The Jefferson Key

TWELVE

MALONE WAITED WITH EDWIN DAVIS INSIDE AIR FORCE ONE and watched the spectacle below. The press had been allowed onto the asphalt and were now crowded ten-deep behind a hastily erected rope barricade, cameras pointed toward a crop of microphones that sprouted before Danny Daniels. The president stood tall, his baritone voice booming to the world.

“What did he mean that we have a problem?” Malone asked Davis.

“The past few months have actually been a little boring. The last year or so of a president’s second term is like the last few months of a pope’s life. Everybody’s waiting for the old guy to exit so the new guys can take over.” Davis pointed at the press. “Now there’s something to report.”

They crowded close to one of the plane’s windows, out of sight. A television to their right displayed what was being broadcast by CNN, the volume just high enough for Malone to hear Daniels reassure everyone that he was unhurt.

“You’re not answering the question.”

Davis pointed out the window. “He asked me to hold any explanations until he was finished.”

“You always do as he says?”

“Hardly. As you well know.”

Malone turned toward the monitor and heard Daniels proclaim, “Let me say emphatically that I think the Secret Service and the law enforcement agents of New York City did a superb job, and I want to thank them for everything they did during this unfortunate incident. This was to be a personal trip to honor an old friend. This incident, under no circumstances, will prevent me from traveling throughout America and the world. It is regrettable that individuals still think murder or assassination is a way to effect change.”

“Mr. President,” one of the reporters shouted, “can you give us an idea what you saw or felt at the time?”

“I’m not sure that I ought to describe what I saw beyond the fact that the window shattered and a metal device appeared. I then saw the quick and effective actions taken by the Secret Service.”

“Your own thoughts, sir?”

“I was thankful to the Secret Service for doing a superb job.”

“You used the word individuals a moment ago when referring to the assassination attempt. Who do you mean by that in the plural?”

“Do any of you believe that one person manufactured all that hardware?”

“Do you have specific individuals in mind?”

“That will be the focus of an intense investigation, which is starting as we speak.”

Davis pointed at the flat screen. “He has to be careful. Just enough to send a message.”

“What the hell is going on?” he asked.

Davis did not answer. This punctilious man, with a knife-edge press to his trousers, simply stared at the television screen as Daniels retreated from the microphones and his press secretary fielded more questions. The president climbed the stairs back into the plane, camera lens following. In a few moments he would reenter through the door a few feet away.

“It’s Stephanie,” Davis whispered. “She’s the one who needs our help.”

CASSIOPEIA SAT IN THE REAR SEAT OF AN SUV, ONE AGENT BESIDE her, two more up front. They’d allowed her to dress, then to pack both her and Cotton’s belongings, bringing everything with them.

Apparently, they were going somewhere.

They’d left the St. Regis quietly and driven unescorted out of Manhattan, across the East River into Queens. No one had said a word, and she hadn’t asked anything.

No need.

The car radio told the story.

Someone had tried to assassinate Danny Daniels, and the president had just appeared before the press to assure everyone that he’d escaped unharmed. Cotton was somehow involved, and she wondered if this was what Stephanie Nelle had wanted to see him about.

Stephanie and Cotton were close-friends for fifteen years. He’d worked for her a dozen of those years at the Magellan Billet, a covert intelligence unit within the U.S. Justice Department. Cotton had been a navy commander, trained as both a pilot and a lawyer, personally recruited by Stephanie. While there, he’d handled some of her most sensitive assignments until retiring early three years ago. That’s when he’d moved to Copenhagen and opened an old-book shop.

She hoped Cotton was okay.

They’d both thought the email from Stephanie strange but ignored the warning signs. A weekend in New York had simply sounded like fun. Unfortunately, she wasn’t wearing her black Armani in a crowded theater. Instead she was in federal custody being driven who knew where.

Her long dark hair was still damp, curling as it dried. She wore no makeup, but rarely did anyway. She’d chosen a smart ensemble of brown leather trousers, a camel-colored cashmere shirt, and a double-breasted camel-hair blazer. Vanity had never been a weakness, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t conscious of her appearance.

“Sorry about the kick,” she said to the agent sitting beside her. He’d been the one to first rush into the apartment.

He acknowledged the apology with a nod but kept his thoughts to himself. She realized prisoners rarely had luggage brought with them to jail. Apparently, after her identity had been discovered, new instructions had been provided.

Up ahead she spotted the grand expanse of John F. Kennedy International Airport. They motored through an open gate and she caught sight of Air Force One parked on the tarmac. A swarm of people were being led away from the plane.

“We’ll wait until the press clears,” the agent in the front seat said.

“Then what?” she asked.

“You’re going on board.”