MALONE HELD TIGHT IN HIS CHAIR AS AIR FORCE ONE ROSE from the runway and vectored south back to Washington, DC. Everyone still occupied the conference room.
“Tough day at the office, dear?” Cassiopeia asked him.
He caught the playful look in her eyes. Any other woman would be highly irritated at the moment, but Cassiopeia handled the unexpected better than any person he’d ever known. Cool, calculated, focused. He still recalled the first time they’d encountered each other-in France, at Rennes-le-Chateau, one dark night when she’d taken a shot at him then sped away on a motorcycle.
“Just the usual,” he said. “Wrong place, right time.”
She smiled. “You missed out on a great dress.”
She’d told him before he left the hotel about the stop at Bergdorf Goodman. He’d been looking forward to seeing her purchase.
“Sorry about our date,” he told her again.
She shrugged. “Look where we ended up.”
“It’s good to finally meet you,” Edwin Davis said to Cassiopeia. “We missed each other in Europe.”
“This trip to New York was a lark,” Danny Daniels said. “Or as much of a lark as a president is allowed to have.”
Malone listened as Daniels explained how a close friend and lifetime supporter was having a retirement gathering. Daniels had been invited but had not decided to attend until a couple of months ago. No one outside the White House was told of the journey until yesterday, and the press was informed only that the president would be visiting New York. No location, time, or extent of the visit had been provided. Once inside Cipriani, attendees would have passed through a metal detector. By not forewarning anyone, and keeping even the press in the dark until the last minute, the Secret Service thought they had the trip reasonably secure.
“It’s always the same,” Daniels said. “Every assassination, or attempted one, happened because of screwups. Lincoln, McKinley, and Garfield had no guards. Just walk right up and shoot ’em. Kennedy’s protection was waved off for political reasons. They wanted him as close to the people as possible. So they announced that he’d be parading down a crowded street in an open car. ‘Come on out and see the president.’ ” Daniels shook his head. “Reagan took a bullet solely because his layers of protection broke down. Always some screwup. This time it was mine.”
Malone was surprised to hear the admission.
“I insisted on the trip. Told everyone it would be fine. They took some precautions, and wanted to take more. But I said no.”
The plane leveled off from its climb. 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 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.