Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

Before leaving town he decided to visit a bookstore that’d caught his eye. When he’d worked for Stephanie Nelle at the Justice Department, after assignments ended he’d always found one wherever he was in the world. This shop was located inside a brightly colored clapboard house with nautical touches that included maps, knots, even a ship’s figurehead. The shelves lining the walls were crowded with tales about the bay, the towns, and Oak Island. Davis had explained a possible connection between the five symbols in Jackson’s message and a mysterious slab found ninety feet belowground by treasure seekers on Oak Island. He located the slab in one of the books and showed it to the woman behind the counter. She was older, with brown hair streaked by waves of red.

“This drawing,” he asked her. “The stone, with writing on it. Where is this located?”

“Not far. It’s a replica of the original, on display. You into the Oak Island thing?”

“Not really. Seems like the only real treasure there is the money made from people who come to visit.”

“No reason to be so cynical. You never know. There could be something to it.”

He could not argue with that.

“The symbols are unique. Is there any explanation where they might have come from?

“You’ll find them on several islands in the bay.”

That was news.

“They’re common around here. Carved into rocks, trees. But, of course, nobody knows when they were put there.”

He caught her drift. Which came first, the Oak Island slab that no one had ever seen or the other symbols? Davis had told him that the stone was supposedly found in 1805 so, if the slab actually existed, symbols in other places could have appeared after. He recalled Rennes-le-Chateau, in France, and the mystique associated with that place, nearly all of it manufactured by a local hotel owner to generate business.

“Is Paw Island one of those places where the symbols can be found?” he asked.

She nodded. “There are a few scattered around near the fort.”

“I flew over coming in. Quite a few birds live there.”

“You could say that, and they don’t like visitors. You headed there?”

He closed the book. “I don’t know. Thought I’d just tour the bay and see what’s out there.”

“Paw’s restricted,” she said. “National preserve. You have to get permission to go there.”

“Since I can’t go,” he said. “You have any books on it?”

She pointed to a shelf across the store. “Two or three. Picture books, some stuff on the fort. What’s your deal?” She apprised him with suspicious eyes. “You’re one of those bird-watchers, aren’t you? We get a lot. Paw Island is like Disneyland to them.”

He smiled. “Guilty. How much trouble will I get into if I go?”

“Plenty, and the Coast Guard Auxiliary patrol it all the time.”

“You know where I can find those symbols on the island?”

“You’re going to end up in jail.”

“I’ll take the chance.” He handed her three hundred-dollar bills. “I’d like an answer to my question.”

She accepted the money and handed him a card for the shop.

“I’ll tell you about the symbols. But I also know a lawyer. You’re going to need one after you get to jail.”

WYATT MADE HIS WAY THROUGH THE TREES ON PAW ISLAND, heading south from where he’d hidden his boat on the north shore.

He’d finally arrived in Halifax after several delays. He’d then rented a car and driven south to Chester, a quaint town that extended out into the northern reaches of Mahone Bay, its two natural harbors dotted with expensive sailboats and yachts. More wealth appeared in the form of brightly colored clapboard houses, meticulously maintained, that clung to a rocky shore, the streetscape right out of the 18th century.

It was after six when he arrived and most of the businesses were closed. He’d walked the empty docks and spied the moored motorboats. One, a twelve-footer with a respectable outboard, seemed right. So he’d used some of his old skills-how to start an engine without a key-and stolen transportation.

The trip across the bay had been quick, the water calm. So far he’d seen or heard nothing on the island, except birds. He was hoping that whatever there was to find could be located quickly. True, it had stayed hidden a long time, but he was the first person to look with the right information.

The oak forest ended and a grassy meadow stretched before him.

On the far side, a hundred yards away, stood Fort Dominion in all of its solitary neglect. Birds stood guard. He spotted what was its main gate, surrounded by decaying walls, and tightened the backpack on his shoulders.

He wondered.

Who else would be here?

HALE DROVE ACROSS THE ESTATE, ENJOYING ANOTHER LOVELY late-summer evening in North Carolina. He’d decided to do a little fishing from the dock and relax for a couple of hours. Little could be accomplished until he heard from Knox. Usually, this time of day had proven lucky, when the gray-brown waters settled for the night, before the predators appeared. He’d dressed in stout boots, loose-fitting pants, a leather jacket, and a cap. He needed some bait, but there should be some on the dock.

His cellphone rang.

He stopped the cart and checked the display.

Shirley Kaiser.

He should not ignore her, so he answered and said, “I planned to call you later. I thought you were at a fund-raiser this evening.”

“I skipped it.”

“Feeling poorly?”

“Not at all. In fact, I feel great. So much so I took a trip. I’m here, in North Carolina, parked at the gate to the estate. Do you think you could let me in?”

He’d arrived on Paw Island before Wyatt and, with two associates, assumed strategic positions atop the crumbling walls of Fort Dominion. They’d stolen a boat from a private dock at an unoccupied home along the bay’s north shore, specifically avoiding the town of Chester, where Wyatt might appear. The craft came with flashlights and he’d smuggled in three weapons aboard the corporate jet-Canadian customs asking few questions on his arrival.

The island locale was both isolated and deserted, save for thousands of stinking birds. Night’s ever-hastening arrival should provide them with more than enough privacy. All in all, this should be an easy kill. Hopefully, finding the missing pages would not take long, though the information Carbonell provided to Hale was obscure at best. Five symbols. She’d said that was all she possessed and, hopefully, their significance would become evident once he was on the ground. He’d be glad when this nightmare was over. He was actually looking forward to spending next weekend with his wife at the beach. A little relaxation would be a good thing.

He’d brought a pair of binoculars and used them to survey where the forest ended and a grassy meadow began. About a hundred yards of open terrain stretched from the trees to the fort’s main gate, none of it fenced or restricted. Their arrival inside earlier had caused an uproar from the residents, but all was calm once again in bird land.

He caught movement in the dimming light.

Through the binoculars he spotted a man emerging from the trees.

He focused on the face.

Jonathan Wyatt.

He grabbed the attention of one of his men, stationed on another rampart, and tossed him a signal.

Their target had arrived.

HALE WELCOMED SHIRLEY KAISER INTO HIS HOME. SHE’D VISITED twice before, and each time he’d ensured that nothing unusual occurred on the grounds. They called it visitor mode. Of course, guests were never taken to certain areas, like the prison building, whose exterior looked like nothing more than a two-story barn, and were not encouraged to roam at will.