The Jefferson Key (22 page)

The key to deciphering this code is a series of two-digit number pairs. Patterson explained in his letter that the first digit of each pair indicated the line number within a section, the second digit the number of letters added to the beginning of that row. Of course, Patterson never revealed the number keys, which has kept his cipher unsolved for 175 years. To discover this numeric key, I analyzed the probability of diagraphs. Certain pairs of letters simply do not exist in English, such as
dx,
while some almost always appear together, such as
qu.
To ascertain a sense of language patterns for Patterson and Jefferson’s time I studied the 80,000 letter characters contained in Jefferson’s State of the Union addresses and counted the frequency of diagraph occurrences. I then made a series of educated guesses such as the number of rows per section, which two rows belong next to one another, and the number of random letters inserted into a line. To vet these guesses I turned to a computer algorithm and what’s called dynamic programming, which solves massive problems by breaking the puzzle down into component pieces and linking the solutions together. The overall calculations to analyze were fewer than 100,000, which is not all that tedious. It’s important to note that the programs available to me are not available to the general public, which might explain why the cipher has remained unbroken. After a week of working the code, the computer discovered the numerical key
.

33, 28, 71, 12, 56, 40, 85, 64, 97
.

To utilize the key, let’s return to the cipher rows themselves and lay them one after the other, per Patterson’s instructions:

If we apply the first numerical key, 33, to the letters we would count 3 over on the first row then identify the next 5 letters
,
FEETH
.
The next number, 3, indicates the original position of this letter row. Using 28, you would count 2 more letters over and identify 5 letters that would be placed in the row 8 position. By applying the remaining keys to the letters, the grid reappears in its original order:

The message can be read vertically down the 5 columns from left to right:

Malone read again Voccio’s report and Andrew Jackson’s coded message.

Jefferson Wheel.

Followed by twenty-six random letters and five symbols.

He’d already surfed the Internet and determined what the words
Jefferson Wheel
meant. Twenty-six wooden disks, upon which were carved the letters of the alphabet in random sequence. Each disk was numbered 1 through 26 and, depending on the order in which the disks were threaded onto an iron spindle, and the manner in which they were aligned, coded messages could be passed. The only requirement was that the sender and receiver had to possess the same collection of disks and arrange them in the same order. Jefferson conceived the idea himself from cipher locks he’d read about in French journals.

The problem?

Only one wheel still existed.

Jefferson’s own.

Which had been lost for decades but now was on display at Monticello, Jefferson’s Virginia estate. Malone assumed the twenty-six random letters in Jackson’s message would align the disks.

But what order should the disks be in?

Since none was specified, he would assume numerically. So when the disks were threaded in the correct sequence, then properly arranged, twenty-five lines would contain nonsense.

One would reveal a cohesive message.

He hadn’t told Cassiopeia what he’d found.

Not on the phone.

Monticello was less than an hour to the west.

They’d go there tomorrow.

WYATT
FOUND
A
HOTEL
JUST
OUTSIDE
WASHINGTON
, A
BOUTIQUE
establishment that came with a computer in the room. He figured in the not-too-distant future that accessory would be as standard as a hair dryer and a television.

He inserted the flash drive and read what Voccio had deciphered.

Smart guy.

A shame he was dead, but it was his own fault. Those men had come to herd them both to that waiting car. Just fire some shots, allow him to do his thing and think he succeeded, then wait and watch as the bomb took care of two problems at once.

Carbonell was covering her tracks. The
NSA
and
CIA
moving on him may have spooked her. One less witness against you was never a bad thing.

He was mad with himself, though. He knew better. But he’d wanted the money, and thought he could stay a step ahead.

Thank goodness for a little luck.

On a website for Monticello, he read about the Jefferson Wheel, noting that it was on display inside the mansion. The estate was located not far away. He’d go there tomorrow and do what he had to do to obtain the wheel.

He checked his watch.

4:10 AM.

A few clicks on the keyboard and he learned that Monticello opened at nine AM.

That gave him five hours to deal with Andrea Carbonell.

WASHINGTON
, DC

5:00 AM

WYATT
ADMIRED
THE
CONDOMINIUM
.
ROOMY
,
STYLISH
,
PRICEY
. He’d easily gained entry, the door secured by a simple lock. No alarm, no dog, no lights. It was located outside the Beltway in an upscale area replete with trendy stores and upscale eateries, the attractive complex iron-gated. He assumed a remote-controlled entry made for a good selling point to potential tenants who liked the status of having their guests wait for the bars to open. His own condominium in Florida came with gate and guard, which cost him and several thousand others a few hundred dollars a month in assessments.

But it was worth it. Kept the riffraff out.

He studied the décor, an odd mixture of minimalist style and Caribbean influences from onyx, wrought iron, and terra-cotta. Dim light leaking past the windows revealed a vibrant mixture of color and tone. He found a CD stack and noted a theme—mostly mambo, salsa, and Latin jazz. None of it his taste, but he could see how it would suit the condo’s owner.

Andrea Carbonell.

He’d called on longtime sources and learned where she lived. Unlike most of her colleagues, she resided beyond the DC limits and was ferried to and from work each day in a government car with driver. That same source had also told him that Carbonell was aboard an
NIA
helicopter that would land at Dulles in thirty minutes. She’d already informed her office that she would not be at her desk until eight AM. He hoped that meant she planned to come home for a quick stop. She’d been out all night, traveling somewhere south after she’d dropped him in Maryland. For someone so careful about her thoughts and plans, he wondered about her carelessness when it came to her schedule. He also wondered about the attack in Maryland. Did Carbonell already know that Dr. Gary Voccio was dead? No doubt.

All yesterday she’d stayed a step ahead of him.

Today was his turn.

He noticed nothing personal or intimate on display anywhere. No photographs, keepsakes, nothing. She apparently had no husband, boyfriend, children, girlfriend, pet.

But who was he to talk?

He possessed none of those, either. He lived alone, always had. There hadn’t been a woman in years. Several prospects—divorced, widowed, or still married—had expressed an interest, but he’d never reciprocated. Simply the thought of sharing himself, in return for the other person offering up their vulnerabilities, turned his stomach. He preferred solitude, and the quiet that now enveloped him.

But a sound intruded.

His gaze shot toward the front door.

A scraping.

Not of a key entering the lock, but of someone working the mechanism.

As he’d just done.

He found his gun and retreated into one of the bedrooms, positioning himself so that he could spy around the jamb.

The front door slowly opened and a dark formed stepped inside.

Male. About Wyatt’s height and build, wearing black clothing, moving in silent steps.

Apparently, he was not the only one interested in Carbonell.

KNOX
DETOURED
TO
HIS
HOUSE
FOR
A
SHOWER
AND
CHANGE
OF clothes. His wife greeted him with her usual cheerfulness, not asking a thing about where he’d been or what he’d done. That was made clear long ago. His work for the Commonwealth was confidential. Of course, she believed the reasons for that involved legitimate corporate concerns and trade secrets. Not presidential assassinations, kidnappings, murder, and a variety of other lesser felonies he committed on an almost daily basis. She knew only that her husband loved her, their children were provided for, and they were happy. The secrecy of his life had afforded him countless opportunities to do as he pleased. He’d learned from his father, who’d also been a quartermaster, that with risk came reward.

Is it unfair to your mother
, his father had said,
that I have other women? Damn right it is. But I’m the one out there, not her. I’ll go to prison, if caught. Not her. Always, in the end, I come home to her. I provide for her. I’ll grow old with her. But while I can, I’m entitled to live as I please
.

He hadn’t understood that selfish attitude until his turn came and he witnessed the demands of the job firsthand. Two hundred fourteen men made up the current company, spread among the four families. He served at their pleasure and they counted on him. But the four captains also demanded that he safeguard their interests. And though the captains could not fire him, they could make his life an utter hell.

Fail either and the penalty was severe.

A good quartermaster came to understand that balance. And yes, an occasional roll in the sack here and there with women he encountered might relieve the stress. But he’d never succumbed. He loved his wife and his family. Cheating on either was not an option. His father had not been right about everything. Not on married life—nor the Commonwealth. Things had changed since his father’s time, and he often wondered what that man would have done if faced with the current challenges. The captains fought among themselves with a rising intensity, one that was threatening the company’s existence. The long-standing ties that bound them together seemed ready to snap. Even so, he’d made a horrible mistake becoming entangled with Andrea Carbonell. Thank God the traitor she’d pointed him toward had implicated himself beyond question. In a strange way, he could sympathize with that doomed soul.

Trapped. Nowhere to go.

At the mercy of others.

“You look tired,” his wife said to him from the bathroom door.

He was about to shower and shave. “Long night.”

“We can go to the beach next weekend and rest.”

They had a cottage near Cape Hatteras, which he’d inherited from his father.

“That sounds great,” he said. “You and me. Next weekend.”

She smiled and hugged him from behind.