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“We ended the threat,” his father said, “by recruiting the younger Booth, which wasn’t all that difficult. People with causes in their hearts are common. Most are unstable and easily manipulated. Lincoln’s assassination threw the government into chaos. All talk of arrests ended. Even better, Booth died while trying to escape. Four other conspirators were quickly arrested, tried, and hung. Five more were imprisoned. Those nine knew nothing of us. So we survived.”
And the Commonwealth would this time, too.
But everything rested on Andrea Carbonell, and how desperately she wanted Stephanie Nelle dead.
He had to play that card carefully.
A knock on his bedroom door caught his attention.
His secretary stepped inside. “I saw the light and decided to alert you.”
He was listening.
“The prisoner has asked to see you.”
“Which one?”
“The traitor.”
“For what reason?”
“He did not say. Only that he wishes to speak with you. Alone.”
MALONE AWOKE AND CHECKED THE BEDSIDE CLOCK.
6:50 AM.
Cassiopeia lay beside him, still sleeping. They’d been out for a little over two hours. He wore his undershirt and boxers. She was naked, her preferred bedclothes, which he liked. He studied her contoured curves. Not a blemish disturbed the swarthy patina. She was a beautiful woman.
If only they had more time.
He swung his legs to the floor.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He’d learned she was a light sleeper.
“We have to get going.”
“What happened last night?”
He’d promised her an explanation when they awoke. So he told her, then said, “I deleted the cipher solution off the Garver server but that’s only going to stop the people who went there for a few hours. They probably already know I emailed a copy to myself.”
He waited for it to hit her.
“Which means they know you’re here,” she said.
“I used another name to register and paid in cash. It cost me a hundred-dollar tip, but the clerk didn’t ask for any identification. I told him I didn’t want my wife to know where I was.” He reached for his clothes. “I knew when I accessed that email last night, they’d trace it here. But I want to know who they are. It’s possible they could lead us to Stephanie.”
“You think they’ll make a play?”
“Oh, yeah. My guess is they’re downstairs waiting. The question is, how much attention do they want to draw? We do have one advantage. An unknown factor to them.”
And he saw she understood.
“That’s right. You.”
THIRTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, DC
WYATT STARED OUT THE WINDOW AS AN SUV CRUISED INTO the parking lot. No further visitors had entered Carbonell’s condominium, and the spring gun sat waiting. He’d inspected the gadget and wondered if the Commonwealth had planted it. It was certainly a device that fit their operating mode. But that could have been exactly why someone else chose the method. Clearly, Carbonell had double-crossed more than one participant in this dispute, and neither the Commonwealth nor the intelligence community could be happy with her. But he could not help thinking that perhaps, like last night, she’d ordered it herself.
What was she thinking?’
He watched as Carbonell stepped from the vehicle, the interior cabin light revealing her wearing the same clothes from yesterday. She said something to the driver, then marched toward the building entrance. Her apartment was on the second floor, past an unlocked ground-floor door. The SUV waited in its parking spot, lights off.
He stepped over to the gun.
The ingenious array of screw eyes had been geometrically arranged so that the door, as opened, gradually tightened the twine, working the trigger. The gun was an automatic rifle. He’d already checked. Fully loaded with more than enough rounds to obliterate any and all the flesh and bone standing less than two feet away.
He tested the nylon one more time.
Taut as a guitar string.
Would it matter if she died?
CASSIOPEIA STROLLED OFF THE ELEVATOR AND INTO THE JEFFERSON’S
lobby. She’d already called down and asked that her motorcycle be brought to the front entrance. She’d valet-parked it on arrival.
Four policeman waited to her left, near the marble statue of Thomas Jefferson that dominated the lobby’s center.
Apparently, this was not to be a subtle encounter.
She casually drifted their way, the click of her boots announcing her presence. Outside, past the glass doors, she spotted three Richmond city police cars. Whoever had attacked Cotton last night had apparently decided to stay in the shadows today and allow the locals to take the heat. She caught a few concerned looks on the faces of guests who milled back and forth, carrying their morning paper, or a briefcase, or navigating a roller bag.
But she ignored them all and assessed the geography.
The lobby was L-shaped and huge. To her left a grand staircase swept down into an atrium lined with what appeared to be marble columns-which she discovered, on closer inspection, were faux-painted. The ceiling reached twenty-plus meters to a stained-glass skylight. Tapestries and Victorian-era furniture added to an Old World feel. At the far side of the two-story atrium she spotted another set of glass exit doors, adjacent to a restaurant.
Her mind worked out a plan.
Could she do it?
Sure.
Plenty of room to maneuver.
HALE ENTERED THE PRISON THAT HAD ONCE ACTED AS A STABLE for the estate’s horses. Stephanie Nelle was confined on the second floor, the traitor on the ground. He’d specifically ordered that they not see each other, much less have an opportunity to speak. He’d initially resisted the urge to come, but he wanted to hear what this man had to say.
The accused sat on a cot and remained seated when Hale appeared. He opted to stand outside the cell and speak through the bars. He’d ordered that the upstairs door be closed and a radio played on the next floor so nothing of their conversation could leak upward.
“What do you want?” he quietly asked.
“There are things you need to know.”
&n
bsp; No hint of fear laced the words. This man seemed to be facing his fate with courage. He liked that. His crew was tough. He always laughed at the image of a sailor being conscripted by a pirate ship, forced, kicking and screaming, into unwilling service. In reality, when a captain dropped the word that his ship was “going on the account,” every tavern, brothel, and alleyway buzzed with anticipation. If that captain had been successful on previous voyages, former shipmates were usually first to sign on. Others wanting to join in success came next. Pirating paid well, and men of that time were interested in the most return for their risky investment. None of them wanted to die. All wanted to return to port and enjoy their share of the spoils. Still, a captain had to be cautious in his choices-once the articles were agreed upon and the ship sailed, he could be removed by that crew. Of course, that was no longer the case. Heredity now determined a captain. But there remained risks, and this man was a perfect example.
“I’m here. Talk.”
“I told the NIA about the murder on Adventure. I admit that. They offered me money, so I took it.”
Hale already knew that, but wanted to know, “Are you proud of what you did?”
“I realize this whole company thing is important to you. All for one, one for all, and all that. But let’s face it, you get the cake and we get the crumbs.”
“Those crumbs are far more than anyone else was giving you.”
“They are. But I never really bought into all this.”
Recruitment had always been accomplished by the quartermaster, usually from proven families who’d worked for the Commonwealth. Just as in former times, modern crews were generally ill educated and came from poor to modest backgrounds. But still-
“Is your word not good for anything?” he asked. “You signed the Articles and swore an oath. That means nothing?”
The man shrugged. “I did it for the money. Also, Knox got me out of some bad trouble. I appreciated that. I’m good with metal. So when he offered me a job, I took it.”
