Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

The idiot.

Wyatt had received his call from Andrea Carbonell three weeks ago.

“Do you want the job?” she asked him.

“What you’re asking may not be possible,” he told her.

“For you? No way. Everything is possible for the Sphinx.”

He hated the nickname, which referred to his tendency toward silence. He’d long ago acquired the skill of being in a conversation, saying nothing, yet appearing fully part of it. The tactic unnerved most listeners, nudging them to talk more than they ever would ordinarily.

“Is my price acceptable?” he asked.

“Perfectly.”

He kept walking, passing the dollar carts, knowing that Carbonell would follow. He turned the corner and headed east on 12th Street for half a block, ducking inside the doorway of a closed business.

“Daniels is fine,” Carbonell said as she drew close.

He was glad to hear that. Mission accomplished.

“How close were you going to cut that?” she asked.

“Where is Daniels?”

He saw she did not appreciate the inquiry, but then again he didn’t appreciate her tone.

“At JFK. Inside Air Force One. I heard before I got here he’s about to make a statement. Let the world see he’s okay.”

He decided to answer her question now. “I did my job.”

“And that meant involving Cotton Malone? The Secret Service grabbed him in Grand Central Station. They were led there by a radio alert. You wouldn’t know who provided that information, would you?”

“Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?”

“What if Malone had failed?”

“He didn’t.”

She’d hired him to stop the assassination attempt, telling him she could not trust the assignment to anyone in-house. She’d also told him that her agency was on the budgetary chopping block, the official word being that it would be eliminated in the next fiscal year. He had little sympathy for her. He’d been eliminated eight fiscal years ago.

“I did what you asked,” he said.

“Not exactly. But close enough.”

“Time for me to go home.”

“Don’t want to stick around and see what happens? You realize, Jonathan, that if NIA is hacked from the budget you’ll lose money, too. I think I’m the only one who still employs you on a regular basis.”

No matter. He’d survive. He always had.

She motioned at his wristwatch. A Rolex Submariner. “You like it?”

What was not to like? Gilt-faced. Gold lettering. Accurate to a tenth of a second on a battery that lasted practically forever. A gift to himself a few years ago after a particularly lucrative assignment.

He stared hard into her dark eyes.

“Do you know how the Swiss rose to be such superb watchmakers?” she asked.

He said nothing.

“In 1541 Geneva outlawed jewelry on religious grounds, so the jewelers were forced to learn a new trade-watchmaking. Over time they became good at it. During World War I, when foreign competition had factories either seized or destroyed, the Swiss thrived. Today they produce half of the world’s watches. The Geneva seal is the gold standard by which all others are judged.”

So what?

“Jonathan, you and I are not the gold standard of anything any longer.”

Her gaze bore into his eyes.

“But just like those Swiss jewelers, I have an exit strategy.”

“I wish you well with it. I’m done.”

“Don’t want to play with Malone anymore?”

He shrugged. “Since no one shot him, that will have to wait for another day.”

“You really are nothing but trouble,” she said. “That’s what the other agencies say about you.”

“Yet they seem to come my way when they get their asses stuck in deep cracks.”

“Maybe you’re right. Go back to Florida, Jonathan. Enjoy yourself. Play golf. Walk on the beach. Leave this business to the grownups.”

He ignored her insults. He had her money and he’d done his job. Winning a war of words meant nothing to him. What did interest him was that they were being observed. He’d spotted the man on the subway and confirmed his presence when the same face reappeared at street level in Union Square. He was currently positioned on the other side of Broadway, a hundred yards away.

And not being all that subtle.

“Good luck, Andrea. Perhaps you’ll fare better than I did.”

He left her standing in the doorway and did not glance back.

Twenty yards away a car wheeled around the corner and headed straight for him.

It stopped and two men emerged.

“Do you think you could be a good boy and come quietly?” one of the men asked.

Wyatt was unarmed. Carrying a weapon around the city would have proved problematic, especially in the charged atmosphere he knew would be present after the assassination attempt.

“Some people want to talk to you,” the man said.

He turned back.

Carbonell was gone.

“We’re not with her,” one of the men said. “In fact, the chat is about her.”

MALONE WAITED WITH EDWIN DAVIS INSIDE AIR FORCE ONE and watched the spectacle below. The press had been allowed onto the asphalt and were now crowded ten-deep behind a hastily erected rope barricade, cameras pointed toward a crop of microphones that sprouted before Danny Daniels. The president stood tall, his baritone voice booming to the world.

“What did he mean that we have a problem?” Malone asked Davis.

“The past few months have actually been a little boring. The last year or so of a president’s second term is like the last few months of a pope’s life. Everybody’s waiting for the old guy to exit so the new guys can take over.” Davis pointed at the press. “Now there’s something to report.”

They crowded close to one of the plane’s windows, out of sight. A television to their right displayed what was being broadcast by CNN, the volume just high enough for Malone to hear Daniels reassure everyone that he was unhurt.

“You’re not answering the question.”

Davis pointed out the window. “He asked me to hold any explanations until he was finished.”

“You always do as he says?”

“Hardly. As you well know.”

Malone turned toward the monitor and heard Daniels proclaim, “Let me say emphatically that I think the Secret Service and the law enforcement agents of New York City did a superb job, and I want to thank them for everything they did during this unfortunate incident. This was to be a personal trip to honor an old friend. This incident, under no circumstances, will prevent me from traveling throughout America and the world. It is regrettable that individuals still think murder or assassination is a way to effect change.”

“Mr. President,” one of the reporters shouted, “can you give us an idea what you saw or felt at the time?”

“I’m not sure that I ought to describe what I saw beyond the fact that the window shattered and a metal device appeared. I then saw the quick and effective actions taken by the Secret Service.”

“Your own thoughts, sir?”

“I was thankful to the Secret Service for doing a superb job.”

“You used the word individuals a moment ago when referring to the assassination attempt. Who do you mean by that in the plural?”

“Do any of you believe that one person manufactured all that hardware?”

“Do you have specific individuals in mind?”

“That will be the focus of an intense investigation, which is starting as we speak.”

Davis pointed at the flat screen. “He has to be careful. Just enough to send a message.”

“What the hell is going on?” he asked.

Davis did not answer. This punctilious man, with a knife-edge press to his trousers, simply stared at the television screen as Daniels retreated from the microphones and his press secretary fielded more questions. The president climbed the stairs back into the plane, camera lens following. In a few moments he would reenter through the door a few feet away.