The Jefferson Key Read online

  ALSO BY STEVE BERRY

  NOVELS

  The Amber Room

  The Romanov Prophecy

  The Third Secret

  The Templar Legacy

  The Alexandria Link

  The Venetian Betrayal

  The Charlemagne Pursuit

  The Paris Vendetta

  The Emperor’s Tomb

  E-BOOKS

  “The Balkan Escape”

  “The Devil’s Gold”

  The Jefferson Key is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Steve Berry

  Maps copyright © 2011 by David Lindroth, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to Monticello/Thomas Jefferson Foundation, Inc. for permission to reprint the floor plan of the first floor of Monticello, with labels. Reprinted by permission of Monticello/Thomas Jefferson Foundation, Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Berry, Steve.

  The Jefferson key: a novel / Steve Berry.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53016-5

  1. Malone, Cotton (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Code and cipher stories.

  I. Title.

  PS3602.E764J44 2011

  813′.6—dc22 2011009396

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Jacket design: Marc J. Cohen/Scott Biel

  Jacket image (The Jefferson Memorial Coin): © 2011 Medallic Art Company, a division of Northwest Territorial Mint

  (store.NWTMint.com/national_park)

  v3.1

  For Zachary and Alex,

  the next generation

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Gina Centrello, Libby McQuire, Kim Hovey, Cindy Murray, Carole Lowenstein, Quinne Rogers, Matt Schwartz, and everyone in Promotions and Sales—a heartfelt and sincere thanks.

  To my agent and friend, Pam Ahearn—I offer another bow of deep appreciation.

  To Mark Tavani, for pushing to the limit.

  And to Simon Lipskar, thanks for your wisdom and guidance.

  A few special mentions: a bow to the great novelist and friend, Katherine Neville, for opening doors at Monticello; the wonderful folks at Monticello who were most helpful; the great professionals at the Library of Virginia, who assisted with the Andrew Jackson research; Meryl Moss and her terrific publicity staff; Esther Garver and Jessica Johns, who continue to keep Steve Berry Enterprises working; Simon Gardner, from the Grand Hyatt, for providing fascinating insights on both the hotel and New York; Dr. Joe Murad, our chauffeur and tour guide in Bath; Kim Hovey, who offered some excellent on-site observations and photographs of Mahone Bay; and, as always, little would be accomplished without Elizabeth—wife, mother, friend, editor, and critic. Quite the real deal.

  This book is for our grandsons, Zachary and Alex.

  To them, I’m Papa Steve.

  For me, they’re both quite special.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Map

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Two

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Part Four

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Chapter Seventy-three

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Chapter Seventy-five

  Chapter Seventy-six

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-one

  Chapter Eighty-two

  Chapter Eighty-three

  Chapter Eighty-four

  Chapter Eighty-five

  Writer’s Note

  About the Author

  The Congress shall have Power to … grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal, and make Rules concerning Captures on Land and Water …

  —CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES,

  Article 1, Section 8

  Privateers are the nursery for pirates.

  —CAPTAIN CHARLES JOHNSON (1724)

  PROLOGUE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  JANUARY 30, 1835

  11:00 AM

  PRESIDENT ANDREW JACKSON FACED THE GUN AIMED AT HIS chest. A strange sight but not altogether unfamiliar, not for a man who’d spent nearly his entire life fighting wars. He was leaving the Capitol Rotunda, walking toward the East Portico, his somber mood matching the day’s weather. His Treasury secretary, Levi Woodbury, steadied him, as did his trusted walking cane. Winter had been harsh this year, especially on a gaunt, sixty-seven-year-old body—his muscles were unusually stiff, his lungs perpetually congested.

  He’d ventured from the White House only to say goodbye to a former friend—Warren Davis of South Carolina, elected twice to Congress, once as an ally, a Jacksonian Democrat, the other as a Nullifier. His enemy, the former vice president John C. Calhoun, had concocted the Nullifier Party, its me
mbers actually believing that states could choose what federal laws they wanted to obey. The devil’s work was how he’d described such foolishness. There’d be no country if the Nullifiers had their way—which, he supposed, was their entire intent. Thankfully, the Constitution spoke of a unified government, not a loose league where everyone could do as they pleased.

  People, not states, were paramount.

  He hadn’t planned to attend the funeral, but thought better yesterday. No matter their political disagreements he’d liked Warren Davis, so he’d tolerated the chaplain’s depressing sermon—life is uncertain, particularly for the aged—then filed past the open casket, muttered a prayer, and descended to the Rotunda.

  The throng of onlookers was impressive.

  Hundreds had come to glimpse him. He’d missed the attention. When in a crowd he felt as a father surrounded by his children, happy in their affection, loving them as a dutiful parent. And there was much to be proud of. He’d just completed the impossible—paying off the national debt, satisfied in full during the 58th year of the republic—in the 6th year of his presidency, and several in the crowd hollered their approval. Upstairs, one of his cabinet secretaries had told him that the spectators had braved the cold mainly to see Old Hickory.

  He’d smiled at the reference to his toughness, but was suspicious of the compliment.

  He knew many were worried that he might break with precedent and seek a third term, among them members of his own party, some of whom harbored presidential ambitions of their own. Enemies seemed everywhere, especially here, in the Capitol, where southern representatives were becoming increasingly bold and northern legislators arrogant.

  Keeping some semblance of order had become difficult, even for his strong hand.

  And worse, of late he’d found himself losing interest in politics.

  All the major battles seemed behind him.

  Only two more years were left in office and then his career would be over. That was why he’d been coy about the possibility of a third term. If nothing else, the prospect of him running again kept his enemies at bay.

  In fact, he harbored no intentions of another term. He would retire to Nashville. Home to Tennessee and his beloved Hermitage.

  But first there was the matter of the gun.

  The well-dressed stranger pointing the single-shot brass pistol had emerged from the onlookers, his face covered in a thick black beard. As a general Jackson had defeated British, Spanish, and Indian armies. As a duelist he’d once killed in the name of honor. He was afraid of no man. Certainly not this fool, whose pale lips quivered, like the hand aiming the gun.

  The young man pressed the trigger.

  The hammer snapped.

  Its percussion cap detonated.

  A bang echoed off the Rotunda’s stone walls. But no spark ignited the powder in the barrel.

  Misfire.

  The assailant seemed shocked.

  Jackson knew what had happened. Cold, damp air. He’d fought many a battle in the rain and knew the importance of keeping powder dry.

  Anger rushed through him.

  He gripped his walking cane with both hands, like a spear, and charged his attacker.

  The young man tossed the gun away.

  A second brass pistol appeared, its barrel now only inches from Jackson’s chest.

  The gunman pressed the trigger.

  Another retort from the percussion cap, but no spark.

  A second misfire.

  Before his cane could jab the assailant’s gut, Woodbury grabbed his arm, his secretary of the navy the other. A man in uniform leaped on the gunman, as did several members of Congress, one of them Davy Crockett from Tennessee.

  “Let me go,” Jackson cried. “Let me at him. I know where he comes from.”

  But the two men did not relinquish their grip.

  The assassin’s hands flailed above a sea of heads, then the man was toppled to the floor.

  “Let me go,” Jackson said again. “I can protect myself.”

  Police appeared and the man was jerked to his feet. Crockett handed him over to the officers and proclaimed, “I wanted to see the damnedest villain in this world and now I have.”

  The gunman babbled something about being the king of England and having more money once Jackson was dead.

  “We must leave,” Woodbury whispered to him. “That man is obviously insane.”

  He did not want to hear that excuse. “No insanity. There was a plot and that man was a tool.”

  “Come, sir,” his secretary of the Treasury said, leading him out into the misty morning and a waiting carriage.

  Jackson complied.

  But his mind churned.

  He agreed with what Richard Wilde, a congressman from Georgia, had once told him. Rumor, with her hundred tongues, gives at least as many tales. He hoped so. He’d faced that assassin without a hint of fear. Even two guns had not deterred him. Everyone present would attest to his courage.

  And, thanks to God almighty, providence had guarded him.

  He truly did seem destined to raise the country’s glory and maintain the cause of the people.

  He stepped into the carriage. Woodbury followed him inside, and the horses advanced through the rain. He no longer felt cold, or old, or tired. Strength surged through him. Like last time. Two years ago. During a steamboat excursion to Fredericksburg. A disturbed former naval officer, whom he’d fired, had bloodied his face registering the first physical assault on an American president. After, he’d declined to press charges and vetoed his aides’ advice that a military guard surround him at all times. The press already labeled him a king, his White House a court. He would not provide further grist for that mill.

  Now someone had actually tried to kill him.

  Another first for an American president.

  Assassination.

  More an act, he thought, that belonged to Europe and ancient Rome. Usually employed against despots, monarchs, and aristocrats, not popularly elected leaders.

  He glared at Woodbury. “I know who ordered this. They have not the courage to face me. Instead, they send a crazy man to do their bidding.”

  “Who are you referring to?”

  “Traitors” was all he offered.

  And there’d be hell to pay.

  ONE

  NEW YORK CITY

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, THE PRESENT

  6:13 PM

  ONE MISTAKE WAS NOT ENOUGH FOR COTTON MALONE.

  He made two.

  Error number one was being on the fifteenth floor of the Grand Hyatt hotel. The request had come from his old boss Stephanie Nelle, through an email sent two days ago. She needed to see him, in New York, on Saturday. Apparently, the subject matter was something they could discuss only in person. And apparently, it was important. He’d tried to call anyway, phoning Magellan Billet headquarters in Atlanta, but was told by her assistant, “She’s been out of the office for six days now on DNC.”

  He knew better than to ask where.

  DNC. Do Not Contact.

  That meant don’t call me, I’ll call you.

  He’d been there before himself—the agent in the field, deciding when best to report in. That status, though, was a bit unusual for the head of the Magellan Billet. Stephanie was responsible for all twelve of the department’s covert operatives. Her task was to supervise. For her to be DNC meant that something extraordinary had attracted her attention.

  He and Cassiopeia Vitt had decided to make a New York weekend of the trip, with dinner and a show after he discovered what Stephanie wanted. They’d flown from Copenhagen yesterday and checked into the St. Regis, a few blocks north of where he now stood. Cassiopeia chose the accommodations and, since she was also paying for them, he hadn’t protested. Plus, it was hard to argue with regal ambience, breathtaking views, and a suite larger than his apartment in Denmark.

  He’d replied to Stephanie’s email and told her where he was staying. After breakfast this morning, a key card for the Grand Hyat
t had been waiting at the St. Regis’ front desk along with a room number and a note.

  PLEASE MEET ME AT EXACTLY 6:15 THIS EVENING

  He’d wondered about the word exactly, but realized his former boss suffered from an incurable case of obsessive behavior, which made her both a good administrator and aggravating. But he also knew she would not have contacted him if it wasn’t truly important.

  He inserted the key card, noting and ignoring the DO NOT DISTURB sign.

  The indicator light on the door’s electronic lock switched to green and the latch released.

  The interior was spacious, with a king-sized bed covered in plush purple pillows. A work area was provided at an oak-top desk with an ergonomic chair. The room occupied a corner, two windows facing East 42nd Street, the other offering views west toward 5th Avenue. The rest of the décor was what would be expected from a high-class, Midtown Manhattan hotel.

  Except for two things.

  His gaze locked on the first: some sort of contraption, fashioned from what appeared to be aluminum struts, bolted together like an Erector Set. It stood before one of the front windows, left of the bed, facing outward. Atop the sturdy metal support sat a rectangular box, perhaps two feet by three, it too made of dull aluminum, its sides bolted together and centered on the window. More girders extended to the walls, front and back, one set on the floor, another braced a couple of feet above, seemingly anchoring the unit in place.

  Was this what Stephanie meant when she’d said important?

  A short barrel poked from the front of the box. There seemed no way to search its interior, short of unbolting the sides. Sets of gears adorned both the box and the frame. Chains ran the length of the supports, as if the whole thing was designed to move.

  He reached for the second anomaly.

  An envelope. Sealed. With his name on it.

  He glanced at his watch. 6:17 PM.

  Where was Stephanie?

  He heard the shrill of sirens from outside.

  With the envelope in hand, he stepped to one of the room’s windows and glanced down fourteen stories. East 42nd Street was devoid of cars. Traffic had been cordoned off. He’d noticed the police outside when he’d arrived a few minutes ago.

  Something was happening.

  He knew the reputation of Cipriani across the street. He’d been inside before and recalled its marble columns, inlaid floors, and crystal chandeliers—a former bank, built in Italian Renaissance style, leased out for elite social gatherings. Just such an event seemed to be happening this evening, important enough to stop traffic, clear the sidewalks, and command the presence of half a dozen of New York City’s finest, who stood before the elegant entrance.