Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

Two more hours and he should be in the clear.

WYATT WATCHED THE NEWCOMER. THE BURGLAR HAD MADE no search, apparently aware that the condo would be empty. He’d toted in a dark bundle, laying the bag on the floor and quickly emptying its contents. A chair from the dining area was brought close to the front door. What looked like a gun was attached with clamps to its back, the legs braced with the couch that was slid into position. He then installed screw eyes in the ceiling, the jamb, and the door itself, threading string from the gun’s trigger, through each one, to the knob.

He realized what was being created.

A spring gun.

Once used to protect property in remote locations. Rigged to a door or window so anyone who broke inside would be shot. They’d been illegal for decades. A bit old-fashioned and out of date.

But effective.

The man finished his work, testing the string’s tautness, then he carefully opened the door and slipped out.

He wondered.

Who else’s patience had run out?

home and retiring to his bedroom. But too many troubling thoughts swirled through his head. At least the matter of the traitor seemed resolved. Knox had handled the situation exactly as a quartermaster should. Shortly, the captains would demonstrate to the entire company what happened to those who violated the Articles. Reminders of that fact were never a bad thing. What truly concerned him, though, was the cipher’s solution.

Could Carbonell provide it?

Parrot had lied to Knox.

Was she lying to him?

Would he finally succeed where his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather failed?

“It is indecipherable,” his father told him. “Just letters on a page. No order or reason.”

“Why do we need it?” he asked with the innocence of someone not yet twenty. “We’re not threatened. Our letter of marque is being respected.”

“That’s true. This president has been mindful, and most have been. Wilson, during World War I, was grateful for all our efforts. Roosevelt, too, during the Second World War. But four times our government chose not to honor its agreement, resting on the fact that there was no express congressional approval for our letter. They laughed at us, as Andrew Jackson did, knowing that, legally, our letter of marque was not enforceable. Those four men became problems.”

His father had never spoken of this before.

“Which four?”

“The ones who died from a gun.”

Had he heard right?

“Quentin, your brother and sisters know nothing of what I do, only that we own and control many business entities. They, of course, are aware of our sea heritage, as you are, and they are proud of the role we played in forming this country. But they are ignorant of what we have done afterward.”

And so was he, but his father was teaching him by the day.

“During the Civil War, the Union called on us to stop the Confederacy from being supplied by sea. We were encouraged to attack French and English cargo vessels. While the Union navy blockaded key southern ports, we ravaged ships at sea. But we could not forget that we were of the South. So we allowed some to sneak through. Enough that the Confederacy lingered longer than it should have.”

He’d never heard this before.

“Lincoln was furious. During the war, he needed us. He knew what Jackson had done-that our letters of marque were foundationless-but he ignored that weakness and encouraged our strengths. When the war was won, he changed course. Arrest warrants were issued, and the Commonwealth was to be tried for piracy.” His father paused, the dark eyes focused intently on his son. “I remember when Papa told me what I am about to tell you.”

His father was nearing seventy and in poor health. Hale was the youngest of the brood, not coming along until his father was nearly fifty. His older brother and sisters were far more accomplished and successful than him, yet he’d been chosen.

“Lincoln knew that with two missing pages from the congressional journals our letters of marque were flawed. Foolishly, we’d trusted him. If tried, we had no defense. The captains would have gone to prison, or perhaps shot as traitors.”

“But no Hale has ever gone to jail.”

His father nodded. “Because he made sure that Abraham Lincoln died.”

He still recalled the amazement when his father told him what the Commonwealth had done, completing the connection between Andrew Jackson and Abraham Lincoln.

“Abner Hale tried to assassinate Andrew Jackson. He recruited and encouraged Richard Lawrence to kill the president. Jackson realized this immediately. That’s why he retaliated, gutting the letters of marque. The reason Abner acted was because Jackson refused to pardon two pirates convicted of robbing an American ship. It was a popular case in its time, one with all the things we’ve come to expect: celebrated lawyers, interesting personalities, allegations of official misconduct. The guilty verdicts were so controversial that they inspired death threats on Jackson. One came from a flamboyant Shakespearean actor. He wrote a scathing note and threatened to cut the president’s throat while he was sleeping, or to have him burned at the stake in Washington, DC, if a pardon was not issued. The man who wrote those words was Junius Brutus Booth.” His father paused. “The father of John Wilkes who, twenty-six years later, was used by the Commonwealth to assassinate Abraham Lincoln.”

Now he knew how the captains in 1865 escaped prosecution.

“We ended the threat,” his father said, “by recruiting the younger Booth, which wasn’t all that difficult. People with causes in their hearts are common. Most are unstable and easily manipulated. Lincoln’s assassination threw the government into chaos. All talk of arrests ended. Even better, Booth died while trying to escape. Four other conspirators were quickly arrested, tried, and hung. Five more were imprisoned. Those nine knew nothing of us. So we survived.”

And the Commonwealth would this time, too.

But everything rested on Andrea Carbonell, and how desperately she wanted Stephanie Nelle dead.

He had to play that card carefully.

A knock on his bedroom door caught his attention.

His secretary stepped inside. “I saw the light and decided to alert you.”

He was listening.

“The prisoner has asked to see you.”

“Which one?”

“The traitor.”

“For what reason?”

“He did not say. Only that he wishes to speak with you. Alone.”

Cassiopeia lay beside him, still sleeping. They’d been out for a little over two hours. He wore his undershirt and boxers. She was naked, her preferred bedclothes, which he liked. He studied her contoured curves. Not a blemish disturbed the swarthy patina. She was a beautiful woman.

If only they had more time.

He swung his legs to the floor.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He’d learned she was a light sleeper.

“We have to get going.”

“What happened last night?”

He’d promised her an explanation when they awoke. So he told her, then said, “I deleted the cipher solution off the Garver server but that’s only going to stop the people who went there for a few hours. They probably already know I emailed a copy to myself.”

He waited for it to hit her.

“Which means they know you’re here,” she said.

“I used another name to register and paid in cash. It cost me a hundred-dollar tip, but the clerk didn’t ask for any identification. I told him I didn’t want my wife to know where I was.” He reached for his clothes. “I knew when I accessed that email last night, they’d trace it here. But I want to know who they are. It’s possible they could lead us to Stephanie.”