He explained about Stephanie’s email, the key card waiting for him at the St. Regis, and what he found. Cassiopeia was handed the note from the envelope, which she read.
Daniels motioned to Davis, who produced a pocket tape recorder and slid it across the table.
“This is a recording of secured radio traffic, after the shooting, while you were trying to get out of the Hyatt,” Davis said.
Daniels activated the unit.
Alert to all agents. Suspect is wearing pale blue buttondown shirt, light trousers, no jacket at this time, presently exiting Grand Hyatt hotel from main lobby into tunnel that accesses Grand Central Terminal. I’m headed in that direction.
The president stopped the machine.
“There’s no way anyone could have known that,” Malone said.
“None of our agents posted that alert,” Davis said. “And as you know, those frequencies are not available to the general public.”
“You recognize the voice?” Daniels asked.
“Hard to say. The static and the radio mask a lot. But there is something familiar about it.”
“Seems you have an admirer,” Cassiopeia said.
“And you were set up,” Daniels made clear. “Just like we were.”
WYATT WAS DRIVEN PAST COLUMBUS CIRCLE TO MANHATTAN’S Upper West Side, an area less commercial, less congested, and loaded with quaint shops and brick-faced apartments. He was escorted to the second floor of one of the many brick buildings and into a spacious dwelling, sparsely decorated, wooden blinds covering the windows. He assumed it was some sort of safe house.
Two men waited for him.
Both deputy directors-one for the CIA, the other NSA. The National Security Agency face he knew, the other he simply recognized. Neither man seemed glad to see him. He was left alone with them, as the two who brought him waited outside in the elevator foyer.
“You want to tell us what you were doing today?” CIA asked. “How you happened to be at the Grand Hyatt?”
He hated anything and everything related to CIA. He’d only worked for them, on occasion, because they paid well.
“Who says I was there?”
CIA was antsy, pacing the room. “Don’t screw with us, Wyatt. You were there. Why?”
Interesting that these two clearly knew at least some of his business.
“You responsible for Malone showing up?” NSA asked.
“Why would you think that?”
CIA produced a pocket tape recorder and flicked it on. He heard his voice, over the radio, informing the Secret Service about Malone heading for Grand Central Station.
“I’ll ask you again. Was Malone your idea?”
“Seems it was fortunate he was there.”
“And what if he’d failed to stop things?” NSA asked.
He gave them the same response he’d provided Carbonell. “He didn’t.” And he wasn’t about to explain anything more to these idiots. But he was curious. “Why didn’t you stop things? You were obviously there.”
“We didn’t know spit,” CIA hollered back. “We’ve been playing catch-up all day.”
He shrugged. “Seems you caught up.”
“You cocksure SOB,” CIA said, his voice still loud. “You and Carbonell are interfering in our business. You’re both trying to save that stinking Commonwealth.”
“You’re confusing me with someone else.”
He’d decided to take Carbonell’s advice and play golf tomorrow. He’d actually come to enjoy the game, and the course inside his gated community was spectacular.
“We know all about you and Malone,” NSA spit out.
This man was a degree calmer than CIA, but still anxious. Wyatt knew NSA represented billions in the annual intelligence budget. They were into everything, including the covert monitoring of nearly every overseas phone call made to and from the United States.
“Malone was the chief witness against you at your admin hearing,” NSA said. “You coldcocked him so you could order three men into a shoot-out. Two of whom died. Malone brought charges against you. What was the finding? Unnecessary risks taken in disregard of life. You were sectioned out. A twenty-year career gone. No pension. Nothing. I’d say you owe Cotton Malone.”
CIA pointed a finger at him. “What did Carbonell do, hire you to help out with the Commonwealth? To try and save their hides?”
He knew little about the Commonwealth besides the meager information contained in the dossier she’d provided, all of which related to the assassination attempt, little in the way of broad background. He’d been briefed about Clifford Knox, the organization’s quartermaster, who would be directing the threat on Daniels’ life. He’d watched as Knox moved about the Grand Hyatt the past few days, preparing the guns, waiting for him to leave so that he could inspect their handiwork and leave Malone the note.
“Are those pirates the ones who tried to kill Daniels?” NSA asked. “You know who planted those guns, don’t you?”
Since he doubted the trail of those automatic weapons led anywhere past the Grand Hyatt, he was not about to become their chief accuser. His immediate problem, though, was even more substantial. Obviously, he’d managed to insert himself into some sort of spy civil war. CIA and NSA apparently were at odds with NIA, and the Commonwealth was at the center of the dispute. Nothing new. Intelligence agencies rarely cooperated with one another.
Still, this feud felt different.
More personal.
And that concerned him.
SEVENTEEN
HALE ENTERED HIS HOUSE, STILL SEETHING FROM STEPHANIE Nelle’s insult. Just the latest example of America’s continued ingratitude. All that the Commonwealth had done for the country, during and since the American Revolution, and he got spit on.
He stopped in the foyer at the base of the main staircase and gathered his thoughts. Outside, his secretary had told him the other three captains were there. He had to handle them carefully. He stared up at one of the canvases that dotted the oak-paneled walls-his great-great-grandfather, who’d lived on this same land and attacked a president, too.
Abner Hale.
But surviving had been a lot easier in the mid-19th century, as the world was a much larger place. You could actually disappear. He’d often imagined what it would have been like to sail the oceans back then, going about, as one chronicler had written, like roaring lions seeking whom you might devour. An unpredictable life on a rolling sea, no home, no bounds, few rules save for those all aboard had agreed upon in the articles.
He sucked a few deep breaths, straightened his clothes, then walked down the corridor, entering his library, a spacious rectangle with a vaulted ceiling and a wall of windows framing a view of the orchards. He’d remodeled the room a decade ago, removing most of his father’s influences and purposefully evoking the mood of an English country estate.
He closed the library doors and faced three men seated in tufted, burgundy velvet chairs.
Charles Cogburn, Edward Bolton, and John Surcouf.
Each was lean, two wore mustaches, all bore sun-squinted eyes. They were men of the sea, like him, signers
