The Jefferson Key by Steve Berry Page A

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

    BATH , NORTH CAROLINA

    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 of the Commonwealth’s current Articles, heads of their respective families, bonded to one another by a sacred oath. He imagined that their stomachs were tossing similar to Abner Hale’s in 1835 when he, too, had acted like a fool.
    He decided to start with a question he already knew the answer to. “Where is the quartermaster?”
    “In New York,” Cogburn said. “Doing damage control.”
    Good. At least they planned to be reasonably honest with him. Two months ago he’d been the one to inform them of Daniels’ unannounced New York trip, wondering if perhaps an opportunity might present itself. They’d