CASSIOPEIA RODE WITH EDWIN DAVIS UP THE INCLINED ROAD toward Monticello’s main house. Buses up and down had been halted, the local sheriff called. They wheeled into a parking lot in front on the mansion. The estate manager waited at the end of a paved walk that led to a columned portico. Twenty meters away, people were being herded onto another bus.
“Where’s Cotton?” she asked.
“Inside. He told me to seal the house and let no one in.”
“What’s happened?” Davis asked.
A swoosh could be heard from inside, followed by a bright flash of light that illuminated some of the windows.
“What was that?” she asked.
“There’ve been others like that,” the manager said.
She ran down the walk toward the house.
“He said for no one to enter,” the manager called out to her.
She found her weapon. “That doesn’t apply to me.”
A loud retort echoed from inside.
That sound she knew.
Gunfire.
FORTY-EIGHT
MALONE DROPPED TO THE FLOOR JUST AS WYATT FIRED, THE bullet shattering one of the wooden spindles. He beat a hasty retreat on all fours toward the back wall, away from the railing, using the angle below for protection. Another shot and a bullet came up through the floorboards a few feet away, the two-hundred-year-old timbers offering little resistance.
A third shot.
Closer.
Wyatt was searching for him.
Something arced through the air and bounced on the balcony floor. He’d seen this movie before and quickly shielded his head as the light bomb did its thing, adding a fresh wave of smoke to the confusion.
He sprang to his feet and found the hall that led back to the stairs he’d taken earlier. Spying movement below, he stared up toward the third floor and decided to reverse the roles.
Time for Wyatt to play rabbit and for him to be the fox.
WYATT CREPT UP THE STAIRS, GUN LEADING THE WAY, SEARCHING through the smoke for Malone.
Two things happened at once.
He heard the house’s main doors open and a woman yell, “Cotton.”
Then, up above, he caught sight of Malone.
Climbing to the third floor.
KNOX WAITED FOR CAPTAINS SURCOUF AND COGBURN TO ANSWER Bolton’s question.
“I don’t know, Edward,” Surcouf finally said. “I’m not sure what to think. We’re in a mess. Frankly, I don’t like what either one of you proposes. But I have to wonder, Quentin. There’s no way you’re depending totally on Daniels caving simply from embarrassment.”
“If it were me,” Cogburn said, “I’d call the wife a lying whore and hang her out to dry. Nobody would have any sympathy for her.”
Typical, Knox thought. Cogburns had long viewed the world in black and white. He wished life were that simple. If it were, none of them would be in the mess they were in. But he, too, doubted that the tactic alone would pressure the White House into doing anything productive.
“I still have Stephanie Nelle,” Hale said.
“And what are you going to do with her?”
Knox wanted to hear the answer to that question, too.
“I haven’t decided. But she could prove valuable.”
“Talk about a thing from the past,” Bolton said. “Do you hear yourself? A hostage? In the 21st century? Like you told us about the assassination attempt. Are you going to call up the White House and say you have her? Let’s make a deal? You can’t do diddly-squat with that woman. She’s useless.”
Unless her corpse could be shown to Andrea Carbonell, Knox thought. Then, she was worth a great deal.
At least to him.
“Why don’t you let me worry about her value,” Hale said.
Cogburn pointed an accusing finger. “You’re plotting something else. What is it, Quentin? Tell us or, by God, I’ll join with Edward and make your life a living hell.”
CASSIOPEIA COULD DISTINGUISH LITTLE THROUGH THE SMOKE. The two-story entrance hall was enveloped in a gray fog. She sought cover close to the wall, behind a pine table, beneath a wall dotted with antlers.
She realized what she had to do.
Not the smartest move, but necessary.
“Cotton,” she called out.
MALONE CAME TO THE TOP OF THE STAIRWAY ON THE THIRD floor. He’d made no attempt to disguise his path. Surely Wyatt had seen or heard him and was headed this way.
Or at least he hoped.
He heard his name called out.
Cassiopeia.
WYATT HAD NO IDEA AS TO THE WOMAN’S IDENTITY, BUT SHE obviously was connected to Malone. He should simply descend to the cellar and leave, but he recalled that the staircase before him led down, not into a public area, but into a private room the staff utilized. He wondered if any of them was still there, or if they’d been told to evacuate. The one thing he did not want to do was shoot anyone. That would bring immeasurable grief his way. Better to be a simple thief, inflicting nothing more than a little property damage.
He stared up.
The third floor contained the room beneath the dome. Only the north and south staircases led there. Malone was clearly drawing him that way into a confined space.
Not today, Cotton.
He crept away from the stairs to the end of the corridor and peered out into the entrance hall. The woman had taken cover on his side of the room, behind a table, near the front windows and door. He aimed the gun above her head and obliterated a set of eighteen-paned windows directly behind her.
HALE DEBATED WHAT TO SAY IN RESPONSE TO COGBURN’S THREAT. For the first time, he saw a semblance of backbone in one of these men.
So he opted for the truth.
“I am solving the cipher,” he told them.
“How?” Cogburn asked, clearly not impressed.
“I made a deal with the head of NIA.”
MALONE STOOD JUST INSIDE AN OCTAGON-SHAPED ROOM WITH bright yellow walls, crowned by a dome and a glass oculus. Circular paned windows in six of the walls allowed bright morning sun inside. Little smoke had, as yet, drifted to this floor.
He debated how best to confront Wyatt.
Gunfire erupted below.
KNOX KEPT HIS COMPOSURE, BUT WHAT HE’D JUST HEARD SENT a chill down his spine.
Carbonell was playing every angle. Squeezing him. Dealing with his boss. Had he been compromised? Was that why he was here? He readied himself to react, but Hale still held a gun and he was unarmed.
“What kind of deal have you made?” Bolton asked Hale.
“The NIA has solved the cipher.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Surcouf asked.
“There is a price.”
The other three waited for him to tell them.
“Stephanie Nelle has to die for us to obtain the solution.”
“Then kill her,” Cogburn said. “You’re always chastising us on being blood-shy. What are you waiting for?”
“The NIA director is not to be trusted. And we can, of course, only kill Ms. Nelle once. So that death has to produce the desired results.”
Bolton shook his head. “You’re telling us you can end this simply by killing that woman in the prison? We’ll all be safe? Our letters of marque fortified? And you’re playing games?”
“What I am doing, Edward, is assuring that, if that happens, we will indeed be safe.”
“No, Quentin,” Bolton said. “What you’re ensuring is that you will be safe.”
CASSIOPEIA CROUCHED LOW, USING THE TABLE AS COVER.
Two retorts.
Close by.
And the windows behind her shattered from bullets.
She recovered and sent a round in reply, aiming for the spot in the fog where she’d spotted muzzle flashes.
BY ELIMINATING THE SET OF WINDOWS BEHIND THE WOMAN, Wyatt had provided her an easy escape route. They stretched six feet from the floor, like doors, an easy matter to step through.
But she wasn’t leaving.
He aimed his next shot at the table she was using for cover.
On the fourth round, he might not be so generous.
MALONE HAD TO RETURN TO GROUND LEVEL AND SEE ABOUT Cassiopeia. She and Wyatt were engaged in a gun battle. But the south stairway, to his right, the one he’d used to ascend, was not the way. He decided to head to the north side of the building and the second set of risers.
He quickly found them and descended.
CASSIOPEIA DECIDED THAT RETREAT WAS THE SMART MOVE. TOO many bullets, too much smoke.
How many assailants were there?
And why had Cotton not answered?
She fired another round, then darted out the open frame behind her, leaping from the portico.
WYATT SAW THE WOMAN FLEE AND DECIDED TO DO THE SAME.
Malone was surely on his way back down.
Enough of this.
MALONE FOUND THE FIRST FLOOR. A SHORT HALL TO HIS LEFT led back to the entrance hall, but he avoided that and stepped into what appeared to be a dining room.
A large parlor opened through another doorway, the interior walls dotted with paintings, the exterior lined with draped windows and a set of doors, the air inside consumed by swirling smoke.
He entered and peered through another set of glass doors, back out into the entrance hall.
CASSIOPEIA ROLLED ONTO THE PORTICO, STAYING LOW, ADVANCING to the shattered window.
She had to get back inside.
She came to her feet and pressed her body close to the outer bricks, then slipped into the smoke-filled hall.
Her gaze raked the murky scene.
On the opposite side, beyond a set of glass doors, in another smoke-filled room dotted with windows and portraits, she caught movement.
She aimed and fired.
FORTY-NINE
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
HALE’S PATIENCE ENDED. THESE THREE IMBECILES HAD NO conception of what was required to win this war. It had been that way from the start. Hales had always dominated the Commonwealth. They were the ones who’d approached George Washington and the Continental Congress with the idea of coordinating the privateers’ offensive efforts. Before that, vessels had operated independently, doing what they pleased when they pleased. Sure, they’d been effective, but not like what happened after they unified under a single command. Of course, for their trouble Hales derived a specified cut from every seizure, partnering with privateers from Massachusetts to Georgia, ensuring that attacks on British shipping continued unabated. Surcoufs, Cogburns, and especially Boltons had been there, but had not done nearly as much as what the Hales did. His father had cautioned him to cooperate with his fellow captains, but also always to keep a distance and maintain his own connections.
You can’t rely on them, son.
He agreed. “I’m about sick to death of being accused and threatened.”
“We’re sick to death of being kept in the dark,” Bolton said. “You’re making deals with the same people who are trying to put us in prison.”
“The NIA is our ally.”
“Some ally,” Cogburn said. “They’ve done nothing to stop any of this. They then cultivated a spy within the company and interfered with our move on Daniels.”
“They solved the cipher.”
“And have not, as yet, provided it to us,” Bolton said. “Some friend.”
“What effect has that traitor had on your dealings with NIA?” Surcouf wanted to know. “Why would they need a spy among us?”
That was the first good question he’d heard. And the answer remained unclear, except that “The NIA director wants Stephanie Nelle dead—”
“Why?” Cogburn asked.
“There’s something personal there. She did not explain, only that Nelle was investigating both her and us. It was to our advantage to stop that. She asked me to do it, so I obliged. That is what friends do for each other.”
“Why the need for the spy if she had you?” Surcouf asked.
“Because he’s a liar, a thief, and a murderer,” Bolton spat out. “A stinking, crooked pirate who can’t be trusted. His great-great-granddaddy would be proud.”
His spine stiffened. “I have had enough of your insults, Edward. I challenge you. Here and now.”
Which was his right.
Whenever ships in the past joined for a common purpose, the possibility of conflict had been great. By their nature captains were independent—mindful of their own crew, uncaring about anyone else’s. But civil wars were deemed counterproductive. The idea was to loot merchant shipping, not fight among themselves. And never were disputes settled at sea, as crews rarely chanced their own lives or damage to the ship over a silly quarrel.
So another way evolved.
The challenge.
A drama in which the captains could show their courage while at the same time not endangering anyone or anything, besides themselves.
A simple test of guts.
Bolton stood silent and stared.
“Typical,” Hale said. “You have no stomach for a fight.”
“I accept your challenge.”
Hale turned to Knox.
“Prepare it.”
MALONE HEARD THE SHOT AND DOVE TO THE FLOOR, SCRAMBLING beneath a table surrounded by chairs.
Glass doors six feet away shattered.
More shots came his way, keeping him close to the floor.
CASSIOPEIA DECIDED TO ATTACK. SHE FIRED ONCE, TWICE, THEN a third time, taking no chances, advancing toward the source of movement.
MALONE KEPT HIS HEAD DOWN AND WAITED FOR THE SHOOTING to stop. He was going to take Wyatt out, but he needed to make his one move count. He lay flat on the floor beneath the table and gripped the gun, readying himself.
Through the smoke, a shadow came his way.
From the entrance hall, toward the parlor.
He waited for the target to grow larger.
Then he’d take Wyatt down with some well-placed shots.
WYATT FOUND THE CELLAR, PLEASED TO SEE THAT NO STAFF OCcupied the small office at the base of the stairway. A series of brick-lined rooms formed both the house’s foundation and subterranean storage. They lined a long passage that stretched the building’s length, lit by incandescent fixtures springing from the rough stone walls. He recalled from the exhibits at the visitor center that the rooms served as food, beer, and wine cellars. He stared at the end of the north passage, maybe seventy-five feet away, which opened out into the morning sun.
All clear.
He rushed ahead.
He knew that behind him were what Jefferson had called the dependencies. The south set held the kitchen, smokehouse, dairy, and some slave quarters. Here, on the north side, were the carriage house, stables, and ice cellar. He came to the passage end and hesitated near a door identified as the north privy.
Good placement, he thought. Ground level, outside the walls, private.
He found his cellphone and hit SEND for the message he’d prepared earlier.
READY FOR PICKUP. NORTH SIDE.
That had been the plan.
If anything had changed, so would have the message.
He’d known from the start that getting into Monticello would be easy. Getting out? An entirely different matter. That was why he’d accepted help from Andrea Carbonell.
He fled the north dependency and crossed the asphalt road. His location, on the far side from the main entrance, among trees and shrubs, provided ample cover. A check on Google Maps earlier had revealed an open field about a hundred yards northeast of the house.
A perfect landing spot.
He heard three shots from inside the house and smiled.
With any luck, the woman would shoot Malone for him.
CASSIOPEIA KNEW SOMEONE WAS IN THE NEXT ROOM. SHE’D caught movement before her barrage, but had not seen any other disturbances through the fog. She was still concerned about Cotton.
Where was he?
Who had shot at her?
A hallway opened to her right where les
s smoke had collected. She spotted the base of a stairway.
Whoever was in the next room knew she was here.
But they were lying low. Waiting.
For her.
MALONE AIMED AT THE BLACK SMUDGE DRIFTING ACROSS THE smoke.
Just a few more feet and he’d have a clean shot. He didn’t want to miss. He’d tried to draw Wyatt in upstairs. That effort failed.
Now he had him.
He held his breath, finger tightened on the trigger.
One.
Two.
CASSIOPEIA HAD ADVANCED TOO FAR.
She was exposed, and knew it.
She darted right, used the hallway for protection, then called out, “Cotton, where are you?”
MALONE EXHALED.
He lowered his gun.
“In here,” he said.
“Better for you to come out here,” she called out.
He came to his feet and stepped from the parlor. Cassiopeia appeared from the smoke to his left.
“That was close,” he said.
He saw in her eyes that she agreed.
“What happened in here?”
“I found the source of all our trouble.”
A new sound invaded the silence. A low rhythmic thump of deep bass tones beating air. Approaching.
Helicopter.
WYATT CRADLED THE WHEEL IN HIS ARMS, CAREFUL NOT TO damage it. A couple of glances back and he saw no one following him. He disappeared into the trees and eased down an incline toward the field.
A chopper swooped in from the west, clearing the trees lining the field, and settled on the grass.
He jumped in the open cabin door.
MALONE AND CASSIOPEIA STEPPED OUTSIDE ONTO THE EAST portico and saw a helicopter landing about a quarter mile away.
Way too far to do anything about it.
After only a minute below the trees, the rotors’ thump increased and the chopper climbed back into the morning sky, heading west.