Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

A semi-octagon lined with windows.

What the guide called the cabinet.

He spied a writing desk, a revolving leather chair, an astronomical clock, and Jefferson’s famous polygraph that duplicated letters as they were drafted. An architect’s table fronted one of the windows. Among a profusion of scientific instruments on a side table lay the cipher wheel. Maybe eighteen inches long. Its carved wooden disks were about six inches in diameter, resting beneath a glass lid. The guide was droning on about how Jefferson spent much of his morning and late afternoons reading and answering correspondence in the cabinet, surrounded by his books and scientific instruments. Few were allowed here, save those close to the former president. Wyatt recalled what he’d read at the visitor center about glass doors, openness, and no secrets, realizing that it had all been an illusion. In reality, there were a great many private spaces in this house, especially here in the south wing.

Which were about to come in handy.

The tour continued into Jefferson’s bedroom, which rose double-height, at least eighteen feet to a skylight, joined with the cabinet by an alcove bed. The next room beyond that was the large parlor, located in the ground-floor center, with windows and doors facing the rear yard and west portico. The guide dutifully closed the bedroom door after the last visitor entered the parlor. Oil portraits dominated the cream-colored walls. Crimson draperies crowned its tall windows. English, French, and American furniture sat intermingled.

He reached into his pocket and found a flash bomb. Discreetly, he freed the igniter and, while the guide explained about the works of art on the walls and Jefferson’s admiration of John Locke, Isaac Newton, and Francis Bacon, he bent down and rolled the explosive across the wood floor.

One. Two. Three.

He closed his eyes as a burst of light and smoke flooded the room.

He already held a second surprise, so he yanked its igniter and dropped it on the floor, reaching for the knob that opened back into the bedroom just as another swoosh of thick air terrorized the parlor.

MALONE RODE WITH THE ESTATE MANAGER ON THE TWO-LANE road that wound up the mountainside. Traffic moved only one way, rounding the house at the summit, then working its way back down, past Jefferson’s grave, to the visitor center.

“We were lucky to get the wheel back,” the manager said. “Nearly everything Jefferson owned was sold after his death to pay his creditors. Robert Patterson, the son of the man who was Jefferson’s longtime friend, bought the wheel then from the estate. His father had helped Jefferson make it, so there was a sentimental attachment. The elder Patterson and Jefferson shared a love of codes.”

Malone made the connection with what Daniels had told him. The son Robert Patterson had worked for the government and provided Andrew Jackson with his father’s cipher. Apparently, he’d also suggested incorporating the wheel into the decoding process. Since there was only one in the world, which Patterson himself owned, Old Hickory probably rested easy knowing that the Commonwealth would never decipher a thing.

“Jefferson stopped using the wheel in 1802,” the manager said. “It was resurrected in 1890 by a French government official and used for a while. Then again, during World War I, the Americans brought it back, and it was utilized for coding until the start of the Second World War.”

They rounded a bend and approached a small paved lot, devoid of cars. One of the shuttle buses was just easing away after depositing more visitors. The house’s main entrance stood about a hundred feet away.

“Nice to be with the man in charge,” he said. “Gets you real close.”

“It’s not every day the White House chief of staff and the head of the Secret Service conference call with you.”

The manager switched off the engine.

Malone stepped out into the bright morning, the late-summer air dry and warm. He stared up at the mansion and its distinctive dome, the first ever, he knew, constructed above an American house.

A flash momentarily illuminated some of the house windows.

Screams came from inside.

Another flash.

Someone bolted out the front door.

“There’s a bomb inside. Run.”

CASSIOPEIA AND EDWIN DAVIS STOOD ALONE, AT THE FAR END of a parking lot, beyond which more visitors were arriving by the carload.

“I want to know about you and the First Lady,” she said to him.

Defeat clouded Davis’ face. “Now you see why it had to be you working on this?”

She’d already understood that fact.

“When the Secret Service told us who they had in custody, I convinced the president to involve you both. It wasn’t a hard sell. He has great trust in both you and Cotton. He hasn’t forgotten what you did for him last time. I knew Pauline would instantly become a suspect, since only a handful of us knew of the trip that far in advance, so any investigation of her had to be controlled.”

“You knew she was the leak from the start?”

“The idea of her saying something to someone made sense.”

“When did your relationship with the First Lady start?”

A wave of uneasiness passed between them. She knew this was tough. But he’d involved her and she had to do her job.

“I came to the White House three years ago as a deputy national security adviser. I met Pauline… the First Lady… then.”

“Don’t worry about correctness,” she said. “This is just you and me. Tell me what happened.”

“I do worry about it.” A wave of anger flashed across his face. “I’m mad at myself. Never have I behaved in such a manner. I’m sixty years old and have never placed myself in such an awkward situation. I’m not sure what’s come over me.”

“Welcome to the club. Have you ever been married?”

He shook his head. “I’ve had precious few relationships in my life. Work was always the most important thing. I was the person other people turned to in time of trouble. A steady hand. Now-”

She reached out and lightly grasped his arm. “Just tell me what happened.”

His defensiveness seemed to abate. “She’s a terribly unhappy woman and has been for a long time. Which is such a shame, because she’s a good person. What happened with her daughter profoundly affected her. She just never dealt with it.”

And neither had Danny Daniels, she thought.

“She rarely travels with the president anymore,” Davis said. “Differing schedules, which isn’t unusual. So there were times when he was gone that she and I would visit with each other. Nothing improper, mind you. Nothing at all. Just a lunch or a dinner where I’d keep her company and we’d talk. She likes to read, mainly romance novels. That’s something few know. The steamier the better. Shirley would sneak them to her.” He smiled. “They bring her joy, and not because of the sex. That isn’t the allure. It’s the happy endings. They all end on a high note, and that she likes.”

He was relaxing, opening up, as if he’d been living on his raw nerves far too long.

“We talked about books, the world, the White House. There was no reason to pretend with me. I was the closest person to the president. There was nothing I didn’t know. Eventually, we explored Mary, her husband, and her marriage.”

“She made it clear to me that she blames the president for everything.”

“That’s not true,” he quickly said. “Not in the way you think. Maybe in the beginning she did blame him. But I think she came to realize that was foolish. Sadly, a part of her died that night with Mary. A part that could never be reclaimed, and it’s taken her decades to understand that loss.”