Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

She tossed him an understanding grin. “That’s what I like about you, Jonathan. You know exactly what you want. Okay. We’ll do this your way.”

CASSIOPEIA GLANCED OVER COTTON’S SHOULDER AS HE ARRANGED the disks. She and Edwin Davis had never finished their conversation, and there was much still to be said, but it would have to wait. And to think that she’d flown to New York simply to have a romantic weekend. Now she was embroiled in a true sticky wicket. She smiled at the phrase, one her father liked to use. He’d loved cricket, sponsoring several Spanish national teams. Sports had been important to him. Unfortunately, she hadn’t inherited his passion. But this was one sticky wicket, and just as hard crust atop wet soil caused a cricket ball to bounce in any direction, the same was true here. Lots of secrets, egos, and personalities. Not to mention the fact that two of the players were among the best-known people on the planet.

Cotton finished his task and said, “Those five symbols at the end of Jackson’s message are not on these disks. So they must be part of something else.”

He held all twenty-six disks in place and rotated them as a unit.

“There it is,” he said.

She focused on the black letters. One row, all the way across, formed words connected without spaces.

“We need a computer,” Cotton said.

The curator led them to an office off the exhibit room where a desktop waited. Cassiopeia decided to do the honors and typed PAW

The screen filled with sites. She selected one.

Mahone Bay was located at 44°30?N, 64°15?W, just off the coast of Nova Scotia, a respectable body of water that opened to the Atlantic Ocean. Named after the French mahonne, which was a type of boat once used by the locals. Dotted with nearly 400 islands, the most famous of which was Oak Island, where for more than two hundred years treasure hunters had excavated a deep pit into the bedrock, searching to no avail for gold. Paw Island was south of Oak, upon which lay a British fort, long abandoned, once called Dominion.

“Jackson chose his site with care,” Cotton said. “That’s about as out of the way as you can get. But it’s appropriate. That area has long been associated with piracy. It was a haven for pirates in the 18th century.” He faced Davis. “I’m going.”

“I agree. It’s the best thing for Stephanie. We need those pages.”

She already knew what Cotton wanted her to do. “I’ll slow them down through the phone tap. We can feed Hale whatever we like.”

He nodded. “Do it. Wyatt has the wheel and he’ll be headed north, too.”

“I’ll find Stephanie,” she told him.

He turned to the curator. “You said you created that duplicate wheel. Is the fact that it’s an exact duplicate of the original advertised anywhere?”

The woman shook her head. “The manufacturer and I are the only ones who know. I didn’t even tell the estate manager until a little while ago up in the house. It really wasn’t that important.”

But Cassiopeia realized exactly why that fact was critical. “Wyatt thinks he’s the only one who knows.”

Cotton nodded.

“Yep. Which means, for the first time, we’re ahead of the game.”

KNOX PACED THE GRASS BENEATH A CANOPY OF OAKS AND pines. He’d been excused from the captain’s meeting just after Hale’s resurrection and told to wait outside. Not unusual for the four captains to discuss things without him, but he remained concerned about Hale’s private talk with the traitor.

Was that what the captains were discussing?

Adventure had, by now, made its way through the Ocracoke Inlet into the open Atlantic, heading out to dispose of the body.

What was he to do next?

The front door opened.

Bolton, Surcouf, and Cogburn emerged into the midday sun. They descended the veranda and headed for an electric cart. Bolton spotted him and walked over as the other two kept pace toward the vehicle.

“I wanted to thank you,” Bolton said.

“My job is to look after all of the captains.”

“What Hale is doing is wrong. It’s not going to work. I know, what we tried to do was desperate, or even worse than that. But he’s no better.”

Knox shrugged. “I’m not sure any of us knows what to do anymore.”

Defeat clouded the other man’s face. Bolton extended his hand, which Knox shook.

“Thanks again.”

Good to know that his move may have paid off. He might need Edward Bolton before this was done.

“Mr. Knox.”

He turned.

Hale’s private secretary waited on the porch.

“The captain will see you now.”

HALE POURED HIMSELF A DRINK AS KNOX REENTERED THE study. It held some of the same whiskey that had been used for the challenge. He tipped the glass to his quartermaster and said, “At least this one won’t kill me.”

The tumbler Knox had slapped from Bolton’s hand still lay on the hardwood floor, its liquid death soaked into the nearby planks.

“No one should touch that stain,” Knox made clear. “It will need to evaporate.”

“I’m keeping it there as a reminder of my triumph over idiocy. You should have let him die.”

“You know that I couldn’t.”

“Ah, yes. That duty of yours. The loyal quartermaster who walks the line between captain and crew. Elected by one group, yet dominated by the other. How do you do it?”

He made no attempt to mask his sarcasm.

“Did you make your point to them?” Knox calmly asked.

“What you really want to know is what we just discussed without you.”

“You’ll tell me when necessary.”

He threw the whiskey toward the back of his throat and swallowed.

He then banged the glass down on the table, reached for his gun, and pointed the weapon straight at Knox.

MALONE SETTLED INTO THE SEAT OF AN EXECUTIVE GULFSTREAM and fired up the LCD screen beside the white leather seat. He was alone in the spacious cabin, taxiing down the runway at Reagan National Airport, readying himself for what lay 800 miles to the north, across the Canadian border.

He needed the Internet and, thankfully, did not have to wait until 10,000 feet before using any approved electronic devices. He zeroed in on a few websites and learned what he could about Nova Scotia, a narrow Canadian peninsula barely connected to New Brunswick, surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean. Three hundred miles long, 50 miles wide, 4800 miles of coastline. A mix of old and new with craggy coves, sandy beaches, and fertile valleys. The south shore, from Halifax to Shelburne, contained countless inlets, the largest of which was Mahone. Though the French had discovered the bay in 1534, the British took control in 1713.

Something he hadn’t known came up on one site.

During the American Revolution colonial forces had occupied the region, attempting to make Canada the fourteenth colony. The idea had been to woo the many angry French still living there into becoming allies against the English, but the move failed. Canada remained British and, after the Revolution, became even more so, as Loyalists emigrated northward, fleeing the newly formed United States.

And he’d been right.

Mahone Bay became a haven for pirates.

Shipbuilding developed into an industry. Thick fogs and sinister tidal marshes provided ideal cover for several hundred islands. The locale was not all that dissimilar to Port Royal, Jamaica, or Bath, North Carolina, both of which had also once been notorious pirate dens.

Oak Island, which lay in Mahone Bay, appeared on many of the websites, so he read what he could. Its history began on a summer day in 1795 when Daniel McGinnis, a young man in his early twenties, discovered a clearing where oak trees had been felled, leaving only stumps. At the center of the clearing lay a circular indentation, maybe twelve feet wide. A large branch protruded over the depression. One version said that a ship’s pulley had been attached to the branch. Another stated there were strange markings on the tree. A third account noted that the clearing had been blanketed with red clover, which wasn’t native to the island. No matter which version was accepted as true, what happened next was beyond dispute.