“You’re the one who killed that guy on the boat. He was a threat to you. Not me, or any of the others. I betrayed you, not them.”
“Is this what you wanted to say to me?”
He caught the hard look of disgust on the man’s face. “I wanted you to know that I didn’t know a damn thing about any assassination attempt. The first I heard about it was on television, after it happened. Yeah, I worked on the gun in the metal shop and recognized it when I saw it on the news. But we weren’t told a thing about when, or where, it was going to be used. I had no clue, and I didn’t say a word about it to the NIA.”
“You’re a liar and a traitor. Not to be believed.”
The man shrugged. “Suit yourself. But just know that there are two traitors in your precious company, and one of them is still out there.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Two reasons. One, like I said, I never betrayed my friends and they need to know that there’s a spy among them. And two, since there’s no way I’m going to get of here, when it comes time for me to die, I hope you’ll at least be merciful.”
FORTY
MALONE ENTERED THE ELEVATOR. CASSIOPEIA HAD RECONNOITERED The Jefferson’s ground floor, noting that three Richmond city police cars guarded the main entrance, but the second exit that opened onto West Main Street at the south end of the lobby was unguarded. She’d reported by cellphone that this seemed a local operation, which meant he would learn nothing by hanging around. He’d hoped some of the principals would reveal themselves. Knowing the solution to Jefferson’s cipher gave him bargaining power, and he’d wanted an opportunity to use it. Since that was not going to be the case, what waited at Monticello now seemed more promising.
Unfortunately, there was the matter of the police.
Cassiopeia had descended three long flights of carpeted stairs into a faux-marble hall, then walked a hundred feet to glass doors at the south end of the lobby. They were locked and the hostess in a nearby restaurant explained that the doors were not opened until nine each day. Apparently the police had decided the locked doors were enough protection, and controlling the upper lobby, the stairwells, and the main exit would be their play. Since he hadn’t registered using his real name, searching every room was impractical. Easier to simply wait for him to walk off the elevator and into their arms.
But they’d never met Cassiopeia Vitt.
She’d told him her escape plan over the phone. He’d shook his head, then said, Okay. Why not?
The elevator door opened.
He stepped off, turned left, and walked toward the main desk, intending on making another left and descending the stairs to the lower level. He realized he’d never get that far and, just as predicted, three uniformed officers appeared from his right and yelled for him to stop.
He did.
“Cotton Malone,” the lead officer said, who appeared to be a captain. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”
“I know I have a lot of unpaid parking tickets. I tear ’em up. I shouldn’t, but-”
“Put your hands behind your back,” a second officer ordered.
CASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS THE ATTENDANT ROARED UP ON THE motorcycle. The Honda NT700V came with a liquid-cooled, 680cc, V-twin, eight-valve engine that packed a kick, and the young man seemed to enjoy the jaunt from the parking lot. He climbed off, leaving the engine running, holding the two-hundred-plus-kilo gram machine steady while she climbed on.
She handed him a fifty-dollar bill.
He nodded in appreciation.
Two police cars were parked beyond the porte cochere, ahead of her, another positioned behind her, all with drivers inside. She’d caught the officer at her flank giving her ass the once-over, her tight jeans doing their duty.
“I need you to do something for me,” she said to the attendant.
“Name it.”
She pointed to one of the entrances that led into the lobby. “Could you hold that glass door open for me?”
MALONE TURNED AND COMPLIED WITH THE OFFICER’S COMMAND. The important thing was to keep the guns in holsters and, so far, none of them had drawn a weapon.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
“You’re a person of interest,” the first cop said as he gripped Malone’s wrists. “The feds want to talk to you.”
“Why aren’t they here?” he asked.
The grip on his wrists tightened.
“Cotton,” one of the other cops said. “Where’d you get a name like that?”
The growl of a motorcycle grew louder as a glass door opened fifty feet to his left.
“Long story,” he said, spotting Cassiopeia, outside, astride the motorcycle.
He smiled.
You had to love her.
CASSIOPEIA REVVED THE SIXTY-FIVE-HORSEPOWER ENGINE AND noticed in her rearview mirror that the policeman behind remained more concerned with her ass than where she might be going. Clearly he hadn’t paid the attendant, standing ten meters away holding the door open, any attention.
She yanked the handlebars to the right, popped the clutch into first, and strained the engine. Tires spinning, she swung right, straightened out, and sped through the open doorway into the lobby.
KNOX STOOD BEFORE THE COMPANY, WHICH HAD ASSEMBLED in the yard before the jail at precisely seven AM. Two hundred and four of the 214 were present, the absentees excused only because they were out of town. One rule was clear. A call to assemble could not be ignored.
Since none of the three Hale children was on the estate, the gathering could be held in private. The front gates were locked, video-monitored by staff in the security building who were witnessing punishment electronically. This was sacred ground. Where the company had gathered since the Commonwealth’s formation. For 250 years, thousands of men had stood and listened to pronouncements, buried captains, elected quartermasters, or, as today, bore witness to punishment.
He’d personally supervised the prisoner’s preparation, making sure the hands were bound and the mouth gagged. He did not want any outbursts or speeches. This matter had to end here and now.
But he’d been troubled by what the jailer had reported. The prisoner had requested to speak privately with Hale and the captain had obliged, spending a few minutes alone with the man.
Disturbing. No question.
His gaze focused on the four captains, clustered at the far end of the yard. The prisoner was tied to a pine stake in the center, the company assembled at the other end.
He stepped forward.
“This man has been tried and convicted of treason. Punishment was proclaimed to be death.”
He allowed those words to take hold. The whole idea of discipline was for it to be memorable.
He faced the captains. “What say you as to the method?”
In centuries past there were options. Shackled and chained, then locked away with no food or water? That took days. Dangled from a mast until exposure and starvation proved fatal? Faster. Flogging with a cat-o’-nine-tails? Even quicker since the knotted leather strips killed in a matter of minutes.
Today, options existed, too.
Hanging. Shooting. Drowning.
