Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

She shrugged. “He was accumulating a favor from me. I get that. But things have changed. Nelle is more of a problem now.”

“I assume you won’t explain why.”

“Clifford, you wanted out. I offered you a way out. Now I’m telling you the price.”

Her tone bore no trace of anger, contempt, or amusement.

“Once the Commonwealth ceases to exist,” she said, “which is going to happen, you’ll be free to do as you please. You can live your life. Enjoy your spoils. And no one will know a thing. If you like, I’ll even hire you.”

He wanted to know, “Did you actually solve the Jefferson cipher?”

“Does it matter?”

“I want to know.”

Carbonell hesitated a moment before saying, “Yes. We did.”

“So why didn’t you just kill Nelle yourself? Why involve us in the first place with her?”

“First off, I didn’t have the cipher key when I asked Hale to move on Nelle. I do now. Second, contrary to the movies, it’s not that easy eliminating targets in my line of work. People who do those types of jobs want too much in return for their silence.”

“And I don’t?”

She shrugged. “Not anything I can’t provide.”

“You didn’t answer my question. What if Hale doesn’t want Nelle dead?”

“I’m quite sure that he doesn’t, not at the moment anyway. But I do. So find a way to make it happen. Quickly.”

He was exasperated. This was way too much. “You said you sold out another source. Hale knows the identity?”

“He knows where to start looking, which I’m sure he’s doing right now. He’ll surely turn that matter over to you soon enough. His faithful servant, returned from doing battle in New York. See what I’ve done for your image? You’re a hero. What more could you want? And to demonstrate my good faith, to make clear that we’re all one-for-all-and-all-for-one, I’m going to tell you the name of my source and exactly how to prove he’s a traitor.”

That was exactly what he wanted to know. The captains would demand that the man be tried, convicted, and punished immediately. If he personally managed to accomplish that task, his value would rise immeasurably.

Most of all, it would divert even more attention from himself.

Damn her.

“Give me the name and I’ll make sure Stephanie Nelle goes away.”

CASSIOPEIA SAID HELLO TO THE WOMAN WHO ANSWERED THE door. The house was a large, airy Georgian filled with plants, three cats, and exquisite antiques. The exterior had been awash with yellow light and an iron gate blocking a brick-paved drive had hung open. Her host wore a loose-fitting Nike jogging suit with Coach tennis shoes. She was clearly a contemporary of the First Lady, their ages and appearances not far off except that Shirley Kaiser’s wavy hair hung long and was tinted a faint golden-red.

Their attitudes were also different.

Where Pauline Daniels’ face had stayed pale and drawn, Kaiser’s brimmed with civility, her animated features highlighted by firm cheekbones and bright brown eyes. They stepped into a room lit by crystal wall sconces and Tiffany lamps. She was offered and refused a drink, though a glass of water would have been welcomed.

“I understand you have some questions for me. Pauline told me that you were a person I could trust. I wonder. Can we?”

She caught the use of third-person plural and decided to approach this woman with greater care than she’d used with Pauline. “How long have you and the First Lady known each other?”

A crease of amusement marked Kaiser’s face. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you? Get me talking about me first.”

“I’m not new to this.”

The amusement increased. “I bet you aren’t. What are you, Secret Service? FBI?”

“Neither.”

“No, you don’t look like either one.”

She wondered what that look entailed, but only said, “Let’s just say I’m a friend of the family.”

Kaiser smiled. “That one I like. Okay, friend, Pauline and I have known each other twenty years.”

“Which makes that about a decade after her daughter died.”

“Something like that.”

She’d already surmised that Kaiser was a night person. Eyes that should be misty brimmed with life. Unfortunately, this woman had been given two hours to prepare herself. The First Lady would not allow an unannounced visit. Cellphones had been used to send a brief text message.

“Have you known the president for twenty years?” she tried.

“Unfortunately.”

“I assume then that you didn’t vote for him.”

“Hardly. I wouldn’t have married him, either.”

Where Pauline had wanted to purge, this woman sought to vent. But Cassiopeia had no time for anger. “How about you quit with the games and explain what’s on your mind.”

“I’d love to. Pauline is dead inside. Couldn’t you see that?”

Yes, she had.

“Danny has known that from the day they buried Mary. But does he care? Does he give a damn? Has anyone asked themselves, if he treats his wife with such callousness, imagine how he treats his enemies. Is it any wonder somebody took a shot at him?”

“How do you know what he feels?”

“I’ve been there for twenty years. I’ve never once heard him mention Mary’s name. Never has he even acknowledged that there was a daughter. It is as if she never lived.”

“Maybe that’s how he handles his grief,” she had to say.

“That’s just it. He has no grief.”

WYATT USED THE MOMENTS THE FLASH BOMB BOUGHT HIM TO advance himself and Voccio toward another stairway that the doctor had told him existed on the far side of the second floor, used by employees as a quick route down to the cafeteria. His charge was in a panic, clearly never having been in a fight like this before.

Luckily, this was not his first.

Somebody had come to sweep and clean, as they said in the trade. He’d been a party to a few himself. He wondered if it was CIA, NSA, some other combination, or whether Carbonell herself sent them.

That actually made the most sense.

He rushed down the hall and opened the exit door, listened, then motioned for Voccio to follow. He lead the way down the black stairway, using the metal railing as his guide, keeping Voccio close behind him.

He halted just before they found the ground.

“How far to your car?” he whispered.

Wyatt heard deep, ragged breaths, but Voccio did not answer him.

“Doctor, to get us out of here I need your help.”

“Not far… just outside the rear exit door. To the right… when we get to the bottom and the lobby.”

He eased down the remaining few risers. His hand found the exit door and he eased it open.

The lobby loomed still.

He motioned for them to crouch low and head right.

They cleared the doorway.

And shooting started.

MALONE HAD WATCHED FROM THE STAIRWAY DOOR AS THE TWO gunmen negotiated the doglegged hallway and turned about fifty feet away. He noticed an ambient glow from one of the office doorways. Odd, considering the power was gone.

He hustled ahead and glanced inside.

Three computer screens glowed. A nameplate on the door read VOCCIO. The man he’d come to see.

He started to search the office, but a cacophony of gunfire erupted below.

CASSIOPEIA FELT THE NEED TO DEFEND DANNY DANIELS. WHY, she wasn’t sure, but this woman seemed unapologetic in her harsh judgments.

“What Danny has,” Kaiser said, “is guilt, not grief. Once, about a year before Mary died, his smoking caused a small fire at the house. That one only destroyed a chair. Pauline begged him to stop, or smoke outside, or something-anything but what he was doing. For a while, he did. Then he did what Danny always does. Whatever he wants. That fire should have never happened, and he knows that.”