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He found the two loose disks and studied how to add them. A metal rod ran through the center of the other twenty-four disks, attached to the frame and held in place by a retaining pin. He noticed that the disks, about a quarter inch wide, fit tightly, no spare room except at the end where there was space for two more.
He examined the two loose ones. Each, like the others, contained the letters of the alphabet, carved into their edge, broken by crooked lines above and below. He’d read enough about the wheel to know that the disks had to be arranged on the rod in a certain order. But Jackson had not included any instructions as to that, only adding the five curious symbols at the end. He decided to try the obvious and rotated the first visible disk on the rod and saw a carved 3 on its inside face. The two loose disks showed a 1 and 2 in the same spot.
Perhaps the order was simply numerical.
He freed the center post from the frame, held it firm so the remaining disks would not shake loose, and slipped the two disks onto the rod in the correct order.
He reattached the rod and found Andrew Jackson’s message, which he’d jotted down earlier.
HALE COULD FEEL THE TENSION IN THE ROOM, THICK AFTER only one selection.
Now it was Bolton’s turn.
His adversary glared at the remaining five glasses. Surcouf and Cogburn watched in apparent disbelief. Good. Those two should understand that he was not a man to challenge.
Bolton focused on the glasses.
Interesting that the usually hapless fool showed no fear. Was it anger that protected him? Or recklessness?
Bolton chose, lifting the glass and swallowing its contents.
One second. Two. Three. Four.
Nothing.
Bolton smiled. “Back to you, Quentin.”
WYATT STUDIED THE SEQUENCE OF TWENTY-SIX LETTERS THAT Andrew Jackson had hidden behind the Jefferson cipher.
GYUOINESCVOQXWJTZPKLDEMFHR
Starting at the left, and the disk he knew was labeled 1, he rotated until he found a G. He continued with the next disk, locating a Y. He kept finding the relevant letters in the sequence.
The chopper brushed the outskirts of Charlottesville, flying over the University of Virginia. Carbonell was waiting for him a few miles ahead. They’d agreed to no calls or radio contact during the flight to lessen the chance of anyone listening in or following. The pilot was payroll NIA, loyal to his boss. He began to realize why the disks were so tightly packed on the spindle. Friction kept them from moving once the desired letter was found.
A forest of foliage spread out below as they flew westward toward more trees.
He had little time left.
So he kept finding letters.
HALE GULPED HIS SECOND GLASS OF WHISKEY, WASTING NO time in his selection. He waited five seconds, knowing that the poison worked incredibly fast.
His father had told him about another challenge, one that happened long ago with Abner Hale. After the failed attempt on Andrew Jackson’s life, and the gutting of the Commonwealth’s letters of marque, tension among the four captains reached a climax when a Surcouf challenged a Hale. Kentucky bourbon had been the beverage of choice then. On the second selection, the one he’d just swallowed, Abner’s eyes had rolled to the top of his head and he’d dropped dead. That had happened not in the room they now occupied, but somewhere within the current house’s footprint in a parlor not all that dissimilar to this one. Abner Hale’s death had relieved the pressure within the Commonwealth. His successor, Hale’s great-grandfather, was more moderate and did not suffer the stigma of what his father had done.
That was another thing about pirate society.
Each man proved himself.
The whiskey settled in his stomach.
No poison.
The odds had just worsened for Bolton.
One in three.
WYATT SPOTTED THEIR DESTINATION ABOUT A MILE AWAY. AN
underdeveloped industrial park with a paved lot that spanned out before a couple of dilapidated metal buildings. Two SUVs waited. A single person stood on the asphalt, looking his way.
Andrea Carbonell.
He found the twenty-sixth letter.
An R.
He pressed the tips of his fingers on the far left and far right disks and rotated all twenty-six in unison. He knew that somewhere in the circle, among the twenty-six different arrangements of letters there should be a coherent message that spanned the disks’ length.
A quarter turn later he saw it.
Five words.
He committed them to memory, then rescrambled the disks.
KNOX SAW EDWARD BOLTON LABOR OVER HIS SECOND CHOICE and, for the first time, spotted hesitation as the captain debated the remaining three glasses.
Just watching rattled his nerves.
He never dreamed that he would actually witness a challenge. His father had told him about them, none of which had ever gone this far. But that was the whole point of something so unpredictable, its message clear. Don’t fight. Work it out. Still, no captain had ever wanted to show cowardice, so Edward Bolton held firm, knowing that one of the three remaining glasses would prove fatal.
Hale’s dark eyes, oily and alive, stared unblinking.
Bolton brought a glass to his lips.
Mouth open, he threw the contents to the back of his throat and swallowed.
Five seconds passed.
Nothing.
Surcouf and Cogburn exhaled together.
Bolton grinned, an undisguised hint of relief at the corners of his mouth.
Not bad, Knox thought.
Not bad at all.
FIFTY-ONE
HALE STUDIED BOTH REMAINING GLASSES. SIX INCHES OF POLISHED wood separated them.
One contained death.
“Enough of this,” Cogburn said. “You’ve both proven your point. Okay. You’re men, you can take it. Stop this now.”
Bolton shook his head. “No way. It’s his turn.”
“And if I choose wrong, you’re rid of me,” Hale said.
“You challenged me. We’re not stopping. Choose a damn glass.”
Hale stared down. The amber liquid lay still as a pond in each. He lifted one glass and swirled its contents.
Then, the other.
Bolton watched him with an intense glare.
He reached for a glass. “This one.”
He lifted it to his lips.
All three captains and Knox stared at him. He kept his eyes locked on their faces. He wanted them to know that he possessed true courage. He poured the contents into his mouth, swished the liquor between his gums, and swallowed.
His eyes went wide, his breathing shallow.
He choked, as the muscles in his face contorted.
He reached for his chest.
Then he dropped to the floor.
WYATT WAITED AS THE HELICOPTER SETTLED ON THE LANDING area, the wheel back in the nylon bag. He’d worked intelligence since graduating from college, recruited while in the military. He was neither liberal nor conservative, neither Republican nor Democrat. He was simply an American who’d served his country until deemed too reckless to be kept on the payroll. He’d made his contribution to intelligence gathering in some of the hottest spots on the planet. He’d been instrumental in uncovering two sleeper agents within the CIA, both tried and convicted as spies. He’d also taken down a double agent, carrying out a clandestine order to kill the man, despite the fact that, officially, America assassinated no one.
Never once had he violated orders.
Not even that day with Malone, when two men died. But he was no longer bound by any rules or ethics.
He could do as he pleased.
Which was another reason why he’d stayed in this fight.
He stepped from the chopper, which immediately lifted from the ground and departed. Most likely it would soon be in a hangar, safe from any prying eyes.
Carbonell waited for him alone. No driver in the SUV.
“I see you were successful,” she said
.
She’d changed, and was now dressed in a short navy-blue skirt and white jacket that clung to her curvy frame. Sandals with medium heels adorned her feet. He stood a few feet away, holding the bagged wheel. His gun rested at the base of his spine, tucked behind his belt.
“What now?” he asked her.
She motioned at one of the vehicles. “The keys are in it. Take it wherever you want.”
He feigned interest in the SUV. “Can I keep it?”
She chuckled. “If it’ll make you happy. I don’t really give a damn.”
He faced her.
