Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

“And I could kill you right now.”

“I’m not alone.”

He glanced around at the darkness and realized that if the captains learned of his treachery, there would be nowhere on the planet for him to hide. Though they called themselves privateers, there was a pirate within every one of them. Treason had never been tolerated-and the higher on the pole you were the more grotesque the punishment.

“Not to worry, Clifford,” Carbonell finally said, “I did you one other favor.”

He was listening.

“I cultivated a second informant. One who provided information to me independent of you.”

More news.

“And I just sold that source out to Hale.”

He’d wondered how he was going to satisfy the captains’ demand that the spy be found.

“All you have to do in gratitude,” she said, “is one little thing.”

He realized that any gesture from her came with a price.

“Kill Stephanie Nelle.”

heading south toward Virginia. Edwin Davis had offered her a choice of transportation, and she’d selected one of the Secret Service’s two-wheelers. She’d also changed, donning jeans, leather boots, and a black sweater.

Her talk with the First Lady still disturbed her.

Pauline Daniels was one conflicted woman.

“I don’t hate my husband,” the First Lady told her.

“You just resent him, and you’ve kept that bottled up for thirty years.”

“Politics is a powerful drug,” the older woman said. “If you’re successful at it, the effects are like a sedative. Adoration. Respect. Need. These can make you forget. And sometimes those of us who receive too much of this drug begin to believe that everyone loves us, that the world would be worse off if we weren’t around to help run it. We even begin to feel entitled. And I’m not talking about being president of the United States. Political worlds can be as big or small as we create for ourselves.”

She roared on, quickening her pace down the blackened highway. Not much traffic out at this hour beyond a procession of eighteen-wheelers taking advantage of uncrowded asphalt.

“When Mary died,” Pauline said, “Danny was a city councilman. He became mayor the next year, a state senator after that, then governor. It seemed that the depths of our tragedy gave birth to his success. He suppressed his grief through politics. He succumbed to the sedative. I wasn’t so lucky.”

“Have you two discussed this? Dealt with it?”

She shook her head. “It’s not his way. He never spoke of Mary again after the funeral. It is as if she never existed.”

“But that’s not what happened for you.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t say that. I’m afraid I wasn’t immune to politics, either. As Danny rose, so did I.” The voice drifted farther away and she wondered, Who was she really talking to? “God forgive me, but I tried to forget my daughter.” Tears welled in the older woman’s tired eyes. “I tried. I just couldn’t.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“When Edwin told me you were coming, he also told me you’re a good person. I trust him. He’s a good person. Maybe it’s time I rid myself of this burden. All I know is that I’m tired of carrying the grief.”

“What are you saying?”

A few moments of strained silence passed.

“I’ve come to expect Danny to be around,” the First Lady said, her voice still a mono tone. “He’s always been there.”

But she heard what had not been spoken. Yet you still blame him for Mary’s death. Every day.

“But when they told me that someone had tried to kill him-”

She waited for the sentence to be finished.

“I found myself glad.”

She roared passed a car and crossed into Virginia, headed for Fredericksburg, which lay about forty kilometers away.

“Living with Danny isn’t easy,” Pauline said. “He compartmentalizes everything. Moves from one thing to the next without a problem. I suppose that’s what makes him a good leader. And he does it all without emotion.”

Not necessarily, she thought. The same had been said about her-even Cotton had chastised her once on her lack of feeling. But just because they weren’t shown didn’t mean emotions did not exist.

“He’s never gone to her grave,” the First Lady said. “Not once since the funeral. We lost everything we owned in that fire. Mary’s room, and the rest of the house, was nothing but ash. Not a photo of her survived. I think he was almost glad. He wanted no reminders.”

“And you wanted too many.”

Eyes brimming with pain stared back at her.

“Perhaps I did.”

She noticed that the black sky overhead was shrouded in clouds. Not a star visible. The asphalt was damp. Rain had come and gone. She was headed to a place that she preferred not to go. But Pauline Daniels had confided in her, telling her something only two other people knew-neither one of which was Danny Daniels. Before leaving, the president had questioned her on her destination, but she’d refused to tell him.

“You wanted me to handle it,” she’d said. “Let me handle it.”

WYATT REACHED INTO HIS POCKET AND FOUND THE FLASH bomb. His own invention, developed years ago. He’d taken Carbonell’s warning to heart and anticipated that there might be visitors waiting here, people not all that friendly, and it was reasonable to assume that they might come equipped with night-vision goggles.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered to Voccio.

He freed the igniter pin and tossed the paper-wrapped wad out into the hall.

A blinding flash of light lit up inside his closed lids, lingered a couple of seconds, then faded.

Cries rang out.

He knew what was happening.

The two assailants, caught unawares, were momentarily blinded, their pupils, dilated by the goggles, violently closing to the unexpected brightness.

Pain would be next, then confusion.

He found his gun, swung around the doorway, and fired.

MALONE HEARD TWO SHOTS. HE WAS IN THE STAIRWAY, WAITING at a metal door that led into the second floor. Cracks around the frame illuminated with a bright flash, which immediately diminished. Something pinged off the other side, then the door flung open and two forms bolted into the stairwell, both reaching for their heads, cursing, ripping night goggles from their faces. He used their confusion to slip up the stairs, toward the next floor, and hide on the landing.

“Son of a bitch,” one of the men breathed.

A moment of quiet passed as the two reclaimed their emotions and readied their weapons.

“Leave the eyes off,” one of them said.

He heard the door ease open.

“They have to be headed toward the far side.”

“Hopefully for the other stairway down.”

“Three, this is Two,” he heard a man say in a low voice. A pause. “Subjects are headed your way.” Another pause. “Out.”

“Let’s finish this,” one of the men said.

A gentle click signaled the metal door had closed.

He risked a look down through the darkness.

Both men were gone.

“WHY WOULD I KILL STEPHANIE NELLE?” KNOX ASKED CARBONELL.

“Because you have no choice. If the captains learn of your betrayal, how long do you think you’d last? It’s a simple task, killing one person. Shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

“Is that what you think I do? Kill people all the time?”

“You certainly have in the past few hours. I have two dead agents as proof, and two more in the hospital.”

“All thanks to you.” And he was curious as to her reversal. “You realize that Hale went to a lot of trouble to capture her for you. Your instructions were that she not be harmed in any way.”