“How about I answer that question after we see how successful your quartermaster will be.”
“All right. We’ll wait. That shouldn’t be but a few hours from now. Then I will want an answer to my question.”
“I’m assuming, Quentin, that once you have those two missing pages and your letters of marque are fortified, you will handle that other matter we discussed.”
Killing Stephanie Nelle.
“You can’t release her,” she said.
No, he couldn’t. But two could play her game.
“How about I answer that question after you answer mine.”
WYATT WAS GROWING IMPATIENT. RAIN BLANKETED THE Boston airport, and the gate attendant had informed everyone that the weather should pass within the next hour and flights would resume shortly after that. That meant it would be close to nightfall before he reached the island.
No matter. Whatever was there had waited 175 years, another few hours would not be a problem.
His cellphone vibrated in his pocket. He’d switched the unit back on once he was inside the terminal. It was a prepaid disposable bought yesterday in New York. Only one person had the number.
“I understand the weather is awful,” Carbonell said.
“Bad enough.”
“I just came from the White House. The president knows all about you.”
No surprise there, once Malone had spotted him.
“Lucky for me I’m leaving under another name,” he said in a low voice, huddled across the concourse at an empty gate.
“CIA, NSA-none of them knows a thing,” she said. “Malone erased his copy of the solution off his email and his Danish server doesn’t keep backups. But Malone doesn’t have the cipher wheel.”
“You gluing it back together?”
“Why do I have to? I have you.”
“And the point of this call?”
“I thought you’d like to know where you stand, considering your weather problem. Though the White House is investigating, you still have an open-field run to the goal line.”
Like he believed her. Nothing was ever that easy.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Be successful.”
And he ended the call.
FIFTY-EIGHT
4:10 PM
MALONE DROVE INTO THE TOWN OF MAHONE BAY-FOUNDED, the sign welcoming him proclaimed, in 1754. It nestled close to the inlet of the same name, crisscrossed by winding streets and lined with Victorian-era architecture. Three towering church spires kept watch. Yachts and sailboats rimmed the waterfront. A late- afternoon sun cast weak rays of smoky light through refreshingly cool air.
Before landing a few miles south of town, they’d overflown and he’d studied the island-strewn bay. They’d found Paw Island and reconnoitered it from the air, a mass of dark rock, tumbled grass, oaks, and spruce. Limestone cliffs dominated the shore that supported the ruined fort. He’d noted several places to beach a boat on the south shore and also saw the birds. Thousands of them scattered across the decaying walls, on the cliffs, in trees. Gannets, kittiwakes, gulls, terns, and murres massed so thick they obscured the ground in places.
He parked near a cluster of shops, art galleries, and cafes. Though it was late on a Sunday afternoon, he was glad to see that most of the businesses remained open. A bakery drew his attention and he told himself to pay it and a nearby fruit market a visit before heading out. Food would be good. He had no idea how long he’d be on the island.
Buildings backed to the bay above boulders that protected the shore from a restless tide. Kayaks, motorboats, and sailboats were all available for hire, and he decided that a fast and sturdy powerboat would do the trick. Paw Island was about six miles away by water.
Some local knowledge could also help.
So he decided to make a few inquires about the fort before heading for the island.
CASSIOPEIA STUFFED HER DIRTY CLOTHES INTO THE SHOULDER bag. She’d packed light for the New York weekend, bringing only a few items. Davis had offered her use of what he called the Blue Bedroom on the White House’s second floor. It came with its own bath, so she’d been able to shower. While she bathed and rested-a lack of sleep had caught up with her-the staff had laundered her clothes. There was no rush to head back to Fredericksburg. Shirley Kaiser would not be home for another four hours. They’d told Kaiser to do nothing out of the ordinary. Stay as long as usual. Be herself.
A light knock drew her across the room.
She opened the door to see Danny Daniels standing outside.
Her guard immediately went up.
“I need to speak with you,” he said in a soft voice.
He came in and sat on one of the twin beds. “I’ve always liked this room. Mary Lincoln lay in shock here following ol’ Abe’s assassination. She refused to enter their bedroom down the hall. Reagan used it as a gym. Other presidents had their small children live here.”
She waited for what he wanted.
“My wife betrayed me, didn’t she?”
She wondered about the question. “In what way?”
“I listened to Edwin when he told me what happened with Shirley. He’s convinced that Pauline’s motives were innocent.” The president paused. “But I wonder.”
She had no idea how to respond to that comment.
“Edwin told you about Mary?”
She nodded.
“I asked him to do that. I don’t speak of her. I can’t. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Why are telling me this?”
“Because I can’t tell anyone else.”
“You should tell your wife.”
Daniels’ eyes seemed distant. “I’m afraid there’s little left to say between us. Our time has come and gone.”
“Do you love her?”
“Not anymore.”
The admission shocked her.
“I haven’t in a long time. It’s not malice, or hate, or anger. Just nothing.”
His mellow tone unnerved her. She was accustomed to the booming voice.
“Does she know?”
“How could she not?”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked again.
“Because the one other person I could speak to about this is in trouble and needs your help.”
“Stephanie?”
Daniels nodded. “Last Christmas, with all that happened with Cotton’s father, she and I began to talk. She’s
