She’d thought about the call to Quentin Hale on the ride down. The conversation had to be subtle and clever, telegraphing just enough for Hale to know that the White House may indeed have what he sought.
The Secret Service had taken a room here earlier, about three kilometers from Kaiser’s residence, where they could remotely monitor the TV camera that had been installed inside one of the second-floor bedrooms, facing the garage.
She knocked and was allowed inside.
Two agents were on duty, one male, the other female.
“Kaiser left about three hours ago,” the female agent said. “She took a small case and a garment bag with her.”
They knew Kaiser was due at some sort of fund-raising event in Richmond. No tail or escort had been provided. Better to do nothing that might alert Hale. A big enough risk had been taken installing the camera, but they had to ensure that the sight remained under surveillance. A small LCD screen displayed, from an elevated angle, Kaiser’s garage and the hedgerow that guarded its outer wall. Sunlight was fading and she watched as the male agent switched the camera over to night vision, the image transforming to a greenish hue, still displaying the building and hedge line.
Cassiopeia would pay Kaiser an innocent woman-to-woman visit when she returned home that should draw no attention. Her talk with Danny Daniels still disturbed her. Clearly, the Daniels’ marriage was over and the president had spoken of Stephanie in an odd way. She wondered what had transpired between them. Easy to see how he might find solace with her. Stephanie’s life also had been marred by tragedy-the suicide of her husband, the disappearance of her son, an eventual coming to grips with harsh past realities.
Interesting how presidents were people, too. They had wants, needs, and fears, just like everyone else. They carried emotional baggage and, worse, were forced to conceal it.
Unfortunately for Danny and Pauline Daniels, their baggage had been revealed through careless comments and misplaced trust.
“Look there,” the female agent said, pointing to the screen.
Her mind refocused on the moment.
Two men could be seen near Shirley Kaiser’s garage, studying the surroundings, slipping into the space between the hedge and the building.
“Seems we have visitors,” the male agent said. “I’ll call for backup.”
“No,” Cassiopeia said.
“That’s not procedure,” he said to her.
“Which seems to be standard for this entire operation.” She pointed to the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Jessica.”
“Me and you. We’ll handle it.”
SIXTY-ONE
WYATT STROKED THE BLACKENED STONES AND VISUALIZED men-at-arms clambering to the walls, cannons readied for firing. He could hear bells tolling and smell fish turning on a spit. Life on this lonely outpost 230 years ago would have been tough. Easy to see how seventy-four men could have lost their lives.
He noticed a staircase that right-angled upward.
Higher ground would be good, so he climbed the steep steps and entered what had once been a large hall. Windows ran the length of each side, the grilles and glass long gone. No ceiling existed, the room exposed to the elements, a wall walk wrapping the outer curtain high above. Puddles of stagnant water nourished brown grass that grew like stubble. The air remained clotted with the stench of birds, many of which flitted around.
His gaze was drawn to the fireplace and he wove a path around loose blocks. The hearth would hold half a dozen men standing side by side. He noticed places where planks covered the stone floor, some milled and clearly of a more recent vintage, others rotting and dangerous.
Beyond a darkened passageway, he spied another room. He negotiated a short hall and entered that empty space. A second staircase led up. Probably to the walk he’d spotted encircling the battlements.
Something to his right, near a pile of grass-infected rubble, caught his attention.
Smears on the rock floor.
Footsteps. Toward the second staircase.
More stains colored the risers. Fresh, moist.
Somebody was above him.
KNOX WAITED ON THE BATTLEMENTS FOR WYATT TO EMERGE from the cluster of decaying buildings. Though the ceilings were gone, as were most of the walls, there remained many places to hide. He’d watched as Wyatt entered the fort. Before he killed him he hoped perhaps Wyatt might point the way to where the missing pages waited. He had the full text of Jackson’s message with him, including the five curious symbols. Instead of spending all night searching, he could let Wyatt lead him straight there.
But his adversary was wandering, as if lost.
Apparently, he did not know where to find whatever Andrew Jackson had hidden.
So kill him and be done with it.
WYATT HAD LEARNED LONG AGO THAT WHEN YOUR OPPONENT was expecting the expected, it was best not to disappoint. That was why he’d boldly entered the Garver Institute through the front door. Near the base of the staircase, where more footprints in the mud and excrement led upward, a bare window opened through the outer wall facing the sea. He crept over and carefully poked his head out, checking above.
Maybe a ten-foot climb to the top, with plenty of handholds in the withering stone.
He glanced down at the hundred-foot drop to a rocky shoreline being assaulted by the sea. Birds leaped from the cliff-like walls and hung in the breeze. The half-choked cries of gulls accompanied their waltz. He retreated inside and found a stone the size of a softball. The battlements above were certainly populated by birds, too. Carefully, he crept up one flight of risers and peered up into an ever-dimming sky.
He lobbed the rock up through the opening, but did not wait for it to land.
Instead he retreated down to the window.
KNOX WAS POSITIONED ACROSS FROM WYATT, ON THE FORT’S north wall. One of his men waited on the south battlement with Wyatt, the other man on the west wall. The oppressive silence was broken only by surf and a steady wind that masked all noise.
Birds suddenly took flight from the south wall in a thick layer, sweeping upward, their wings colliding in midair.
What had panicked them?
His gaze locked on the battlement.
WYATT GRABBED HOLD OF THE GRAY LIMESTONE, USING THE crevices as holds. The stone he’d tossed upward had flushed the birds and caused enough of a distraction to cover him. He was suspended in the air, nothing but ocean to his back. Night was rapidly grabbing hold. His shoes were planted firmly in a deep scar in the wall. One hand gripped the top. He reached up with his other hand and peered over the edge.
A man stood eight feet away, his back to him, near where the stairway he’d avoided emptied down from the battlements.
He held a gun in one hand.
Exactly as he’d thought.
They were waiting for him.
CASSIOPEIA AND HER NEW PARTNER, JESSICA, APPROACHED Shirley Kaiser’s house. They’d driven over in a Secret Service car, parked down the street, and trotted to the wrought-iron fence that encircled the property, an easy matter to leap over.
They made their way toward the garage.
“Have you done this before?” she whispered.
“Not outside the training academy.”
