by Brad Meltzer
“So his suicide note was postdated? Do people even do that?”
“Why wouldn’t they? I mean, if you wanted to be prepared for your death, wouldn’t you want to write it and… I don’t know… work toward it?”
“I don’t think so. I think those notes are the last thing people do. The very last thing. But again: Even assuming it wasn’t, if he postdated it and planned to die—and then he somehow actually died right before the big day—doesn’t that seem a little ridiculously convenient to you?”
She thinks about that a moment. “Maybe it’s something they made him write.”
“You mean they threatened him to do it?”
“Or required him to do it. Who knows what they needed it for.”
I collapse in the lounge chair and wrestle out of my jacket. “In the Archives, I once read about this high-level military program that was organized after the first war in Iraq: a group of UN weapons inspectors. But what no one knew was that they weren’t weapons inspectors. They were there to search for and rescue three of our MIA troops that were being held in Mosul. And before they went in, rumor was, their commanding officer had them write suicide notes. That way, if it all went bad and they were killed, they’d still be able to keep their true mission quiet.”
“See, that makes sense to me,” she says, now excited.
“Yeah, but so does them lying to my mom and telling her it was a car accident just to spare us the horror of a suicidal father,” I reply, balancing the note on the edge of my left knee.
Clementine watches me carefully, clutching her wig with both hands and tapping it over and over against her belly. She’s more than excited. For the past year, she’s been searching for the truth about her father. She’s lived her life with questions, so she’s not afraid of the answers. But for me, I wasn’t aware the questions even existed. I’ve spent my entire adult life carving the image of my dad into my emotional bedrock. Stories of his unstoppable work ethic are why I still carry his old briefcase every day. His untold adventures—and my obsession with his death—are why I begin each morning reading the obituaries. And when it comes to his impact on my psyche, why else would I work in the Archives, reminding people every day of the power that comes from exploring their past?
But now… to hear that my dad’s death might not have been an act of chance, but an act of choice—that he left my mother and my sisters, that he left me, not by accident, but on purpose? I stare over at Clementine’s empty wig, feeling my bedrock start to crumble. The note in my hands doesn’t just undo the construct of my father. It undoes my father. It undoes me.
“Now you understand why I had to bring it to you, Beecher. For the doctor to send this…”
“I still don’t understand. How’d he even have it?”
“I told you, he treated the whole group of them—”
“Group of who? What group?”
“The plankholders, Beecher. The first members of the unit.”
I shake my head, redoing the math. “Clementine, my father was in the military for barely two years. He was a mechanic. How could he possibly serve with Nico, much less be a plankholder with him?”
“I’m just telling you what Dr. Yoo said. He told me they were all brought in together. All three from our hometown.”
Three? She reads my confusion perfectly.
“There were three of them, Beecher: Your dad… my dad… and the dad of…” She looks off in the distance, like she’s pulling a memory from the back of her brain. “Do you remember a kid—his dad was in a wheelchair—his name was…”
“Marshall Lusk,” I whisper.
58
How bad?” the President asked.
A.J. shook his head. He didn’t have to say it.
“So you went to see him?” Wallace asked, sitting on the edge of his desk and careful to never say the word pastor. Sure, they were alone in the Oval, with all three doors closed. But it didn’t take a copy of the Nixon tapes to know that there were always ears in the White House.
“I saw him. And spoke to him. He said he actually met you.”
The President paused at that.
“You don’t remember him?” A.J. asked. “He said it was at Christmas. That you said a prayer together. He was with a rabbi and an imam.”
“You’re kidding, right? You know how many people I say prayers with? Or how many of these I give out?” he added, pointing to the pink carnation on his lapel. It was a trick he stole from President McKinley, who every day used to pluck a carnation from his lapel and hand it as a gift to some lucky citizen. The real trick was that McKinley kept half a dozen carnations in his Oval Office desk.
“Sir, the point is, that’s two in two days. And the only thing they have in common is they’ve both spent time, and said prayers, with you.”
“So you think whoever’s doing this, I’m next?”
“No, but my fear is there’ll be a third attack, then a fourth, and after that…”
A.J. knew better than to finish the sentence.
Leaning there on the edge of his desk, arms crossed at his chest, Wallace looked more annoyed than anything else. For nearly four years, he had begun every morning with a private briefing that informed him about the most active threats against the United States. After the first one, he realized there was a whole different world that he never knew existed. By now, he’d gotten used to it.
But A.J. saw the way Wallace rubbed his thumb and middle finger together.
Even to the President of the United States, there was no threat like a personal one.
“And that doctor you’ve been seeing?” the President finally asked. “He’s been no help?”
“Not with this. For this you need a specialist. Maybe even a surgeon.”
Wallace thought about that. “What are you suggesting?”
“I think we take you out of here. Get you on the chopper, let us put our hands on this guy, and in the meantime, you’ll be safe at Thurmont,” A.J. said, referring to the compound known as Camp David.
“Yeah, I’m not doing that.”
“Sir…?”
“I’ve been in this job for almost four years,” Wallace said as he headed to the small anteroom on the opposite side of the office. Opening the mini-refrigerator, he scooped a handful of frozen Snickers from a silver bowl. “You know how many threats there’ve been?”
“I hear you, sir. And I know moving you is a disruption. But if I’m right about this—”
“Did you hear what I said? I’m the President of the United States. I’m not trashing my schedule, panicking my family, and hiding in a bunker just because some nutcase started seeing secret messages in the crumbs from his morning toast.”
“But what if it’s a nutcase you already know? From high school?”
The President slammed the mini-fridge shut. “What’re you saying, A.J.? You think our doctor’s become a quack?”
“I’m just saying, whoever’s doing this, he seems to know where you’ve been.”
“So does everyone with an Internet connection. My schedule’s posted every single day. So go alert the shift leader and tell them what’s going on. Time to let the rest of the Service do their job.”
“I can do that, sir. I will,” A.J. said, trailing the President back into the Oval and watching him toss back one of the Snickers. A.J. had heard it for years: All Presidents were stubborn. But for Wallace to take a risk like this, it made no sense. “Sir, can I just ask: Is this about tomorrow, about Presidents’ Day?”
Wallace’s gray eyes narrowed. “What about Presidents’ Day?”
“I’m just saying, I know you want to bring your daughter to the Lincoln Memorial… and I know they’re expecting a big crowd, but—”
The President dug his tongue into his back teeth, freeing some remnant peanuts. His voice was as calm as A.J. had ever heard it. “I have full confidence in the ability of the Secret Service to do its job.”
“I do too, sir. But that doesn’t mean—”
“I have ful
l confidence in the Service,” the leader of the free world repeated. “That means get the hell out of here and find out who’s doing this,” he growled.
“Of course, Mr. President,” A.J. said, heading for the curved door. “I’ll take care of it.”
59
Tell me about this card,” Tot demanded, gripping the faded ace of spades and studying the familiar crouched eagle on it. The card was heavy and thick, made of a layered cardstock, probably rag paper. “Why’s it so important?”
“Forget the card a moment,” the Diamond pleaded, delicately taking the card from Tot’s hands and placing it on a nearby art table covered with sheer Japanese paper that was used for repairing fine works of art. The gossamer-weight paper was so thin, it was barely visible when applied to the object. “This isn’t about a single card. It’s about the history of cards.”
“Daniel, there are lives on the line here. If you’re telling a story, tell it quickly.”
“What’s the most popular book of all time?”
“The Bible,” Tot said without hesitating.
“Exactly. In our modern world, where everything is constantly changing, it’s simply amazing that the Bible itself has managed to stay pretty much the same—for centuries,” the Diamond said. “That’s how it is with playing cards.”
“That’s not true. Look at that eagle on the card. Name another pack of cards you’ve seen that on.”
“Forget the eagle and what decorates the cards. I’m talking about what doesn’t change. The modern suit symbols: hearts, diamonds, clubs, spades. In Italy, they used to be called cups, coins, swords, and batons. But those modern symbols—hearts, diamonds, clubs, and spades—those were created in France back in the fifteenth century, by a knight named Étienne de Vignolles.”
“A knight?” Tot asked.
“Not just any knight. One of France’s most famous knights. A man who rode with Joan of Arc herself,” the Diamond explained, noticing the change in Tot’s posture. “This was a knight who served both church and king, and as the story goes—and I’m not saying I believe it—to test his loyalty, each side—church and king—entrusted Vignolles with their greatest secret. Vignolles was the chosen knight. So when it came to decorating the cards… his lasting legacy… he picked his symbols with great care. These days, most historians will tell you that the four suits represent the four classes of medieval society: Hearts were the sign of the church; diamonds were arrowheads, representing vassals and archers; clubs were husbandmen or farmers; and spades were the points of lances and therefore represented the knights, and by extension, the king. Others say Vignolles was just inventing a game, or that the symbols were a key to the knight’s true loyalty. But there are a few who insist that Vignolles, when he was forced to choose between church and king, used the cards as a vehicle to deliver a hidden message.”
“I’m lost. A message to whom?”
“To his fellow knights. To the others who he’d eventually entrust with his secret.” Clearing his throat, the Diamond asked, “Have you ever really examined the court cards in a deck? Why does the king of diamonds have an axe, while all the rest have swords? Why are the jack of hearts, the jack of spades, and the king of diamonds the only cards that appear in profile, while all the others are full face?”
“You’re telling me that’s a secret message?”
“Tot, you of all people know how much gets lost in the march of history. Today, we keep printing cards like this out of habit. But it’s no different than when the dollar bill was first designed and someone decided to put a pyramid with the all-seeing eye on the back of it. The designers didn’t just pick random symbols. They selected things for their meaning.”
“That doesn’t mean there are secret messages hidden in playing cards.”
“You sure about that? Look at these here,” the Diamond added, kneeling back down to the file drawer and flipping through the loose cards in the file, eventually pulling out a modern-day king of hearts.
“In just about every deck in the world, every face card—the jacks, the queens, all the other kings—they all have two hands. The king of hearts always has four—two of which are stabbing him with a sword, like he’s stabbing himself. That’s where we get the term suicide king from. But look closely. His sleeves don’t match. He’s not stabbing himself or committing suicide. He’s being stabbed by someone else. Someone so hidden, the king can’t see him coming.”
Tot pulled the card closer, examining the image.
“You see it now, don’t you? They match another card in the deck,” the Diamond said, now excited. “Those are the sleeves of the queen of spades.”
“So the spades kill the hearts?”
“Or as Vignolles designed in his original symbols: the knights—and by extension the king—kill the church.”
“But you said the queen—”
“Forget the queen. In the very early decks of cards, there was no queen. Women weren’t recognized as a part of civil society. Even jacks were introduced years later. So in Vignolles’s original deck, and the decks that were passed down generation to generation, it wasn’t king, queen, jack. It was king, knight, knave. That was the warning Vignolles was sending. The real killers of the church were the knights of the king. So if the church’s greatest secret was to be protected, a new army had to be formed. A secret army. A sacred group sworn to protect the church. A group of knights who would hide amongst the king’s knights and attack when they were needed most… and when no one would expect it,” the Diamond explained as Tot glanced back at the antique ace of spades from the deck Marshall was carrying.
Tot eyed the familiar eagle on it: the symbol of the so-called modern Knights—the Knights of the Golden Circle.
“Vignolles knew this battle would outlive him,” the Diamond explained. “The battle between church and king has been waged for centuries. It’s the ultimate civil war. So for his few secret knights who were loyal to the church, Vignolles hid his warning right there in the images: Without these sacred knights, the king would slaughter the church. The cards were their call to arms—the message hidden right in front of everyone—as a secret signal that would make sense only to those who knew the message was there,” he added as Tot thought about the mysterious card that John Wilkes Booth used to get into Ford’s Theatre… or the red diamond tattoo on Charles Guiteau’s shoulder.
“Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s all silly folklore,” the Diamond continued. “But when you look at a deck of cards, make no mistake, those cards still tell a story. And it’s a story that always ends the same way…”
“With a knight murdering the church.”
“There you go. Now you see Vignolles’s warning—and why he wanted to change that story. When his signal was given…”
“His knights would murder the king,” Tot whispered.
“Or murder whatever leader was in charge when there was no king,” the Diamond countered.
Confused, Tot asked, “What’re you talking about?”
“You think I just keep a stash of antique aces for no good reason?” the Diamond asked, motioning to the ace of spades with the ancient eagle. “Those cards you brought in here—they’re the same ones that belonged to George Washington.”
60
Marshall. You remember him?” Clementine asks, sounding energized as she grips her wig.
“Of course I remember him,” I reply weakly. “Marshall was my friend.”
“He was? I forgot that,” she admits, still not putting her wig on. “According to Dr. Yoo, before Marshall’s dad was in the wheelchair, he was a plankholder too. They were young back then, before any of us came along or—”
“Clementine, when was the last time you saw Marshall?”
“I dunno, when did he move away? I think I was… maybe thirteen or fourteen?”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“Where would I see him?”
“What about speaking to him? Have you spoken to him?”
“Beecher, you okay
?”
“Please just answer the question.”
“Y-You’re acting like—”
“Just answer the question, Clementine! Have you spoken to Marshall or not!?”
Clementine’s eyes go wide, then quickly narrow and tighten, clicking back and forth like she’s frisking me for information.
“You spoke to him, didn’t you?” she blurts. “You know something about Marshall.”
“I don’t—”
“You do, Beecher. I know you do. Your left eyebrow goes up when you lie.”
“Clementine, I barely saw the guy…”
“Hold on. You saw him!? I told you! I knew it!” Rushing forward, she grabs me by the front of my shirt, like she’s about to attack. “What’d he say to you!? You need to tell me!”
“Are you high? Let go of me!”
“Tell me what he said, Beecher!”
“I said, let go!”
“Then tell me what the hell is going on!” she demands, tugging harder on my shirt and still clutching her wig. It’s so close to my nose it smells like wet fur. “Tell me what Marshall said about Nico!”
I pull back, confused. Nico? This has nothing to do with Nico.
Before I say a word, her eyes flood with tears and her shoulders fall. “I told you everything about your dad, everything I knew,” she says, steeling her jaw and refusing to let herself cry. “How can you not tell me what you know about mine?”
“I don’t know anything, Clemmi. I swear to you.”
“But you saw Marshall, didn’t you? You spoke to him?”
“Yes, but when I spoke to him, it wasn’t about Nico. It had nothing to do with Nico. Or the plankholders.”
She looks left, then right, like she can’t get her bearings. I’ve never seen her so rattled. In fact, I’ve never seen her rattled.
With her hands shaking, she touches her ear, brushing an imaginary curl of hair behind her bare earlobe. At this point, some things are pure instinct. “If this isn’t about Nico, then why were you talking to Marshall?”
“Because we’re trying to figure out if… it sounds crazy when I say it out loud.”
