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He closed the book. “I don’t know. Thought I’d just tour the bay and see what’s out there.”
“Paw’s restricted,” she said. “National preserve. You have to get permission to go there.”
“Since I can’t go,” he said. “You have any books on it?”
She pointed to a shelf across the store. “Two or three. Picture books, some stuff on the fort. What’s your deal?” She apprised him with suspicious eyes. “You’re one of those bird-watchers, aren’t you? We get a lot. Paw Island is like Disneyland to them.”
He smiled. “Guilty. How much trouble will I get into if I go?”
“Plenty, and the Coast Guard Auxiliary patrol it all the time.”
“You know where I can find those symbols on the island?”
“You’re going to end up in jail.”
“I’ll take the chance.” He handed her three hundred-dollar bills. “I’d like an answer to my question.”
She accepted the money and handed him a card for the shop.
“I’ll tell you about the symbols. But I also know a lawyer. You’re going to need one after you get to jail.”
WYATT MADE HIS WAY THROUGH THE TREES ON PAW ISLAND, heading south from where he’d hidden his boat on the north shore.
He’d finally arrived in Halifax after several delays. He’d then rented a car and driven south to Chester, a quaint town that extended out into the northern reaches of Mahone Bay, its two natural harbors dotted with expensive sailboats and yachts. More wealth appeared in the form of brightly colored clapboard houses, meticulously maintained, that clung to a rocky shore, the streetscape right out of the 18th century.
It was after six when he arrived and most of the businesses were closed. He’d walked the empty docks and spied the moored motorboats. One, a twelve-footer with a respectable outboard, seemed right. So he’d used some of his old skills-how to start an engine without a key-and stolen transportation.
The trip across the bay had been quick, the water calm. So far he’d seen or heard nothing on the island, except birds. He was hoping that whatever there was to find could be located quickly. True, it had stayed hidden a long time, but he was the first person to look with the right information.
The oak forest ended and a grassy meadow stretched before him.
On the far side, a hundred yards away, stood Fort Dominion in all of its solitary neglect. Birds stood guard. He spotted what was its main gate, surrounded by decaying walls, and tightened the backpack on his shoulders.
He wondered.
Who else would be here?
HALE DROVE ACROSS THE ESTATE, ENJOYING ANOTHER LOVELY late-summer evening in North Carolina. He’d decided to do a little fishing from the dock and relax for a couple of hours. Little could be accomplished until he heard from Knox. Usually, this time of day had proven lucky, when the gray-brown waters settled for the night, before the predators appeared. He’d dressed in stout boots, loose-fitting pants, a leather jacket, and a cap. He needed some bait, but there should be some on the dock.
His cellphone rang.
He stopped the cart and checked the display.
Shirley Kaiser.
He should not ignore her, so he answered and said, “I planned to call you later. I thought you were at a fund-raiser this evening.”
“I skipped it.”
“Feeling poorly?”
“Not at all. In fact, I feel great. So much so I took a trip. I’m here, in North Carolina, parked at the gate to the estate. Do you think you could let me in?”
SIXTY
NOVA SCOTIA
KNOX WAS PLEASED.
He’d arrived on Paw Island before Wyatt and, with two associates, assumed strategic positions atop the crumbling walls of Fort Dominion. They’d stolen a boat from a private dock at an unoccupied home along the bay’s north shore, specifically avoiding the town of Chester, where Wyatt might appear. The craft came with flashlights and he’d smuggled in three weapons aboard the corporate jet-Canadian customs asking few questions on his arrival.
The island locale was both isolated and deserted, save for thousands of stinking birds. Night’s ever-hastening arrival should provide them with more than enough privacy. All in all, this should be an easy kill. Hopefully, finding the missing pages would not take long, though the information Carbonell provided to Hale was obscure at best. Five symbols. She’d said that was all she possessed and, hopefully, their significance would become evident once he was on the ground. He’d be glad when this nightmare was over. He was actually looking forward to spending next weekend with his wife at the beach. A little relaxation would be a good thing.
He’d brought a pair of binoculars and used them to survey where the forest ended and a grassy meadow began. About a hundred yards of open terrain stretched from the trees to the fort’s main gate, none of it fenced or restricted. Their arrival inside earlier had caused an uproar from the residents, but all was calm once again in bird land.
He caught movement in the dimming light.
Through the binoculars he spotted a man emerging from the trees.
He focused on the face.
Jonathan Wyatt.
He grabbed the attention of one of his men, stationed on another rampart, and tossed him a signal.
Their target had arrived.
HALE WELCOMED SHIRLEY KAISER INTO HIS HOME. SHE’D VISITED twice before, and each time he’d ensured that nothing unusual occurred on the grounds. They called it visitor mode. Of course, guests were never taken to certain areas, like the prison building, whose exterior looked like nothing more than a two-story barn, and were not encouraged to roam at will.
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.
