Waiting.
He’d placed a call twenty minutes ago and left a voice message.
Danny Daniels had been impressive before the press. Hale had caught the president’s unspoken message. The investigations were already starting. He wondered how good the quartermaster had been. Thankfully, Knox was thorough, that he’d give him. Knox’s father had been the same, serving Hale’s father. But this situation was unusual, to say the least.
His phone chimed.
When he answered, Knox said, “I told them not to do it, but they were insistent.”
“You should have told me.”
“It’s no different from what I did for you, and they have no idea of that. I’ve never violated your confidence, so you can’t expect me to violate theirs.”
True, only a few days ago Knox had indeed performed a clandestine mission for Hale. One of great importance.
And never had he violated any of their confidences.
Of the four families, the Hales were by far the most prosperous, with a net worth equal to the remaining three combined. That superiority had often bred resentment, evidenced from time to time by bursts of independence, the others’ way of asserting themselves, so he should not be surprised by the day’s events.
“What happened?” he asked.
He listened as the quartermaster reported, including the NIA’s interference and the elimination of their agent.
“Why did they interfere?” he asked. “They are the only ones who have stood by us.”
“Apparently, we went a bit too far. Beyond that, their agent offered no explanation. He seemed intent on sending us a message. I thought it important for them to know that we received the message, and don’t appreciate what they did.”
He could not argue with that conclusion.
A sense of mission had always bound a pirate company, the team more important than any one individual. His father had taught him that missions required goals and rewards, the participants bound into a single purpose. That had been the way of his ancestors, and even today every good ship captain knew that a clearly defined mission transformed the hunted into hunters.
So he decided not to chastise Knox and simply said, “From this point on, I want to be kept informed.”
The quartermaster did not object. “I’m going to retrieve Parrott’s laptop.”
His heart quickened. The prospect that Jefferson’s cipher may have been solved excited him. Could it be? Still-
“I’d be careful.”
“I plan to.”
“Notify me the moment you have it. And, Clifford. No more moves like the ones today.”
“I assume you’ll be dealing with the other three?”
“As fast as I can get to shore.”
He ended the call.
At least something might have gone right today.
He glanced over at the two pages sheathed in plastic.
In 1835, when his great-great-grandfather had tried to assassinate Andrew Jackson, there’d been hell to pay. And just like now, divisions existed within the Commonwealth. Only then a Hale had ordered the quartermaster to kill the president of the United States.
Richard Lawrence, an unemployed house painter, had been covertly recruited. Prior to the assassination attempt Lawrence had tried to shoot his sister and openly threatened two others, eventually believing that Jackson had murdered his father. He also thought himself the king of England and fervently pronounced that Jackson was interfering with his royal inheritance. He held the president responsible for his unemployment and for an overall shortage of money in the country.
Not a difficult matter to encourage him to act.
The problem came from Jackson, who’d sequestered himself within the White House during the bitter winter of 1834. A funeral at the Capitol finally brought the president out, so Lawrence was nudged to Washington and provided two pistols. He’d secreted himself within the crowd on a cold, rainy day and confronted his adversary.
But fate intervened and saved Old Hickory.
Thanks to wet powder, both guns misfired.
Immediately Jackson had blamed Senator George Poindexter of Mississippi, alleging a conspiracy. The Senate launched an official inquiry, but Poindexter was exonerated. Privately, though, Jackson targeted his real vengeance.
Hale’s grandfather had told him the story.
The six presidents before Jackson had been easy to work with. Washington knew what the Commonwealth had done for the country during the Revolution. So did Adams. Even Jefferson tolerated them, and their help with America’s war on the Barbary pirates removed any bad taste that may have lingered. Madison, Monroe, and the second Adams never presented a problem.
But that damn fool from Tennessee was determined to change everything.
Jackson fought with Congress, the Supreme Court, the press-anybody and everybody. He was the first president nominated by a political party, not political bosses, the first who campaigned directly to the people and won thanks solely to them. He hated the political elite and, once in office, made sure their influence waned. Jackson had even dealt with pirates before, as a general during the War of 1812 when he made a deal with Jean Lafitte to save New Orleans from the British. He actually liked Lafitte, but years later, as president, when a dispute arose with the Commonwealth, one that should have been an easy matter to resolve, Jackson refused to capitulate. The other captains at the time had wanted to maintain the peace so they voted to let it go.
Only the Hales said no.
And they’d sent Richard Lawrence.
But just like today, that assassination attempt failed. Thankfully, Lawrence was declared insane and locked away. He died in 1861, never uttering an intelligible word.
Could a similar good fortune emerge from today’s fiasco?
Outside the salon’s windows Hale spotted the Bayview car ferry making another of its daily runs across the Pamlico, south to Aurora.
Home was not far away.
His mind continued to churn.
The path his great-great-grandfather had chosen remained bumpy. Andrew Jackson had left a scar on the Commonwealth that, on four previous occasions, had festered into an open wound.
My hope is that the unmanly course ascribed to you shall be your ruin.
Maybe not, you sorry SOB.
His secretary entered the salon. Hale had tasked him with finding the three other captains.
“They are in the compound at Cogburn’s house.”
“Tell them that I want to see them in the main house within the hour.”
His secretary left.
He stared back at the choppy river and caught sight of a shark fin just beyond the boat’s wake. An interesting sight fifty miles inland from the open sea. Of late he’d noticed more and more predators plying these waters. Just a few days ago one had snatched the bait from his fishing line, nearly yanking him into the river.
He smiled.
They were tough, aggressive, and relentless.
Like him.
FOURTEEN
AIR FORCE ONE
MALONE WAS BECOMING IMPATIENT. THE COMMENT ABOUT Stephanie Nelle being in trouble concerned him. And he hadn’t missed what the president had first said.
I read that note supposedly from Stephanie.