Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

“Were you a factor in that understanding?”

He seemed to feel the hint of criticism in her words.

“I tried hard not to be. But when I was promoted to chief of staff, we spent more time together. Our discussions progressed to ever-deeper topics. She trusted me.” He hesitated. “I’m a good listener.”

“But you were doing more than listening,” she said. “You were empathizing. Relating. Drawing something equally beneficial, for yourself, from her.”

He nodded. “Our conversations were a two-way street. And she came to know that.”

She, too, had wrestled with those same emotions. Sharing yourself with someone was tough business.

“Pauline is a year older than me,” he said, as if that mattered in some way. “She jokes that I’m her younger man. I have to confess, I like it when she says that.”

“Does Daniels have any idea?”

“Heavens, no. But like I said, absolutely nothing improper has occurred.”

“Except the two of you have fallen in love.”

Resignation filled his face. “I suppose you’re right. That’s exactly what happened. She and the president have not been man and wife for a long time, and they both seem to have accepted that. There’s no intimacy in their relationship. And I don’t mean in the physical sense. There’s no sharing of each other. No vulnerabilities exposed. It’s as if they’re roommates. Colleagues. With a physical wall between them. No marriage can survive that.”

She knew what he meant. Never before had she been intimate with anyone on the level she was with Cotton. There’d been men, and she’d shared some of herself, but never all. To reveal your hopes and fears, trusting that another person will not abuse them, involved a huge leap of faith.

And not only for her, but for Cotton, too.

Yet Davis was right.

Intimacy seemed the mortar that bound love together.

“Did you know about Quentin Hale’s connection to Shirley Kaiser?” she asked.

“Absolutely not. I’ve only met Shirley once, when she came to the White House. But I know Pauline talks to her every day. Without her, she would have folded long ago. If Pauline would tell anyone about the New York trip, it would have been Shirley. I also know that Shirley knows about me. That’s why I needed you on this one. I figured things could rapidly get out of hand.”

Which had happened.

“Now Quentin Hale knows,” she said. “But, interestingly, he hasn’t done a thing with the information.”

“When he met with me that day in the White House, he surely knew. That get-together was probably a way for him to see if he had to play the trump card.”

She agreed. That made sense. As did something else. “I’m convinced that Hale has Stephanie. Though she was looking into Carbonell, it involved the Commonwealth, too. There’s no doubt about it now.”

“But if we act imprudently, we risk not only exposure and embarrassment for all concerned, but Stephanie’s life.”

“That’s true but-”

An alarm sounded from the visitor center.

“What now?” she said.

They raced back toward the cluster of buildings and into the estate manager’s office.

Concern filled the manager’s assistant’s face. “Some sort of bomb went off in the main house.”

WYATT’S TOYS HAD DONE THE TRICK. PANIC NOW REIGNED INSIDE the mansion. People screaming, shoving, trying to escape. He’d used a modified mixture that added smoke, which only amplified the effects. Thank goodness he’d shipped a supply to New York, since he’d been unsure just what would happen once Cotton Malone entered the picture.

He’d retreated into Jefferson’s bedroom and jammed a chair under the doorknob. He knew another tour would be making their way from the sitting room into the library, then the cabinet. He stepped lightly across the room’s plank floor toward the bed. He recalled the guide earlier babbling about how Jefferson would rise as soon as he could see the hands of an obelisk clock that sat across from the bed. A crimson silk counterpane-sewn to Jefferson’s specifications, the guide had pointed out-covered the mattress, which filled an alcove between the bedroom and the cabinet. He crawled onto the bed and carefully peered around the edge, past arches, to see people in the library, about twenty feet away. The guide seemed to be assessing the unusual situation and, upon hearing the screams from the other end of the house, asked for everyone to stay calm.

Wyatt tossed a light bomb their way, jerking his head back just as the flash and smoke appeared.

Shouts came as fear set in.

“This way,” he heard a voice say over the commotion.

He glanced back and saw the guide leading the group through the smoke, out the louvered doors, into the adjacent greenhouse and fresh air.

He turned his attention to the cipher wheel.

Which rested two feet away.

MALONE STOOD INSIDE MONTICELLO’S TWO-STORY ENTRANCE hall. Smoke billowed from open glass doors at the opposite end, followed by screams and yells that signaled something had just happened to his left.

The estate manager stood beside him.

A wave of people had fled the house a moment ago through the main doors behind him, their voices excited, their eyes alight with fear.

“What’s that way?” he asked, motioning to the left where the commotion now seemed centered.

“Jefferson’s private rooms. The library, cabinet, bedroom.”

“Is that where the wheel is displayed?”

The man nodded.

He found his gun. “Out. And don’t let anybody in.”

He realized there was no bomb. Just flash and pan. A diversion. The same swishing sound from last night and the attack on the men with the night-vision goggles.

Who the hell was here?

WYATT SLIPPED THE NYLON CARRYALL HE’D BROUGHT WITH him from his pant pocket. The wheel was larger than he’d expected, but the thin bag could handle it. He’d have to be careful since the wooden disks seemed brittle. Understandable, considering they were over two hundred years old.

He climbed off the bed into the cabinet, removed the glass cover, and lifted out the spindled disks. Carefully, he worked the device into the nylon bag. He then grabbed two loose disks that had been displayed separately and laid them in the bag. He would have to cradle the bundle in his arms, holding it close to his chest to ensure no damage.

He tested the weight.

About five pounds.

No problem.

MALONE PASSED THROUGH A ROOM WITH PALE GREEN WALLS and a fireplace. A placard identified it as the South Square Room. Above a white mantel hung a woman’s portrait. Another door led into what he recalled from some reading as Jefferson’s sanctum sanctorum, which consumed the entire south end of the building.

Gun in hand, he opened the door and was met by a wall of smoke.

He stared through the fog and caught glimpses of people outside, through the room’s windows, which stretched floor-to-ceiling, opening like doors into a sunlit porch bright with potted plants. He grabbed a breath and plunged into the smoke, keeping close to the wall, seeking cover behind a wooden cabinet. Ahead, to his left, rose narrow bookshelves lined with old leather-bound volumes. Archways supported the ceiling and led to the far end where, in a semi-octagonal alcove, he spotted a man, bagging up the wheel.

He focused on the face.

One he knew.

And everything made sense.

WYATT CAUGHT MOVEMENT THROUGH THE FOG. SOMEBODY had entered the library at the far end.

He finished his task, cradled the wheel in one arm, and found his gun.

He saw a man staring at him.

Cotton Malone.

And fired a shot.

MALONE DROPPED BEHIND THE WOODEN CABINET AS WYATT sent a bullet his way. What had it been? Eight years. At least. He’d never known what had happened to Wyatt after he was forced out, though he’d heard something about freelancing.