The Fifth Assassin

by Brad Meltzer

  Clementine wanted to pull over, to just read it on the side of the highway. But the thought of Palmiotti, or anyone else, catching her by surprise… She knew she had to wait.

  She couldn’t. She’d been waiting for so long—for her whole life, really. So as she focused on the calm that her cat brought, she stole quick glances at the file.

  It was hard to read, especially at this speed—and there was so much to go through, from the physical and mental profiles to the documentation of her father’s service. As she kept glancing down to fish through the papers, she stopped on the very first thing that looked easy to skim.

  It was a single, pink page, right at the front. The word commendation stood out.

  It was just a letter. From the typewriter font, it looked like one of the oldest documents in there. Scanning the first paragraph, she kept glancing up at the road, then back to the text. According to the letter, her father—Nico Hadrian—was instrumental in rendering valuable assistance during battlefield operations modeling at Headquarters.

  There was a loud tunk-tunk-tunk as her car drifted left out of its lane, plowing over the reflective road studs along the highway. Looking up, Clementine tugged the wheel, bringing the car back on course.

  She tried to breathe, but her chest… it felt like someone had reached underneath her ribcage and wedged their fist up into her throat.

  It was a simple letter. A commendation. From Commanding Officer Bryan Burgess… rendering valuable assistance… It said he did something good.

  In her lap, the file folder fell to the right, spraying paper across the seat.

  The swirl of emotions caught her by surprise. Her eyes became watery. But what she was feeling wasn’t sadness. Or even relief. Holding tight to the steering wheel, Clementine felt the fist in her throat growing heavy, sinking down into her belly. This was anger.

  With a jerk of her foot, the ghost of her ginger cat dissipated like a rolling cloud.

  Palmiotti was right. The real reason she had searched for this file… and risked so much to get it… was so she could get answers about her cancer. About her health. About herself. Her future.

  But to see this commendation… to see what they wrote about him…

  They always said he was a creature with no redeeming attributes. But here, this was proof. Proof of what could’ve been. Of what should’ve been.

  Proof that Nico—her father—wasn’t born a monster. They turned him into one.

  21

  Today

  St. Elizabeths Hospital

  Washington, D.C.

  Here you go, Nico. Welcome home,” Nurse Rupert announced, throwing open the heavy wooden door to Nico’s new room, which wasn’t much different than the average college dorm room, right down to the institutional furniture and the thick concrete walls.

  Stepping inside, Nico noticed that instead of doorknobs, there was a metal latch that you push, like you see in hospital rooms. But unlike hospital rooms, next to the latch was a small metal switch. Nico knew what that was. If a nurse flipped the switch, instead of opening inward, the door would open outward, ensuring that as a patient you can’t barricade the door.

  “They put your calendar up,” the dead First Lady pointed out as Nico turned toward the only item on the otherwise bare walls: his Washington Redskins calendar that was already hanging above his nightstand, just like in his old room.

  “The light switches are new too,” the dead First Lady added.

  Of course Nico noticed that. In the old building, patients used to unbend paper clips, jam them into the light switch, and use the live wire to light their cigarettes. But now the light switch in Nico’s room was covered with a bulky porcelain switchplate that was snug around the switch and didn’t allow anything inside.

  “It’s childproofing for really big kids,” Rupert joked. “So whattyathink? Does your unbridled happiness make you committed to stop being such a pain in my keister?”

  “Where’s my book?” Nico blurted. “They brought my calendar, but where’s my book?”

  “I dunno. Check the dresser… or one of the drawers…”

  Slowly opening the drawers on his nightstand, Nico saw a copy of his Bible, his red glass rosary, and a few other knickknacks from his drawers in his old room. But not the—

  “My book isn’t here,” Nico insisted.

  Before Rupert could argue back, the door opened behind them. “Just checking in to make sure everyone’s—” Dr. Gosling took one look at his star patient and could read the stress on his face. “Nico, what’s wrong?”

  “They didn’t send my book,” Nico growled.

  “I’m sure they sent it. We’ll find it,” Rupert insisted, frantically yanking open the drawers of the dresser.

  “You mean this book here?” Dr. Gosling called out, pulling a book from the top of the wardrobe that was bolted to the wall.

  “There!” Nico said. “My book.”

  “Where’d you find that?” Rupert challenged.

  “Right here. It was sitting on top of the wardrobe,” Dr. Gosling replied, his King Kong tie swaying just slightly.

  “I-I must’ve missed it,” Rupert apologized.

  “I didn’t see it up there either,” Nico blurted as Rupert looked over at the top of the wardrobe. As Rupert knew, Nico never missed anything.

  “Maybe now you can take him down to TLC,” Dr. Gosling said, referring to the therapy center downstairs.

  “Yeah… that’s what I was thinking,” Rupert said, motioning Nico out into the hallway.

  Following a few steps behind the oversized nurse, Nico was already flipping through the pages of the leather-bound book with gold writing on the cover. It was an old book, a novel called Looking Backward. He stopped on page 122, where his bookmark was.

  “C’mon, Nico, they’re waiting for you,” Rupert called out.

  Nico stayed silent, his head down. He was already lost in his book, which he cradled in his left hand. In his right, he pulled out his makeshift bookmark: a shiny new playing card.

  The dead First Lady smiled as she saw it.

  “I’m right behind you,” Nico said, rubbing his thumb against the ten of spades and knowing that after the spades came the diamonds.

  22

  Tell me what I’m looking at,” Tot said, staring as the browser on his computer screen loaded its video image. “These security cams?”

  “Traffic cams,” Immaculate Deception’s computerized voice said through Tot’s phone, which sat on the desk of his cubicle in the Archives.

  Sure enough, onscreen, the video came to life. The images weren’t perfect, but they were clear—and in color—showing an intersection that Tot recognized as 16th and H Streets in downtown D.C., not far from the White House. “I’m surprised Homeland Security lets you get this close.”

  “They don’t. You never get a clear shot of the White House. But one block from it, the Department of Transportation runs feeds over the Internet so commuters can avoid the traffic snares that come with motorcades and other delays.”

  “God bless America.”

  “No. God bless paranoid people,” Mac said. “See the site you’re on?”

  “EyesOnWhiteHouse.com?” Tot asked, reading the URL.

  “After 9/11, everyone wanted to know who was walking the streets near the White House. So one site started recording all the traffic feeds, cataloging and stocking the footage so you can view it whenever you want—like your very own DVR. This shot is from 9 p.m. last night.”

  In the left corner of the screen, Tot saw a clear shot of St. John’s Church.

  The still image refreshed every three seconds, like he was watching bad stop-motion animation. Cars appeared, frozen—then… blink… they were ten feet ahead and then… blink… they were gone.

  Leaning in, Tot put on his reading glasses and studied the front steps of the church, waiting to see the killer.

  “If you’re waiting for the killer to enter, he doesn’t,” Mac said. “Police report said he entered from the
back. But here’s where the fuss is…”

  Tot’s cursor, controlled remotely by Mac, clicked a button, and the video fast-forwarded to 9:30 p.m., then 10 p.m. There were still cars on the streets, but not many people.

  Until 10:19 p.m.

  Onscreen, a man’s shadow entered first, and then… blink… there he was: on the steps, leaving the church. Like a ghost. The church’s tall columns obstructed the view, so Tot could only see him from the waist down.

  He had a glove on his left hand, and his other hand was stuffed into his coat pocket. Taking a step down and coming more into frame, he looked left… blink… then right, like he was worried he was being watched.

  Blink.

  He was down on the second-to-last step, by the curb. But as the light hit his face…

  Blink.

  Tot’s eyes went wide.

  “You seeing that?” Mac asked, freezing it right there.

  Tot didn’t answer. He stared at the screen—at the killer. There he was.

  On his face was a white plaster mask.

  Leaning toward the screen, Tot squinted. Even on a webcam, even under the bad light, even though he couldn’t see much else… some faces are unmistakable.

  No question, it was Abraham Lincoln.

  23

  Marshall keeps his hand on my shoulder and follows behind me as we enter his apartment. He’s unnervingly calm, as if he’s been expecting me for weeks.

  In the living room is a dark gray starter sofa from IKEA with matching gray IKEA chairs. It’s the same with his glass-and-metal coffee table, which match his glass-and-metal end tables, which match his glass-and-metal entertainment center. Everything’s from a set—and not the expensive set either, which makes me wonder if he’s on a government salary like me.

  But as I scan the room, what really stands out is just how little this so-called living room looks lived in. The chairs are untouched. The sofa doesn’t have a crease in it. On the tables, there’re no books, or framed pictures, or any of the other knickknacks that are proof of life. I feel like I’m in a play, and this is the furniture for the “living room scene.” Or even worse. I look around.

  Please tell me this isn’t a safehouse.

  I think about the safehouse I was in a few months ago—used by the government to hide diplomats, witnesses… or even for a private conversation with the President of the United States.

  I look around again. Except for a neat stack of mail on a nearby desk, and a bowl of blueberries on the kitchen island, the only personal touch in this whole place is on the long wall behind the sofa. A simple white frame holds an elegant… at first I thought it was a photo… but it’s a canvas. A painted canvas slightly bigger than an iPad. I walk closer to see it.

  It’s a painting of a woman, though her features are blurred. Her eyes aren’t really there. Her mouth either. And as she enters this soothing, turquoise body of water, her legs… her arms… her whole body seems to dissipate, spreading outward from her waist as if she’s becoming part of the water.

  “Nice painting,” I tell Marshall to break the silence.

  “Flea market,” he says, blowing past me and beelining toward his bedroom. “I need to use the restroom,” he adds, thinking I don’t notice that as he cuts through his bedroom, he’s still wearing gloves.

  He zigzags quickly around his bed, crossing into the bathroom. I pretend to keep staring at the painting, but I can see him back there. He takes his gloves off. And throws them… did he just throw them in the trash?

  As he closes the door to the bathroom, I look back at the painting. I work with enough priceless documents to know archive-quality matting when I see it.

  Reading the signature at the bottom—Nuelo Blanca—I type it quickly into my phone, adding the words painting for sale. The first hit that comes up is a gallery in Los Angeles. For a painting called WaterFall 5. Price tag? $22,000.

  Okay, Marshall—an artist that sells for 22K? This item clearly isn’t from a flea market.

  “You got a call?” his throaty voice asks.

  I jump, spinning at the sound. Marshall’s standing right behind me.

  He motions down at my phone, which is still in my hand. “You got a call?” he repeats with a verbal shove.

  “Just checking messages,” I say, staying where I am.

  His eyes narrow. “Most people can’t get cell phone reception here,” he says.

  I look down at the phone Tot gave me two weeks ago. Souped up by Immaculate Deception. Built just for the Culper Ring.

  “It’s a good phone,” I say, verbal shoving him right back.

  Marshall licks his lips and I notice that the left side of his tongue is a lighter shade of pink than the right half. It almost looks like it’s plastic. His tongue was burned too.

  “Do me a favor,” Marshall says. “Tell me why you’re here.”

  I continue to look right at him. “I’m here to see what you wanted to talk to me about.”

  “Pardon?”

  “When you got arrested yesterday, you had my name in your pocket.”

  He cocks his head, watching me. “I get it. The police called you.”

  “Of course the police called me. They found my name and number in your pocket.”

  His shoulders stay square. His grin’s back in place. I look down, noticing his perfectly shined shoes. “Why else would I have your number on me, Beecher? I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Really.”

  “Isn’t that what old friends do? I ran into Craig Rogers last week. Remember him?”

  “I know who Craig Rogers is. I see him on Facebook.”

  “Then you know he has your phone number. Which he gave to me and said I should call you. I didn’t even realize you lived here in Washington.”

  I nod and take a look at that $22,000 painting. “Marshall, you know someone was killed in that church, right?”

  “So I gathered. Apparently that’s why they arrested me.”

  “What were you doing there, anyway?”

  “What does anyone do at a church, Beecher? It’s nearing the anniversary of my mother’s death. You know how much prayers meant to her.”

  “You were there praying?”

  “I was there praying.”

  “At ten o’clock at night?”

  “The sanctuary is open till midnight. Apparently there are some very religious people who work across the street.”

  It’s a perfect story. No holes in it. “They said you also had a pack of old playing cards on you. With a missing ace of spades.”

  “I always have them on me. I travel a lot. They’re good for solitaire.”

  “And the ace of spades?”

  Without warning, he hits both his front pockets. From one, he pulls out the pack of playing cards and tosses it at me. From the other, he pulls out his phone. I didn’t hear it ring or vibrate, but as he looks down at it, this is clearly a call he can’t miss.

  “Beecher, you’ll have to excuse me a moment. I need to take this.” Heading back toward the bedroom, he adds, “This is Marshall…”

  He closes the door quietly, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

  I study the playing cards. The box is yellowed and severely worn. On the back of the pack is a classic hand-drawn American eagle with spread wings. But instead of its head raised high, the eagle ducks down, its head lowered, like it’s ready to bite something.

  I glance back at his closed bedroom door. Underneath it, Marshall’s shadow paces back and forth. Whoever’s calling him, he’s caught up in it.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I head for the nearest cabinets. When we were kids, I remember Marshall’s dad kept all his medication in the kitchen drawers, since he could reach them from his wheelchair. If I’m lucky, maybe Marshall does the same. But as I hunt through the drawers—silverware in one, spatulas and wooden spoons in another… nothing to speak of.

  The overhead cabinets are the same. The first has dishes, bowls, cups, and glassware.

  The next has wineg
lasses… coffee mugs… a few thermoses… but again, nothing revealing. The mugs are all plain, same as the thermoses. No school logos, team logos, work logos—nothing. And for the second time, I start wondering if this sterile place is really a safehouse.

  But as I open the biggest cabinet—looks like the pantry—the first thing I spot are large boxes of breakfast cereal.

  I scan quickly. Of course, there’s no Lucky Charms. It’s all healthy now: Raisin Bran… Special K… and one of those fancy oat ones you buy at Whole Foods. My brain flips back to the treehouse… and the hiding spot for every nudie pic we could find.

  I grab the box of Raisin Bran, ripping it open. Nothing. Same with the Special K. And the fancy oat one. Nothing and more nothing.

  Closing the cabinets, I turn back to the bedroom. Marshall’s still pacing. Time for one last attempt.

  On my right, where the cabinets run in an L-shape around the corner, there’s a section of the counter that’s built like a desk, but with no drawers. It’s where Marshall threw his keys. There’s also a neat stack of mail and a few boxes from J.Crew.

  Tossing his pack of cards on the counter, I flip through the mail. Electric bill… something from a wine-tasting organization… coupon circulars… His name’s on all of them. But the address—it’s not the same as the address here. They’re all addressed to the P.O. box that Immaculate Deception found earlier. It’s the same with the J.Crew packages. But as I lift the rest of the mail off the final box—

  The flaps on the box pop upward. It’s already open. There’s no address on it. No return address either.

  I look back at the bedroom. He’s still busy.

  As I push back the flaps and peer into the box, staring back at me is a shiny white face, with no eyes.

  I jump at the sight.

  A mask.

  It’s a plaster mask. White, like chalk. It looks like…

  It’s Abraham Lincoln.

  I pull out my phone and try to take a quick pic, but my hand’s shaking. I can’t steady it.

  I look again over my shoulder. Marshall’s still pacing in the bedroom.

  My phone makes the fake cha-chick as I snap the picture. Tot needs to see this. I forward the photo to him, with a note: Found in Marshall’s place.