’d occupied yesterday to change, the same one where she and Danny Daniels had talked. Shirley Kaiser was with her.

  “How’s the finger?” she asked.

  “Hurts like hell.”

  Once plucked from the Atlantic, she, Cotton, Stephanie, and Shirley had been brought to Washington. Shirley had received medical attention for the amputation, but the Commonwealth’s doctor had done an admirable job of suturing her wound. Some medication for pain and a shot for infection was all she’d needed.

  “That swim hurt worse,” Shirley said. “Salt water. But it beat the hell out of staying on board.”

  Adventure’s crew had also been retrieved by a Coast Guard cutter, which arrived at the scene within minutes of the sloop’s destruction. The crew had been advised by radio to abandon ship or go down with it. All of them chose to leave. Only Quentin Hale sank with her. But he was long dead by then. Stephanie had told her about what Cotton had started and Shirley had finished.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  They were both worn out, their bodies sore.

  “I’m glad I got to shoot him. It cost me a finger, but I think it was worth it.”

  She had to say, “You shouldn’t have gone there.”

  “Really? If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have come. And then who knows where we, or Stephanie, would be right now.”

  The cocky attitude had returned.

  “At least it’s over,” Shirley said.

  That it was.

  Secret Service and FBI had raided the Commonwealth compound and arrested the other three captains and all of the crew. They were busy now searching every square centimeter of all four estates.

  A soft knock came at the door, then it opened and in walked Danny Daniels. She knew it had been a tough afternoon for him, too. On their return, Edwin Davis had told the president everything. Their talk had been private, then had included Pauline Daniels, the three of them, for the past hour, together behind closed doors a few rooms down the hall.

  “Pauline would like to see you,” Daniels said to Shirley.

  She rose to leave, but stopped in front of the president and asked him, “You okay?”

  He smiled. “Coming from a woman with nine fingers? I’m fine.”

  They all knew what had been discussed behind those closed doors. No sense pretending anymore.

  “It’s okay, Danny,” Shirley said. “You’re going to be a man long after being president.”

  “I thought you hated me?”

  Shirley touched his shoulder. “I do. But thanks for what you did for us out there.”

  Daniels had been the one to order the choppers dispatched. He hadn’t wanted to trust any local law enforcement so, when Davis radioed the problem, he’d given the army at Fort Bragg a direct command. He’d also been on the li
ne, directing the pilots as to what to do, personally taking responsibility for the ship’s sinking.

  “We simply stopped some presidential assassins from fleeing the country,” he said.

  “You did good, Danny.”

  “That’s quite a compliment. Coming from you.”

  And Shirley left.

  Daniels closed the door.

  “You stopped more than some fleeing assassins today,” she said to him.

  He sat on the bed opposite her. “Tell me about it. Who would have thought? Edwin and Pauline.”

  She knew that had to be tough.

  “But I’m glad,” he said. “I really am. I don’t think either one of us knew how to end this marriage.”

  The attitude surprised her.

  “Pauline and I have been together a long time,” he said in a low voice. “But we haven’t been happy in years. We both miss Mary. Her death drove a wedge between us that could never be removed.”

  She caught the break in his voice as he said his daughter’s name.

  “There’s not a day that goes by I don’t think of her. I wake up at night and hear her calling for me through that fire. It’s haunted me in ways I never understood.” He paused. “Until today.”

  She saw the pain in his eyes. Clear. Deep. Unmistakable. She could only imagine the anguish.

  “If Pauline can find peace, and some happiness with Edwin, then I wish her well. I truly do.”

  He stared at her with a withdrawn look of fatigue.

  “Edwin told me through the radio that Shirley and Stephanie had jumped off. Once I knew she was okay, I have to say, my anger took over. I gave the crew a chance to leave, but I didn’t know Hale was already dead.”

  “And what do you plan to do about Stephanie?”

  Daniels stayed silent a moment, then said, “I don’t know. Pauline said to me the same thing I just said to you. She wants me to be happy. I think we can both move on if we know the other is going to be okay.”

  They sat quietly for a few more moments.