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He called out and a few moments later the door opened.
“I want the crew of the sloop assembled at once.”
CASSIOPEIA STAYED CALM. APPARENTLY, DANNY DANIELS’ INSTINCTS had proven correct.
“Are you married?” the First Lady asked her.
She shook her head.
“Someone special in your life?”
She nodded, though it felt strange to actually admit the fact.
“Do you love him?”
“I told him I did.”
“Did you mean it?”
“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”
A sly grin came to the older woman’s thin lips. “I wish it were that simple. Does he love you?”
She nodded.
“I met Danny when I was seventeen. We married a year later. I told him I loved him on our second date. He told me on the third. He always was a little slow. I’ve watched him rise up the political ladder. He started as a city councilman and ended up president of the United States. If he hadn’t killed our little girl, I do believe I would worship him.”
“He didn’t kill her.”
“But he did. I begged him not to smoke in the house and to be careful with his ashes. Back then nobody knew anything about secondhand smoke, all I knew was that I didn’t want him smoking.” The words had come fast, as if they needed to be said. “I relive that night every day. Earlier, when they told me somebody had tried to kill Danny, I thought about it again. I hated him for tossing me out the window. Hated him for being stubborn. Hated him for not saving Mary.” She caught herself. “But I also love him.”
Cassiopeia sat silent.
“I bet you think I’m a crazy person,” the First Lady said. “But when I was told someone would be coming to interrogate me, someone from outside the White House, I knew that I had to be honest. You do believe that I’m being honest?”
That was the one thing she was sure of.
“Who did you tell about the New York trip?” she asked, trying to get back on point.
Pauline Daniels’ face cast an expression of profound sympathy. Her blue eyes seemed on the verge of tears, and Cassiopeia wondered at the thoughts swirling through this troubled woman’s mind. From everything she knew the First Lady was a poised, well-respected figure, never a cruel word uttered about her. At all times she conducted herself in a proper manner, but apparently this woman kept her emotions bottled inside, the relative safety of these walls, home to her for the past seven years, the only place where they might be exposed.
“A friend of mine. A close friend. That’s who I told.”
The eyes conveyed more.
“A friend I don’t want my husband to talk to.”
TWENTY-NINE
MARYLAND
WYATT WATCHED AS COTTON MALONE FENDED OFF THE ATTACKERS, firing at the car stopped a hundred and fifty feet away.
Carbonell had been right about the others coming, too.
“What’s happening out there?” Voccio said, stepping toward the window.
Wyatt turned to face him. “We have to go.”
More shots rang out from below. Concern filled the other man’s face, the anxious eyes like those of a cornered animal.
“We need to call the police,” Voccio said.
“Do you have all the data?”
The man nodded and produced a flash drive. “On here.”
“Give it to me.”
The academician handed over the device. “Why are you even here to get it?”
A strange question.
“I emailed it to the NIA director several hours ago.”
Really? A point Carbonell had failed to mention. But he should not be surprised. “Do you have a car downstairs?”
“In the rear parking lot.”
He gestured for the door. “Bring the keys and let’s go.”
The room suddenly went dark.
Every light extinguished with a loud bang, except for the three computer monitors. Even the rumble of the ventilation system stopped. Wyatt’s alert level moved from orange to red.
Seemed they might be the subject of this attack, too.
“The computers are on a battery backup,” Voccio said, the uneven light from the screens washing over them. “What in the world is going on?”
He couldn’t say that men were probably coming to kill them both.
So he kept it simple.
“We need to leave.”
MALONE AIMED NOT TO HIT ANYONE, BUT TO SPUR THE DRIVER to move the car, and bullets close enough to feel should do the trick.
And they did.
The engine revved, the wheels spun, and the vehicle sped away.
The gunman on the other side suddenly realized that his only cover had vanished. Now he stood in the center of an empty parking lot, awash in light from the overhead lamps, nowhere to go. So he laid down a spread from his automatic weapon, indiscriminate rounds tearing through Malone’s car, shattering glass.
Malone huddled close, listening to the thumping report of lead ripping through metal, and waited for his moment. When the firing stopped, he rose, aimed, and brought the gunman to a wavering halt with a bullet to the shoulder.
He rushed over and kicked the rifle away.
The man writhed in pain on the wet pavement, and blood poured from the wound.
The storm freshened as gusts of wind molested the trees. His eyes swept the darkness, and he noticed something.
All the lights in the building that had been illuminated were now out.
KNOX STEPPED OFF THE PLANE AT THE GREENVILLE, NORTH Carolina, airport. He’d flown to New York aboard the Commonwealth’s jet, piloting the twelve-seater himself. He’d learned to fly while in the air force. His father had encouraged him to join, and the six years he’d spent on active duty had been good for him. His sons had followed suit, one of them just finishing a Middle Eastern tour, another planned to enlist. He was proud that his children wanted to serve. They were good Americans, as was he.
The small, regional airport lay forty minutes west of Bath, and he quickly made his way to a Lincoln Navigator parked beside the Commonwealth’s private hangar. Ostensibly, both the plane and the building belonged to one of the Hale business concerns, used by executives for corporate travel. Three pilots stayed on the payroll, but Knox never used them. His trips were private, the fewer witnesses the better. He was still concerned about New York and all that had gone wrong. But at least he’d managed to escape in one piece.
He unlocked the rear door and tossed his travel bag inside. The place was quiet and still for late on a Saturday night. Movement out of the corner of his eye diverted his attention. A form emerged from the darkness and said, “I’ve been waiting.”
He stared at the faceless shadow, an inkblot on the night, and said, “I should kill you.”
The woman chuckled. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“Our deal is over.”
Andrea Carbonell stepped forward. “Hardly. We are far from through with each other.”
MALONE RETRIEVED THE WEAPONS FROM THE TWO DOWNED men then ran toward the building’s entrance. He saw that its glass doors had been shattered, the electronic latch destroyed. He entered the lobby, immediately finding cover behind a sofa grouping with chairs. A reception counter fronted one wall, two elevators another. Three sets of glass doors lead into what he assumed were other offices, but they were dark. Another set of glass doors at the far end opened out to the rear of the building. His gaze found the stairway, an EXIT sign burning a dull crimson from battery power.
He crept close and eased the door open.
He heard movement.
Footsteps.
Above him.
WYATT LED VOCCIO OUT OF THE OFFICE AND DOWN THE HALL, passing both open and closed doorways. Emergency lighting indicated where the stairs waited and, in the soft glow from the illuminated panel, he caught sight of the exit door.
Which was being eased open.
He grabbed Voccio by the arm,
signaling for quiet, then diverted them both into the first open space. Some sort of conference room, the opposite wall lined with windows, the plate glass smeared with rain and lit from the outside by lamps below. He motioned for the doctor to wait in one of the corners, then peered out into the hall, his eyes struggling to define shapes.
Two forms disturbed the darkness, both moving ahead toting automatic rifles. He thought he caught the silhouette of night goggles around their heads. It would make sense that these men would have come equipped.
Thank goodness he’d also thought ahead.
KNOX WAS IN NO MOOD FOR CARBONELL’S THEATRICS. HE’D sold his soul to her, doing something that ran counter to every fiber in his being.
But she’d made a convincing case.
The Commonwealth was finished.
All four captains would spend a decade or more in federal prison. Every penny they’d made and every tangible asset they owned would be seized by the government. No more crews. No more letters of marque. No more quartermasters.
Knox could either survive the calamity or become part of it.
God help him, he chose survival.
The NIA knew about the assassination attempt because he’d told them. That had been his bargaining chip, the one piece of information that neither NIA nor anyone else had known.
His ticket out.
Carbonell had listened to him intently.
“They’re going to kill Danny Daniels?” she asked.
“Three captains think that’s the solution.”
