Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

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Water burst from the lower chutes, surging through the chamber, swamping the floor in a cold wave.

He walked back to Wyatt, switching the flashlight from his right to his left hand.

He whirled his right arm up and smashed a fist across Wyatt’s jaw.

Wyatt staggered back, splashing into the water on the floor.

“Are we done now?” he asked.

But Wyatt said nothing. He simply came to his feet, hopped into the closest chute, and disappeared into the blackness.

CASSIOPEIA SOUGHT COVER IN A STAND OF TREES, WATCHING the house that stood fifty meters away. Wind chimes performed a symphony of high-pitched tones. She glimpsed dark forms scurrying from one side of the house to the other, and more shots were fired. She decided to take a chance and found her phone, dialing Davis’ number.

“What’s happening there?” he immediately asked her.

“This place is under siege.”

“We can hear the gunfire. I’ve already checked with Washington. It’s nobody that I can identify.”

“It’s good cover,” she said. “Just sit tight and stick to the plan.”

She sounded like Cotton. He was rubbing off on her.

“I don’t like it,” Davis said.

“Neither do I. But I’m already here.”

She ended the call.

WYATT WIGGLED DOWN THE TIGHT TUNNEL, NO MORE THAN three feet high and a little more than that wide. Cold water continued to drain from outside toward him with an ever-increasing intensity, the rush from its source growing more distinct.

He was coming to the end.

In more ways than one.

He’d allowed Malone the violation. He would have done the same, or worse, if the roles were reversed. Malone remained too self-important for his taste, but the cocksure SOB had never lied to him.

And there was something to be said for that.

Andrea Carbonell had sent him to Canada, assuring him repeatedly that the journey was between the two of them. Then she promptly informed the Commonwealth.

He could imagine the deal she’d made.

Kill Jonathan Wyatt and you get to keep whatever there was to find.

And that rattled him more than Cotton Malone.

He’d done okay the past few days, stopping the assassination of the president of the United States and managing to come as close as anyone to solving the puzzle Andrew Jackson had created long ago. He would have saved Gary Voccio’s life, too, if the man had not panicked. His physical confrontation with Malone seemed to quell whatever anger had lingered inside him from eight years ago.

Instead, a new fury raged.

Faint rays of light appeared ahead.

In the absolute darkness, any glow, however minor, was welcome. The chilly water now rose to his elbows. He continued to crawl on all fours. The end of the shaft appeared and he saw a pool inside a rocky cavern. Surf lapped its sides as water rose to the chute. Beyond the cavern entrance he spotted open sea, bright streaks of moonlight glimmering off the restless surface.

He began to understand the engineering. The shafts had been cut into the rock at varying heights, emptying beneath the fort. As the tide rose so would the pool, flooding each of the tunnels in turn, forcing water into the chambers. When the tide receded, so would the water. A simple mechanism utilizing gravity and nature, but he wondered what its purpose had been in the first place.

Who cared?

He was free.

SEVENTY-ONE

KNOX AWOKE.

Cool air rushed across his body. His head hurt and his vision was blurred. He heard the monotonous drone of an engine and felt himself jostled up and down. Then he realized. He was back on Mahone Bay. In a boat. With three people on board.

Two men and Carbonell.

He pushed himself up on his feet.

“My little dart works, doesn’t it?” Carbonell called out.

He recalled the weapon in her hand, the pop, then the sting to his chest. She’d tranquilized him. He didn’t have to ask where they were headed. He knew. Paw Island.

“It’s the same boat you stole earlier,” she said.

He rubbed his aching head and longed for a shot of bourbon. “Why are we going back?”

“To finish what you started.”

He steadied himself. Everything tossed and turned, and not from the boat. “You understand that Wyatt is not going to be happy to see you.”

“Actually, I’m counting on that.”

CASSIOPEIA WATCHED THE ATTACK ON HALE’S RESIDENCE. WHOEVER these assailants were, they weren’t being subtle. The shooting had subsided, but there was still plenty of movement, both sides seemingly jockeying for a better position. She blinked rain from her eyes and tried to focus on the black house, every window devoid of light. In fact, there were no lights burning anywhere she could see.

From a side door, someone slipped outside.

A man, who immediately crouched low and crept to the veranda steps, where he slowly descended, staying down. Open hands signaled that he held no gun. Was this Hale? She watched as the figure hustled into the rain, toward the trees, using the wind and thick trunks for cover, advancing away, toward the dock from where she’d come.

More crackling gunfire raged in the distance.

She headed toward where the man had gone, keeping her steps light. Wet leaves, roots, and fallen branches challenged her balance. Thankfully the soil was more sand than dirt and seemed to drain fast. No mud. She found the graveled road that led to the dock, the one she’d just paralleled to the house, and spotted her quarry, maybe twenty meters away, trotting down the right side of the road.

She ran and came within ten meters of him before he realized she was approaching. As his head whirled around, she stopped, leveled her gun, and said, “Stay right where you are.”

The man froze. “Who are you?” he asked.

The voice was not of the age she knew Hale to be. So instead of answering his question, she asked one of her own. “Who are you?”

“Mr. Hale’s secretary. I’m not a pirate or a privateer. I don’t like guns and I don’t want to be shot.”

“Then you’d better answer my questions, or you’re going to find out what a bullet wound feels like.”

MALONE SWAM OUT OF THE CAVERN AND INTO MAHONE BAY. The sea was cold. He shook water from his eyes and stared up at Fort Dominion. The shaft he’d negotiated had emptied into a rocky cleft. He wondered about Wyatt. He hadn’t seen or heard any more from him. The shaft Wyatt had chosen apparently opened into another cavern. If he made it, Wyatt should be out here somewhere swimming, but Malone could not see or hear much beyond where he floated. He should be a hell of a lot angrier at Wyatt. But there was one thing. If Wyatt had not involved him, he wouldn’t be in a position to help Stephanie.

Strange, but for that he was grateful.

He had to get out of the water, so he started swimming toward a flat part of the island, south of the fort. He found a small beach and emerged from the bay. Night air chilled his bones. His jacket was back in the chamber, left there as Wyatt had done, since it would have been little more than an anchor. Thank goodness he’d come prepared with a change of clothes.

The stench of the birds returned as he plunged inland, turning toward where he’d beached his boat. He recalled a coil of nylon rope that he could use to reenter the underground chamber. He’d wait for low tide, which should provide a few hours to safely explore. Surely, Andrew Jackson had known of Fort Dominion and what had happened here during the Revolutionary War. Why else would he have selected such an out-of-the-way locale? Perhaps because, even if Jefferson’s cipher had been cracked and the cipher wheel found, nature would stand guard, ready to thwart all but the cleverest of hunters.

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