The Jefferson Key by Steve Berry

Malone popped his ears to the altitude.
    “When you decided to go,” Cassiopeia said. “Who knew?”
    “Not enough people,” Daniels said.
    Malone thought the response curious.
    “How did you get into that hotel room?” the president asked him.
    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