Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

“I’m headed to Monticello,” Davis said. “I’ll be at the visitor center, waiting for you to arrive.”

Cotton smiled. “Aren’t we Johnny-on-the-spot today.”

“This has to be handled, along with the other situation Cassiopeia has uncovered with the phones.”

He was right about that, Cassiopeia thought, in more ways than one. “We’ll be there in about forty-five minutes.”

She ended the call.

“What’s the problem?” Cotton asked her.

“Who said there was one?”

“Call it boyfriend intuition. I saw it on your face. What happened with the First Lady? You only gave me the short version.”

True. She’d abbreviated the events, leaving off the last part of her conversation with Shirley Kaiser.

The First Lady is having an affair. Isn’t she?

Not exactly. But close enough.

“I’m thinking how we can use that phone tap to our advantage,” she said. “It’s our fastest ticket to flush out Hale.”

He gently grabbed her arm. “There’s something else. You’re holding back. That’s okay. I do it, too. But whatever it is, if you need my help, ask.”

She liked that he didn’t try to be the fixer. Instead, he was her partner, watching her back.

And she just might take him up on his offer.

But for now that something else was her problem.

KNOX WAS TROUBLED. QUENTIN HALE HAD MET PRIVATELY with the traitor before the execution and now he’d been ordered to the main house with no explanation. The corpse was on its way to sea, where it would be weighed down and tossed into the Gulf Stream. Perhaps the traitor had told Hale that he’d compromised the murder but not the assassination. But why would Hale have believed him? And even if Hale harbored doubts, nothing pointed Knox’s way, except that he was one of four men who knew every detail, from the beginning, the other three all being captains. True, at least a dozen had worked on the weapons in the metal shop, but they were not told of any planned use. Were they suspects? Of course, but weak ones.

He entered the Hale house and walked straight for the study. All four captains were there, waiting, which immediately raised his anxiety level.

“Good,” Hale said, as Knox closed the door. “I was just about to play something for the others.”

A digital recorder lay on the tabletop.

Hale activated it.

“My marriage has been a problem for a long time, Shirley. You know that.”

“You’re the First Lady of this country. Divorce is not an option.”

“But it is once we leave, and that’s only a year and a half away.”

“Pauline, do you realize what you’re saying? Have you thought this through?”

“I think about little else. Danny’s held office nearly our entire marriage. It’s been a distraction for us both, neither one of us wanting to face reality. In twenty months his career is over. Then it will only be him and me. No distractions. I don’t think I can stand that.”

“It’s the other thing. Isn’t it?”

“You talk like it’s dirty.”

“It’s clouding your judgment.”

“No, it’s not. He actually clears my head. For the first time in many years I can see. Think. Feel.”

“Does he know that we talk about this?”

“I told him.”

Hale clicked off the recorder. “Seems the First Lady of the United States has a boyfriend.”

“How did you record that?” Surcouf asked.

“About a year ago I cultivated a relationship, one I hoped might provide us with some valuable information.” Hale paused. “And I was right.”

Knox had researched Shirley Kaiser and learned of her long-standing friendship with Pauline Daniels. Luckily, Kaiser was outgoing, attractive, and available. A supposed accidental introduction was arranged and a relationship blossomed. But neither he nor Hale had realized the deep chasm that existed in the Daniels’ marriage. That had been an unexpected bonus.

“Why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?” Cogburn asked.

“That’s easy, Charles,” Bolton said. “He wanted to be our savior so we’d be in his debt.”

Which wasn’t too far off the mark, Knox thought.

“You berate us,” Bolton said, “for acting alone. But you’ve done the same thing, and for a long time.”

“With the difference being that my actions were calculated and private. Yours were stupid and public.”

Bolton rushed across the room, heading straight for Hale, arm cocked back, fist balled. Hale’s right hand reached beneath his jacket and the same gun used to ease the prisoner’s misery appeared.

Bolton stopped.

The men glared at each other.

Cogburn and Surcouf stood silent.

Knox was delighted. They were fighting among themselves-again-the perfect distraction from him. But it only went to prove what he’d already concluded before dealing with NIA. These men would not survive the waves that were about to wash across their decks. Too much conflict, too many egos, too little cooperation.

“One day, Quentin,” Bolton said.

“What will you do? Assassinate me?”

“I’d love to.”

“You’ll find killing me far harder than any president.”

WYATT ARRIVED AT MONTICELLO. HE’D DRIVEN THE 120 MILES from Washington in less than two hours and parked in a treed lot, adjacent to an attractive complex of low-slung buildings identified as the Thomas Jefferson Visitor Center and Smith Education Center. Its rooflines followed the contour of the adjacent hillside, the wooden walls blending naturally into the surrounding forest and encompassing a cafe, gift shop, theater, classrooms, and exhibit hall.

Carbonell had been right. He could not allow Malone to succeed. He’d involved his adversary in New York to place him in danger, perhaps even eliminate him, not provide another opportunity for him to save the day.

Carbonell had also been right about one other thing.

He needed her. At least for the short haul.

She’d provided some useful information on Monticello, including its geography, security system, and maps for roads leading in and out. He walked from his car up a stairway into a courtyard dotted with locust trees. He found the ticket center and bought a spot on the first tour of the day, leaving in less than twenty minutes, when the mansion opened at 9 AM.

He wandered around and read the placards, learning that Jefferson had labored forty years on the estate-naming it Monticello, Italian for “little mountain”-creating what he eventually called his “essay in architecture.”

It had been a working estate. Livestock, hogs, and sheep had all been bred there. A sawmill produced lumber. Two other mills provided corn and wheat. A barrel shop fashioned casks for flour. Firewood was harvested and sold from the surrounding forests. Jefferson had raised tobacco for sale to the Scots, then switched to rye, clover, potatoes, and peas. At one point he could ride ten miles in any direction and never leave his land.

He envied that independence.

But inside the exhibit hall he learned that Jefferson had died broke, owing thousands of dollars, and that his heirs sold everything, including his slaves, to satisfy his creditors. The house survived through a succession of owners until being repurchased in 1923 by a foundation, which had labored to restore its original glory.

He drifted among the various exhibits and learned more. The house’s main floor consisted of eleven rooms, each part of the official tour. The careful use of space and natural light, one room easing into another, once divided by glass doors, was meant to convey a sense of a free and open life-nothing hidden, no secrets. The second and third floors were not accessible to visitors, but the cellars were open to the public.