MALONE WAS BECOMING IMPATIENT. THE COMMENT ABOUT Stephanie Nelle being in trouble concerned him. And he hadn’t missed what the president had first said.
I read that note supposedly from Stephanie.
Stephanie was not only his former boss, she was his close friend. Twelve years they’d worked together. When he’d retired out early, she’d tried to talk him out of it. Ultimately, she’d understood and wished him well. But over the past three years they’d come to each other’s aid more than once. He could count on her, and she on him.
Which was the sole reason why he’d responded to her email.
The president reentered the plane and marched toward where he and Davis stood. They followed Daniels into the conference room. The cabin remained empty. Three LCD screens displayed images from Fox, CNN, and a local New York station of the 747’s exterior as the press was being herded away. Daniels removed his suit jacket and yanked loose his tie, unbuttoning the collar.
“Have a seat, Cotton.”
“I’d rather you tell me what’s going on.”
Daniels sighed. “That could be a tall order.”
Davis sat in one of the chairs.
Malone decided to sit and listen to what they had to say.
“The planet should now be at ease knowing that the leader of the free world is still alive,” Daniels said, the sarcasm clear.
“It had to be done,” Davis made clear.
Daniels dropped himself into a chair. He was in the final sixteen months of his presidency, and Malone wondered what this man would do when he no longer occupied the head of the table. Being an ex-president had to be tough. One day the weight of the world rested on your shoulders. Then, at noon on the 20th day of January, nobody gave a rat’s ass if you were even alive.
Daniels rubbed his eyes and cheeks. “The other day I was thinking about a story somebody once told me. Two bulls were sitting atop a hill, staring down at a mess of pretty cows. The young one said, ‘I’m going to run down there and have me one of those beauties.’ The old bull didn’t take the bait. He just stood there. The young bull egged him on, questioning his ability to perform, saying again, ‘Let’s run on down there and have us one of ’em.’ Finally the old bull cocked his head and told his young friend, ‘How about we just walk down there and have ’em all?’ ”
Malone smiled. He could empathize with that young cow.
On the television screens a fuzzy, distant image of the plane and two cars approaching the stairway leading up inside could be seen. Three agents stepped out of the cars wearing FBI jackets like the one he still had on, along with caps.
One of them climbed the stairs.
He’d sensed they were waiting for something but, thinking about the story and its metaphor, he wanted to know, “Who are you planning on sticking it to?”
The president pointed a finger at him and Davis. “You two get reacquainted?”
“Like family,” Malone said. “I feel the love. Do you, Edwin?”
Davis shook his head. “Believe us, Cotton. We wish this wasn’t happening.”
The conference room door opened and Cassiopeia stepped inside. She removed a navy jacket and cap, exposing damp, dark hair.
She looked great, as always.
“It’s not exactly dinner and a show,” he said. “But it is Air Force One.”
She smiled. “Never a dull moment.”
“Now that the gang’s all here,” Daniels said. “We can get down to business.”
“And what might that be?” Cassiopeia asked.
“It’s so good to see you again, too,” the president said to her.
Malone knew Cassiopeia had worked with Daniels before-on something she and Stephanie had teamed up on. The two women were close friends. Their connection stretched as far back as Stephanie’s late husband, Lars. So she, too, would be concerned that Stephanie was in trouble.
Cassiopeia shrugged. “I don’t know how good it is. I’m accused of trying to kill you. Since you’re obviously not dead, why are we here?”
Daniels’ face turned hard. “It’s not good. Not good at all.”
FIFTEEN
HALE STEPPED FROM ADVENTURE AND MARCHED DOWN THE dock. The crew was busy securing the sloop to the end of the two-hundred-foot expanse. The late-summer sun faded to the west, the air acquiring a familiar chill. All the land along the river, nearly twenty square miles, belonged to the Commonwealth-the tracts allocated centuries ago among the four families, the riverbank divided equally. Bath lay a couple of miles east, now a sleepy village of 267 residents-mostly weekend homes and river cottages-none of its former glory remaining. The Hales’ quarter of the estate had always been meticulously maintained. Four houses dotted the surrounding woods, one for each of the Hale children and one for himself. He lived here most of the time, occupying apartments in New York, London, Paris, and Hong Kong only when necessary. The other clans were the same. It had been that way since 1793, when the Commonwealth formed.
An electric cart awaited him and he drove through groves of oak, pine, and cypress to his home, a mansion erected in 1883 in Queen Anne style, flush with irregular forms and dramatic rooflines. Balconies and porches wrapped each of its three levels, opening off twenty-two rooms. Warmth and character sprang from olive walls, shingles mixed in pale red and gray slate, glittering diamond-paned windows, and mahogany-stained doors. Its elaborate woodwork had been crafted in Philadelphia, then shipped south and hauled from the river by oxcart.
His ancestors had certainly known how to live. They’d built an empire, then passed it down to their children. Which made his current predicament even more compelling.
He was not going to be the last in a long line.
He stopped the cart and surveyed the grounds.
The grove beyond was quiet as a church, dotted with shadows, the dwindling open patches whitened by the setting sun. Crew kept the estate in superb working order. What was once a hip-roofed dairy had been remodeled into a workshop. The old smokehouse contained a communications and security center. The privies were long gone, but the saddle-notched log barns remained, each housing farming equipment. He was particularly proud of the grape arbors, his scuppernongs some of the state’s sweetest. He wondered if any of his children were back on the property. They were all grown and married, but none, as yet, with children of their own. They worked in the legitimate family enterprises, aware of their heritage but ignorant of his responsibilities. That had always been kept between father and the singular chosen offspring. To this day his sister and brother knew nothing of the Commonwealth. The time was coming when he’d have to choose his successor and start the grooming process, just as his father had done with him.
He imagined what was happening a mile away as the other three captains, heads of their respective families, responded to his summons. He told himself to control his temper. In 1835 Hales had acted unilaterally to the detriment of the others. Now it was the other way around.
He depressed the accelerator and drove on.
The gravel road paralleled one of his most productive soybean fields, the thick woods on the opposite side loaded with deer. The deep alto of a blackbird, singing the last strophes of a ballad, could be heard in the distance. His life had always been about the outdoors. Hales first came to America from England in 1700, on a voyage across the Atlantic that took so long the pet rabbits had bred three times.
He’d always liked how that first Hale had been described.
A vigorous, intelligent man of wit and charm and diverse abilities.
