The Jefferson Key Page 2

  Two police cars approached from the west, lights flashing, followed by an oversized black Cadillac DTS. Another New York City police car trailed. Two pennants rose from either side of the Cadillac’s hood. One an American flag, the other the presidential standard.

  Only one person rode in that car.

  President Danny Daniels.

  The motorcade wheeled to the curb before Cipriani. Doors opened. Three Secret Service agents sprang from the car, studied the surroundings, then signaled. Danny Daniels emerged, his tall, broad frame sheathed by a dark suit, white shirt, and powder-blue tie.

  Malone heard whirring.

  His gaze found the source.

  The contraption had come to life.

  Two retorts banged and the window on the other side of the room shattered, glass plunging downward to the sidewalk far below. Cool air rushed inside, as did the sounds of a pulsating city. Gears spun and the device telescoped through the now empty window frame.

  He glanced down.

  The window’s shattering had attracted the Secret Service’s attention. Heads were now angled up, toward the Grand Hyatt.

  Everything happened in a matter of a few seconds.

  Window gone. Device out. Then—

  Rat-tat-tat.

  Shots were fired at the president of the United States.

  Agents smothered Daniels to the sidewalk.

  Malone stuffed the envelope into his pocket and raced across the room, grabbing hold of the aluminum frame, trying to dislodge the device.

  But it would not budge.

  He searched for and spotted no power cords. The thing, apparently a remote-controlled, high-powered weapon, kept firing. He saw agents trying to maneuver their charge back to the car. He knew that once Daniels was inside, armor plating would provide protection.

  The device spit out more rounds.

  He dove out the window, balancing himself on the frame, and grabbed hold of the aluminum box. If he could yank it from side to side, or up and down, at least he could deflect its aim.

  He managed to force the barrel left, but motors inside quickly compensated.

  Below, with incoming fire momentarily deflected, agents stuffed Daniels back into the car, which wheeled away. Three men remained, along with the policemen who’d been waiting at Cipriani.

  Guns were drawn.

  His second mistake now became evident.

  They started firing.

  At him.

  TWO

  OFF THE COAST OF NORTH CAROLINA

  6:25 PM

  QUENTIN HALE COULD THINK OF FEW THINGS BETTER THAN slicing through white-foamed crests under a towering glide of sail. If seawater could actually be a part of someone’s blood, that was surely the case with him.

  Sloops had been the ocean workhorses of the 17th and 18th centuries. Small, single-masted, their spread of sails had made them quick and maneuverable. Shallow drafts and fast lines only added to their suitability. Most carried around seventy-five men and fourteen cannons. His modern incarnation was larger, 280 feet, and instead of wood the latest composite materials made her light and sleek. No cannons weighed down this beauty. Instead, she was delightful to the eye, soothing to the soul—a bluewater vessel built for comfort and loaded with toys. Twelve guests could enjoy her luxury cabins and sixteen were employed as crew, many of them descendants of those who’d served Hales since the American Revolution.

  “Why are you doing this?” his victim screamed. “Why, Quentin?”

  Hale stared at the man lying on the deck, shackled in heavy chains and encapsulated in a gibbet—a cage constructed of flat bars of iron, three inches in breadth. A rounded portion enclosed the chest and head, while the thighs and legs were barred within separate enclosures. Centuries ago the cages were made to fit the victim, but this one was more off the rack. Not a muscle could move besides the man’s head and jaw, and he’d purposely not been gagged.

  “Are you insane?” the man yelled. “What you’re doing is murder.”

  Hale took offense to that charge. “Killing a traitor is not murder.”

  The chained man, as had his father and grandfather before him, kept the Hale family ledger. He was an accountant who lived in coastal Virginia on an exquisite estate. Hale Enterprises, Ltd., spanned the globe and required the attention of nearly three hundred employees. Many accountants were on the corporate payroll, but this man worked outside that bureaucracy, answerable only to Hale.

  “I swear to you, Quentin,” the man screamed. “I gave them only the barest information.”

  “Your life depends on that being true.” He allowed his words to carry a measure of hope. He wanted this man to talk. He must be sure.

  “They came to me with subpoenas. They already knew the answers to their questions. They told me if I didn’t cooperate I’d go to jail and lose everything I had.”

  The accountant started crying.

  Again.

  They were the Internal Revenue Service. Agents from the criminal enforcement division who’d descended one morning on Hale Enterprises. They’d also appeared at eight banks around the country, demanding account information on both the corporation and Hale. All the American banks complied. No surprise. Few laws guaranteed privacy. Which was why those accounts were supported by a meticulous paper trail. That was not the case with foreign banks, especially the Swiss, where financial privacy had long been a national obsession.

  “They knew about the UBS accounts,” his accountant hollered over the wind and sea. “I only discussed those with them. No more. I swear. Only those.”

  He stared past the rail at the churning sea. His victim lay on the aft deck, near the Jacuzzi and dip pool, out of sight from any passing boaters, but they’d been sailing for the better part of the morning and, so far, had spotted no one.

  “What was I to do?” his accountant begged. “The bank caved.”

  United Bank of Switzerland had indeed yielded to American pressure and finally, for the first time, allowed more than fifty thousand accounts to be subject to foreign subpoenas. Of course, threats of criminal prosecution to the bank’s U.S. executives had made that decision easy. And what his accountant said was true. He’d checked. Only UBS records had been seized. No accounts in the other seven countries had been touched.

  “I had no choice. For God’s sake, Quentin. What did you want me to do?”

  “I wanted you to keep to the Articles.”

  From the sloop’s crew to his house staff to the estate keepers to himself, the Articles were what bound them together.

  “You swore an oath and gave your word,” he called out from the railing. “You signed them.”

  Which was meant to ensure loyalty. Occasionally, though, violations occurred and were dealt with. Like today.

  He glanced out again at the blue-gray water. Adventure had caught a stiff southeastern breeze. They were fifty miles offshore, headed south, back from Virginia. The DynaRig system was performing perfectly. Fifteen square sails formed the modern version of the once-square rigger, the difference being that now the yards did not swing around a fixed mast. Instead, they were permanently attached, the masts rotating with the wind. No crewmen had to brave the heights and release the rigging. Technology stored the sails inside the mast and unfurled them by electric motor in less than six minutes. Computers controlled every angle, keeping the sails full.

  He savored the salt air and cleared his brain.

  “Tell me this,” he called out.

  “Anything, Quentin. Just get me out of this cage.”

  “The ledger. Did you speak of that?”

  The man’s head shook. “Not a word. Nothing. They seized UBS records and never mentioned the ledger.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “Where we keep it. Always. Just you and me. We’re the only ones who know.”

  He believed him. Not a word had so far been mentioned of the ledger, which relieved some of his anxiety.

  But not all.

  The storms he was about to face would
be far worse than the squall he spotted brewing off to the east. The entire weight of the U.S. intelligence community, along with the Internal Revenue Service and the Justice Department, was bearing down upon him. Not unlike what his ancestors had faced when kings, queens, and presidents dispatched whole navies to hunt down the sloops and hang their captains.

  He turned back to the pitiful man in the iron cage and stepped close.

  “Please, Quentin. I’m begging you. Don’t do this.” The voice was racked by sobs. “I’ve never asked about the business. Never cared. I just kept the ledger. Like my dad. And his. I never touched a penny that wasn’t mine. We never have.”

  No, his family hadn’t.

  But Article 6 was clear.

  If any Man shall violate the Company as a Whole he shall be shot.

  Never had the Commonwealth faced something this threatening. If only he could find the key and solve the cipher. That would end it all and make what he was about to do unnecessary. Unfortunately, a captain’s duty sometimes entailed ordering unpleasant things.

  He gestured and three men hoisted the gibbet, hauling it toward the railing.

  The bound man screamed, “Don’t do this, please. I thought I knew you. I thought we were friends. Why are you acting like some damn pirate?”

  The three men hesitated a moment, waiting for his signal.

  He nodded.

  The cage was tossed overboard and the sea devoured the offering.

  The crew returned to their posts.

  He stood alone on the deck, his face washed by the breeze, and considered the man’s final insult.

  Acting like some damn pirate.

  Sea monsters, hellhounds, robbers, opposers, corsairs, buccaneers, violators of all laws human and divine, devils incarnate, children of the wicked one.

  All labels for pirates.

  Was he one of them?

  “If that’s what they think of me,” he whispered, “then why not?”

  THREE

  NEW YORK CITY

  JONATHAN WYATT WATCHED THE SCENE UNFOLD. HE SAT ALONE at a window table in the Grand Hyatt’s New York Central restaurant, a glass-atrium eatery that offered an unobstructed view of East 42nd Street two stories below. He’d caught the moment when traffic was stopped, the sidewalks cleared, and the presidential motorcade arrived at Cipriani. He’d heard a bang from above, then the crash of glass to the sidewalk. When shots started he knew that the device had begun working.

  He’d chosen this table with care and noticed that two men nearby had done the same. Secret Service agents, who’d commandeered the far end of the restaurant, assuming a position at the windows, their view of the scene below also unimpaired. Both men were wired with radios and the serving staff had intentionally seated no one near them.

  He knew their operating procedure.

  Presidential security relied on a controlled-perimeter mentality, usually three layers starting with counter snipers on adjacent rooftops, ending with agents standing within a few feet of their charge. Bringing a president into the congestion of a place like New York City posed extraordinary challenges. Buildings everywhere, each a sea of windows, topped by open roofs. The Grand Hyatt seemed a perfect example. Twenty-plus stories and two towers of glass walls.

  Down on the street agents reacted to the shots, leaping onto Danny Daniels, implementing another time-honored practice—“cover and evacuate.” Of course, the automated weapon had been positioned high enough to shoot over any vehicles, and he watched policemen and the remaining agents dive left and right, trying to avoid the rounds.

  Had Daniels been hit? Hard to say.

  He watched as the two agents, standing fifty feet away, reacted to the melee, doing their job, acting as eyes and ears, clearly frustrated they were so far away. He knew the men on the street carried radios with earpieces. They’d all been trained. Unfortunately, reality rarely resembled scenarios enacted at an instructional facility. This was a perfect example. An automated, remote-controlled weapon directed by closed-circuit TV? Bet they hadn’t seen that one before.

  Thirty other patrons filled the restaurant, and everyone’s attention was directed toward the street.

  More retorts echoed off the buildings.

  The president was shoved back into his limousine.

  Cadillac One—or as the Secret Service referred to it, the Beast—sported military-grade armor, five inches thick, and wheels fitted to run even on dead flat tires. Three hundred thousand dollars of General Motors ingenuity. He knew that, since Dallas in 1963, the car was always flown to wherever the president required ground transportation. It had arrived by military transport three hours ago at JFK, waiting on the tarmac for Air Force One to touch down. Breaking with procedure, no other vehicles had been flown in. Usually several support cars came along.

  He cut a glance at the two antsy agents, who held their position.

  Not to worry, he thought. Soon you’ll both join the fray.

  He returned his attention to his dinner, a delicious Cobb salad. His stomach bubbled with anxiety. He’d waited a long time for this. Camp by the riverside. Advice he’d received years ago—and as true as ever. If you waited by the river long enough, eventually your enemies would float by.

  He savored another tangy bite of salad and washed it down with a sweet red wine. A pleasant aftertaste of fruit and wood lingered. He supposed he should show some interest in what was happening, but no one was paying him the slightest attention. And why would they? The president of the United States was under fire and the shocked people around him had a ringside seat. Several of them would shortly find themselves on CNN or Fox News, becoming, for a few precious moments, celebrities. They should actually thank him for the opportunity.

  The two agents’ voices rose.

  He glanced out the window as Cadillac One roared from the curb.

  The defenders in front of Cipriani sprang to their feet, pointing upward, toward the Grand Hyatt.

  Guns appeared.

  Aims were steadied.

  Shots were fired.

  He smiled.

  Cotton Malone had apparently done exactly what Wyatt thought he would do.

  Too bad for Malone things were about to get worse.

  MALONE HEARD BULLETS PING OFF GLASS PANELS TO HIS LEFT and right. The aluminum bronco he straddled was still firing. He yanked the mechanism again, but internal gears whirled the gun barrel back toward its target.

  He should retreat inside.

  Daniels was in the car and about to speed away. Calling out would be useless. No one would hear him over the gunshots and the discordant wail of New York’s street opera.

  Another window exploded, this one at the opposite corner of the Grand Hyatt, a hundred feet away from where he was perched.

  Another aluminum box extended out into the evening.

  He immediately noticed that its barrel was wider than the one he was trying to tame. This was no rifle. Some type of mortar or rocket launcher.

  The agents and police firing at him spotted the newcomer and directed their attention toward that threat. Instantly he realized that whoever had planted these devices had counted on Daniels being herded back into the car and driven away. He’d wondered about the accuracy of some remote-controlled, automated rifle—how good could it be?—but saw now that hitting anything didn’t matter. The idea had been to drive the target into something that could be more easily acquired.

  Like an oversized black Cadillac.

  He knew the presidential limousine bore armor plating. But could it withstand a rocket attack from a few hundred feet away? And what type of warhead was the projectile equipped with?

  Agents and police below raced down the sidewalk, trying to obtain a better firing angle at the new threat.

  Daniels’ limousine approached the intersection of East 42nd and Lexington Avenue.

  The rocket launcher pivoted.

  He needed to do something.

  The rifle he straddled continued to fire, one shot after another, every five
seconds. Bullets pinged off the opposite buildings and the street below. Stretching his body out farther on the aluminum superstructure, he wrapped an arm around the container and wrenched the assembly left. Gears inside strained, then stripped, as he forced the barrel parallel to the hotel’s exterior.

  Bullets now whirred through the air toward the rocket launcher.

  He adjusted his aim, searching for the right trajectory.

  One round found the mark, spanking off the aluminum.

  The box he grasped felt thin, the aluminum pliable. He hoped the other was made of the same.

  Two more high-powered rounds found the target.

  A third bullet penetrated.

  Blue sparks exploded.

  Flames erupted as a rocket left the launcher.

  WYATT FINISHED HIS SALAD AS CADILLAC ONE SPED TOWARD the intersection. He’d heard the second window shatter. Men below raced down the sidewalk and were now firing upward. But the Secret Service’s P229 Sig Sauers would do little good, and the submachine guns that usually followed the president in support vehicles had been left in Washington. As had the snipers.

  Mistakes, mistakes.

  He heard an explosion.

  Rocket away.

  He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and glanced down. Daniels’ car cleared the intersection, heading toward the United Nations building and the East River. It would probably take Roosevelt Drive and find either a hospital or the airport. He recalled from days gone by when a special subway train was kept waiting on a dedicated track near the Waldorf Astoria hotel, ready to whisk the president out of Manhattan without delay.

  Not anymore.

  Useless.

  The two suited agents rushed from the restaurant, heading for an adjacent stairway that wound down to the Hyatt’s main entrance.

  He laid his napkin down and stood.