Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

He wondered what she was doing here.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise?” he asked her.

She looked great. Though pushing sixty-or maybe even sixty-five, he really wasn’t sure-she cast the appearance of a woman in her midfifties. He’d enjoyed seducing her and she’d seemed to enjoy it, too. Their relationship, though cultivated by him for an ulterior motive, had not been unpleasant. Passion stirred within her, and she was surprisingly uninhibited for a woman of her generation. She was also a wealth of information on the First Family and liked the fact that he seemed sincerely interested in her life. That was the key to women, his father had always said. Make them think you care.

“I missed you,” she said to him.

“We were planning on seeing each other in a few days.”

“I couldn’t wait, so I chartered a flight and flew down.”

He smiled. Her timing was not all bad. The evening was quiet. He’d already checked on the other three captains. Each had returned to his home, enough excitement for one day.

“As you can see,” he said, “I was going fishing. I assume you don’t want to join me.”

“Hardly.” She motioned to a small overnight bag. “I brought some special garments.”

He’d seen a sampling of those before.

“Wouldn’t they be more interesting than fishing?”

WYATT THOUGHT FORT DOMINION LOOKED BETTER SUITED TO Scotland or Ireland, its limestone walls splayed at the base and once reinforced by towers, its bastions decaying but still relatively intact. Eroded earthworks and a dry moat barred any approach from the north, west, or east, and the ocean guarded the south. The setting sun cast the gray stone in a rose-colored hue, but any impression of invincibility was betrayed by the rubble. From what he’d read, this had once been a theater of important events, its mission to hold Mahone Bay for King George, but now it was only a ruin.

Puffins lined the wall crests. Hundreds more fluttered in the evening sky. He’d heard the murmur of murres, gulls, gannets, and kittiwakes on his approach-rich, sensuous, hypnotic, swelling like thunder. Thousands of birds stained the rubble, their cries pitching then fading in a haunting harmony, the walls alive with a riotous motion.

He crossed a grassy field toward the main gate.

Dead birds lay everywhere.

Apparently, there were no native scavengers here besides bacteria. The waft, faint back at the cove, now become overpowering. A choking smell of countless creatures packed together, the air clotted with the sickening scent of life, death, and excrement.

He approached the main gate.

A wooden bridge spanned a washed-out moat, its boards newer and fitted with galvanized nails.

A rising roar from the residents protested his arrival.

He passed through the gate, beneath a row of parallel stone arches.

Sunlight dimmed.

He entered an inner ward where it was downright dark, save for dusty shafts of blue light that filtered in through gaps in the walls. More weathered stone rose three stories around him. A variety of buildings hugged the outer curtain, the inner walls broken by windows that no longer held anything save for vines.

Definitely a feeling of security here, but also one of being trapped.

He should look around.

So he plunged ahead.

MALONE BEACHED THE BOAT ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF PAW ISLAND. The evening air carried an aroma of salt and trees, along with something else-acidic and astringent. The sky had turned the color of slate, the forest casting violet shadows over the sandy inlet. Herring gulls decorated the trees.

His rubber soles crunched crab shells and dried urchins. The temperature had dropped and he was glad for a lined jacket. Thick stands of oak lay ahead, the woods bedded with ferns and heather. He turned back and studied the bay for boats. Crimson patches of fading sun colored the surface. The horizon remained empty.

The bookstore owner had told him where in the fort symbols could be found. Were they decoration? Graffiti? Old? New? During the summer months when visits were allowed fifty-plus people a day roamed the island, which meant, as she’d told him, the symbols could have come from anywhere. Except that he knew Andrew Jackson was aware of their presence in 1835.

Perhaps the president himself had them placed there?

Who knew?

CASSIOPEIA PARKED THE MOTORCYCLE AT A COMFORT INN JUST inside the Fredericksburg city limits. She’d thought about the call to Quentin Hale on the ride down. The conversation had to be subtle and clever, telegraphing just enough for Hale to know that the White House may indeed have what he sought.

The Secret Service had taken a room here earlier, about three kilometers from Kaiser’s residence, where they could remotely monitor the TV camera that had been installed inside one of the second-floor bedrooms, facing the garage.

She knocked and was allowed inside.

Two agents were on duty, one male, the other female.

“Kaiser left about three hours ago,” the female agent said. “She took a small case and a garment bag with her.”

They knew Kaiser was due at some sort of fund-raising event in Richmond. No tail or escort had been provided. Better to do nothing that might alert Hale. A big enough risk had been taken installing the camera, but they had to ensure that the sight remained under surveillance. A small LCD screen displayed, from an elevated angle, Kaiser’s garage and the hedgerow that guarded its outer wall. Sunlight was fading and she watched as the male agent switched the camera over to night vision, the image transforming to a greenish hue, still displaying the building and hedge line.

Cassiopeia would pay Kaiser an innocent woman-to-woman visit when she returned home that should draw no attention. Her talk with Danny Daniels still disturbed her. Clearly, the Daniels’ marriage was over and the president had spoken of Stephanie in an odd way. She wondered what had transpired between them. Easy to see how he might find solace with her. Stephanie’s life also had been marred by tragedy-the suicide of her husband, the disappearance of her son, an eventual coming to grips with harsh past realities.

Interesting how presidents were people, too. They had wants, needs, and fears, just like everyone else. They carried emotional baggage and, worse, were forced to conceal it.

Unfortunately for Danny and Pauline Daniels, their baggage had been revealed through careless comments and misplaced trust.

“Look there,” the female agent said, pointing to the screen.

Her mind refocused on the moment.

Two men could be seen near Shirley Kaiser’s garage, studying the surroundings, slipping into the space between the hedge and the building.

“Seems we have visitors,” the male agent said. “I’ll call for backup.”

“No,” Cassiopeia said.

“That’s not procedure,” he said to her.

“Which seems to be standard for this entire operation.” She pointed to the woman. “What’s your name?”

“Jessica.”

“Me and you. We’ll handle it.”

WYATT STROKED THE BLACKENED STONES AND VISUALIZED men-at-arms clambering to the walls, cannons readied for firing. He could hear bells tolling and smell fish turning on a spit. Life on this lonely outpost 230 years ago would have been tough. Easy to see how seventy-four men could have lost their lives.

He noticed a staircase that right-angled upward.

Higher ground would be good, so he climbed the steep steps and entered what had once been a large hall. Windows ran the length of each side, the grilles and glass long gone. No ceiling existed, the room exposed to the elements, a wall walk wrapping the outer curtain high above. Puddles of stagnant water nourished brown grass that grew like stubble. The air remained clotted with the stench of birds, many of which flitted around.