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and you can find out what Andrew Jackson had to say.”
    Could good fortune have actually come from this disaster? Even Quentin Hale, who should be furious, would be ecstatic to hear that the cipher had been solved.
    Knox had served as quartermaster for nearly fifteen years, earning the job his father once held. He’d always smiled when he watched pirate movies with their caricatures of the all-powerful captain who mercilessly inflicted pain on his crew. Nothing could be further from the truth. Pirate communities had operated as loose democracies, members deciding for themselves who led them and for how long. The fact that both the captain and the quartermaster were elected ensured that the treatment of those below them would be fair and reasonable. As a further check and balance, crew votes could be taken for a new captain or quartermaster at any time. And many a captain who went too far found himself banished to the first speck of dry land the ship spotted, another man elevated to leadership. A quartermaster walked an even tighter line, serving both the crew and the captain.
    A good one understood how to please both.
    So he knew what had to be done.
    “Okay,” he said, adding a smile. “Steak’s on me.” He reached over and patted Parrott twice on the shoulder. “I get it. You guys are in charge. I’ll take your message back.”
    “I was hoping you’d see it that way.”
    He withdrew his hand and tapped the exposed skin on Parrott’s neck, penetrating the short needle. A tad more pressure, then a squeeze, and the contents of the bubble syringe injected.
    “Hey.” Parrott’s hand reached for the pain.
    One. Two. Three.
    Parrott’s body went limp.
    Knox kept him upright, then gently laid him on the bench. The concoction he’d used was derived from a Caribbean reef fish.
Karenia annulatus
. A fast-acting, lethal toxin. Centuries ago, during the glory days when sloops roamed that southern sea, more than one enemy had been dispatched with its nearly instant effect.
    A shame this man had to die.
    But there was no choice.
    Absolutely none.
    Carefully, he arranged Parrott’s hands beneath his cheek, as if he’d dozed off. Nothing unusual for a Central Park bench. He patted Parrott’s trousers and found a hotel room key for the Helmsley Park Lane. Not bad. He’d stayed there a few times himself.
    Then he left.

EIGHT

    MALONE CALMLY WALKED DOWN A LOW-CEILINGED PASSAGE that connected the Hyatt with Grand Central Terminal. He knew that, once he was inside the busy concourse, he could take a train back to the St. Regis, where Cassiopeia was waiting. Together they could figure out what to do next.
    Interesting that he thought that way.
    Together
.
    For years he’d lived and worked alone. He’d met Cassiopeia two years back but only a few months ago, in China, had they both finally acknowledged how they felt. At first he’d thought their closer connection simply the emotional fallout from all that had happened.
    But he’d been wrong.
    They’d been combatants, competitors, then friends. Now they were lovers. Cassiopeia was confident, smart, and beautiful. They shared a pleasant, trusting intimacy, knowing that whatever one needed the other would provide. Like now, when a cadre of police, surely trigger-happy considering what had just happened, were on the hunt.
    He could use a little help.
    Actually, he could use a lot.
    He exited the tunnel, passing through a set of glass doors that opened into a concourse lined with busy shops. A street exit loomed 150 feet to his right. He turned left and entered the most recognized terminus in the world, nearly a football field long and a third that wide. The famous ceiling—a gold-leaf zodiac of stars atop a cerulean blue sky—soared a hundred feet above. Atop a central information booth rose the famous four-faced, brass clock. It read 7:20 PM. Hallways and passageways branched off in all directions, leading to train platforms. Escalators moved up and down to more levels