The Jefferson Key

5:00 AM

WYATT ADMIRED THE CONDOMINIUM. ROOMY, STYLISH, PRICEY. He’d easily gained entry, the door secured by a simple lock. No alarm, no dog, no lights. It was located outside the Beltway in an upscale area replete with trendy stores and upscale eateries, the attractive complex iron-gated. He assumed a remote-controlled entry made for a good selling point to potential tenants who liked the status of having their guests wait for the bars to open. His own condominium in Florida came with gate and guard, which cost him and several thousand others a few hundred dollars a month in assessments.

But it was worth it. Kept the riffraff out.

He studied the decor, an odd mixture of minimalist style and Caribbean influences from onyx, wrought iron, and terra-cotta. Dim light leaking past the windows revealed a vibrant mixture of color and tone. He found a CD stack and noted a theme-mostly mambo, salsa, and Latin jazz. None of it his taste, but he could see how it would suit the condo’s owner.

Andrea Carbonell.

He’d called on longtime sources and learned where she lived. Unlike most of her colleagues, she resided beyond the DC limits and was ferried to and from work each day in a government car with driver. That same source had also told him that Carbonell was aboard an NIA helicopter that would land at Dulles in thirty minutes. She’d already informed her office that she would not be at her desk until eight AM. He hoped that meant she planned to come home for a quick stop. She’d been out all night, traveling somewhere south after she’d dropped him in Maryland. For someone so careful about her thoughts and plans, he wondered about her carelessness when it came to her schedule. He also wondered about the attack in Maryland. Did Carbonell already know that Dr. Gary Voccio was dead? No doubt.

All yesterday she’d stayed a step ahead of him.

Today was his turn.

He noticed nothing personal or intimate on display anywhere. No photographs, keepsakes, nothing. She apparently had no husband, boyfriend, children, girlfriend, pet.

But who was he to talk?

He possessed none of those, either. He lived alone, always had. There hadn’t been a woman in years. Several prospects-divorced, widowed, or still married-had expressed an interest, but he’d never reciprocated. Simply the thought of sharing himself, in return for the other person offering up their vulnerabilities, turned his stomach. He preferred solitude, and the quiet that now enveloped him.

But a sound intruded.

His gaze shot toward the front door.

A scraping.

Not of a key entering the lock, but of someone working the mechanism.

As he’d just done.

He found his gun and retreated into one of the bedrooms, positioning himself so that he could spy around the jamb.

The front door slowly opened and a dark formed stepped inside.

Male. About Wyatt’s height and build, wearing black clothing, moving in silent steps.

Apparently, he was not the only one interested in Carbonell.

KNOX DETOURED TO HIS HOUSE FOR A SHOWER AND CHANGE OF clothes. His wife greeted him with her usual cheerfulness, not asking a thing about where he’d been or what he’d done. That was made clear long ago. His work for the Commonwealth was confidential. Of course, she believed the reasons for that involved legitimate corporate concerns and trade secrets. Not presidential assassinations, kidnappings, murder, and a variety of other lesser felonies he committed on an almost daily basis. She knew only that her husband loved her, their children were provided for, and they were happy. The secrecy of his life had afforded him countless opportunities to do as he pleased. He’d learned from his father, who’d also been a quartermaster, that with risk came reward.

Is it unfair to your mother, his father had said, that I have other women? Damn right it is. But I’m the one out there, not her. I’ll go to prison, if caught. Not her. Always, in the end, I come home to her. I provide for her. I’ll grow old with her. But while I can, I’m entitled to live as I please.

He hadn’t understood that selfish attitude until his turn came and he witnessed the demands of the job firsthand. Two hundred fourteen men made up the current company, spread among the four families. He served at their pleasure and they counted on him. But the four captains also demanded that he safeguard their interests. And though the captains could not fire him, they could make his life an utter hell.

Fail either and the penalty was severe.

A good quartermaster came to understand that balance. And yes, an occasional roll in the sack here and there with women he encountered might relieve the stress. But he’d never succumbed. He loved his wife and his family. Cheating on either was not an option. His father had not been right about everything. Not on married life-nor the Commonwealth. Things had changed since his father’s time, and he often wondered what that man would have done if faced with the current challenges. The captains fought among themselves with a rising intensity, one that was threatening the company’s existence. The long-standing ties that bound them together seemed ready to snap. Even so, he’d made a horrible mistake becoming entangled with Andrea Carbonell. Thank God the traitor she’d pointed him toward had implicated himself beyond question. In a strange way, he could sympathize with that doomed soul.

Trapped. Nowhere to go.

At the mercy of others.

“You look tired,” his wife said to him from the bathroom door.

He was about to shower and shave. “Long night.”

“We can go to the beach next weekend and rest.”

They had a cottage near Cape Hatteras, which he’d inherited from his father.

“That sounds great,” he said. “You and me. Next weekend.”

She smiled and hugged him from behind.

He studied her face in the mirror.

They’d been together twenty-five years, marrying young and raising three children. She was his best friend. Unfortunately, a huge part of his life remained a mystery to her. Where his father had kept secrets and cheated, he only kept secrets. He wondered what she’d do if she knew what he really did.

That he killed people.

“The weather should be great,” she said. “Nice and cool.”

He turned and kissed her, then said, “I love you.”

She smiled. “That’s always nice to hear. I love you, too.”

“I wish I didn’t have to go back to the estate.” He saw she registered what he meant.

“How about tonight?”

He smiled at the prospect. “You’ve got a date.”

She kissed him again, then left him alone.

His thoughts returned to the problem.

He needed the matter of the traitor ended. The captains’ fears must be eased. Nothing could point his way. He now knew why Carbonell had allowed him to kill Scott Parrott. Why not? Sure, it helped him with the captains, doing what they expected, but Parrott’s death also eliminated the only other person at NIA he’d ever dealt with.

Making him totally dependent on her.

Not good.

He steadied himself.

Two more hours and he should be in the clear.

WYATT WATCHED THE NEWCOMER. THE BURGLAR HAD MADE no search, apparently aware that the condo would be empty. He’d toted in a dark bundle, laying the bag on the floor and quickly emptying its contents. A chair from the dining area was brought close to the front door. What looked like a gun was attached with clamps to its back, the legs braced with the couch that was slid into position. He then installed screw eyes in the ceiling, the jamb, and the door itself, threading string from the gun’s trigger, through each one, to the knob.

He realized what was being created.

A spring gun.

Once used to protect property in remote locations. Rigged to a door or window so anyone who broke inside would be shot. They’d been illegal for decades. A bit old-fashioned and out of date.

But effective.

The man finished his work, testing the string’s tautness, then he carefully opened the door and slipped out.

He wondered.

Who else’s patience had run out?