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The #2 cipher can be translated using any copy of the Declaration of Independence, but the deciphering requires some editing for spelling.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Michelle, here’s to lucky 13! What a ride so far.
To Frances Jalet-Miller, for another superb editing job. Glad we’re a team again. And to Jaime Levine for her very helpful comments.
To Aaron Priest, Lucy Childs, Lisa Erbach Vance and Nicole Kenealy, for all you do every day for me. And to Abner Stein, who does a great job for me on the other side of the Atlantic.
To David Young, Jamie Raab, Emi Battaglia and Jennifer Romanello at Hachette Book Group USA, for all your support and friendship.
To David North, Maria Rejt and Katie James for all your input and support from across the pond.
To Patti and Tom Maciag for being such great friends.
To Karen Spiegel and Lucy Stille for getting Hollywood jazzed again.
To Spencer, for the musical assist in the story. And to Collin, who every day and in every way shows me the power of rapid-fire dialogue.
To Alli and Anshu Guleria, David and Catherine Broome and Bob and Marilyn Schule for always being there for us. A special thanks to Alli for the Indian material, and to Bob for his thoughtful editorial comments.
To Neal Schiff, for helping me to get to places I need to go.
To Deborah and Lynette, the true heads of the “Enterprise.”
David Baldacci is one of the world’s favorite storytellers. His books are published in over 45 languages and in more than 80 countries, with over 110 million copies in print. David Baldacci is also the cofounder, along with his wife, of the Wish You Well Foundation, a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting literacy efforts across America. Still a resident of his native Virginia, he invites you to visit him at www.DavidBaldacci.com and his foundation at www.WishYouWellFoundation.org, and to look into its program to spread books across America at www.FeedingBodyandMind.com.
Please turn this page
for a preview of
David Baldacci’s
explosive new thriller!
King and Maxwell
CHAPTER
1
FORTY-FOUR HUNDRED POUNDS.
That was how much the crate weighed. It was off-loaded from the tractor-trailer by forklift and placed in the back of the smaller box truck. The rear door was closed and secured with two different locks, one a key, the other a combo. Each was rated to be impervious to thieves.
The man climbed into the driver’s seat of the truck, closed the door, started the engine, revved the motor, cranked the AC, and adjusted his seat. He had a long way to drive and not much time to get there. And it was hot as hell. Maybe hotter.
He would have preferred an armed escort, perhaps an Abrams tank for good measure. The air was so hot that waves of visible heat shimmered in spots. The ground was rocky and, in the distance, mountainous. The roads were bad, highway amenities were nonexistent, and he was on his own. He had guns and plenty of ammo. But he was only one man with only one trigger finger.
He no longer wore the uniform. He had taken it off for the last time about an hour ago. He fingered his “new” clothes. They were worn and not overly clean. He pulled out his map and spread it out on the front seat as the tractor-trailer pulled away, the forklift inside the trailer and secured.
He was now alone in the middle of nowhere in a country that was also, largely, in the middle of nowhere.
Other than the ninth century, he thought.
As he stared out the windshield at the imposing terrain, he briefly thought about how he had ended up here. Actually, it was quite straightforward.
He had volunteered for the job.
