The Fifth Assassin

by Brad Meltzer

  Without a word, Nico lowers his chin and drills me with a dark glare.

  From behind us, a determined wind shoves against my back. “You asked the Knight to kill Pastor Riis, didn’t you? You pointed him to the first victim.”

  Staying silent, Nico stares straight at me. “In my experience, Benjamin, you can’t make a man do what he doesn’t already want to.”

  As I turn away, my brain tries to fill in the rest. Riis was practice. Then when the copycat murders started… first the rector from St. John’s… then Pastor Frick from Foundry Church. Both of them spent time with the President—but both also studied under Riis. For it all to be tied together… “Nico, is that how the Knight found his other victims? What started with Riis then led to—”

  “You keep focusing on the lambs. But look at their locations too: Look at the temples—look what he’s working toward. His is an act of God.”

  “Why? Because he thinks he’s protecting the church?”

  “You keep saying that. You keep insisting that in the playing cards, they’re protecting the church. But you’re forgetting the real mission of Vignolles and his sacred Knights. From the start, the Knights weren’t just protecting the church. They were protecting the church’s greatest secret.”

  “And what secret is that?”

  Nico tilts his head, looking at me like I’m still arguing that the world is flat. “Isn’t it obvious, Benjamin? They protect the real Name of God.”

  76

  In the beginning, the Knight had doubts too. How could he not?

  Even now, as he walked slowly down the hospital hallway, toward the chapel at the far end, he thought back to those moments when he first heard the story, about the true Name of God. There was no arguing with what really happened. Or that it happened over and over throughout history.

  For Jews, the true Name of God was said only once each year, by the high priest in the Temple. To protect it, the Hebrews used YHWH—the four consonants of the Hebrew name for God—saying that the vowels should be hidden and the real Name should never be pronounced. To protect it even further, they later replaced it with Adonai, which meant Lord. In the Christian Bible, God gave Jesus the “Name above all Names,” which began as The Anointed One, then The Christ, then Jesus Christ, then Lord and YHWH. And in the Muslim religion, where God is known as Allah, God is said to have ninety-nine names, and that those who know all of God’s Names will enter Paradise.

  Indeed, the issue remained such a potent one throughout history that as recently as 2008, the Vatican issued a directive that said, when it came to the Name of God, the name Yahweh could no longer be “used or pronounced” in any songs or prayers.

  It was this essential question that the Knight could not let go of: What power could the Name of God really hold that all three religions still treat it with such reverence, even to this day?

  Over the centuries, dozens of theories developed. Ancient healers supposedly used God’s real Name to cure the sick. Early grimoires said that the Name of God unlocked untold power. And exorcists and mystics insisted that those who controlled the Name of God could control God Himself.

  Even the Knight knew that was crazy. Just as his predecessor in the fifteenth century—Étienne de Vignolles… the Chosen Knight… the Sacred Knight—knew that the true Name of God had nothing to do with magic powers or mystical exaggerations.

  Still, century after century, religion after religion, there were always those who sought power by claiming to know God’s real Name. But as Vignolles found out when he was trusted by both church and king, great power didn’t come from knowing the Name of God.

  Great power came from hiding it.

  Over the course of centuries, so many religious answers have been lost. But as for the true Name of God, those answers were purposely hidden.

  For thousands of years, so much good has been done in the Name of God. But also, the First Knight was asked, how much harm has been done—by Christians, by Jews, by Muslims alike—because of their assumption of exclusiveness? How many throats have been slit? How many innocents slaughtered? Religions have built empires, launched crusades, and fought some of the world’s bloodiest wars based on the differences in how they viewed God.

  But what if there was no difference? How would the followers of Jesus, or Allah, or Adonai react if the real secret of secrets—the greatest secret of all—was simply this: that for every religion, the true Name of God was exactly the same? Forget Christian God, Muslim God, or Hebrew God. Think of the power that would be lost if there were just…

  One God.

  Vignolles was shaken too when he first heard the story. He didn’t want to believe it. No one would believe it. But to hear the rumblings from the king’s court… from someone so respected… how could it be ignored? Unsure of what to do, Vignolles did the only thing he always did before a battle.

  He prayed.

  In no time, he had his answer. The story of One God was a blasphemy—a lie!—and if the king were to ever bring it to light…

  Luckily, Vignolles didn’t have to pull his sword. King Charles VII never reached the heights of power that would let him challenge the church.

  Still, Vignolles knew this was a problem that would rise again. When it did, a new Knight would be needed. From there, the secret army took shape. Preparations were made. Instructions written. And the symbols—of hearts, spades, diamonds, and clubs—were incorporated into the one place no one would ever think to notice.

  For centuries, Vignolles’s playing cards would carry his warning of how the king could destroy the church. And for centuries, the chosen Knights would lie in wait, taking on chancellors, emperors, monarchs, tsars, and anyone else whose growing influence and claim of unity might interfere with the primacy of church power. Including, even, a President.

  Six centuries later, the current Knight—the Knight of the fifth and final symbol—reached the end of the hospital’s long hallway and approached the Interfaith Chapel. A place that treated every religion the same. How perfect.

  The plaster Abraham Lincoln mask was hidden inside his jacket. So was his Iver Johnson revolver. Behind him, the slowed-down version of “Little Red Corvette” still echoed on the piano.

  From his pants pocket, the Knight pulled out a white linen handkerchief and, like Czolgosz, the third assassin, folded the handkerchief, then unfolded it again, then folded it, and unfolded it again, finally using it to hide the revolver as he tugged it—so carefully—from his jacket pocket.

  He checked the hallway one last time. It was quiet back by the chapel. Grabbing the door-pull with his left hand, he held his right hand out, like he was offering a handshake, just like Czolgosz did over a hundred years ago.

  Every generation has its Knight. And every Knight knows his sacred mission.

  “Chaplain Stoughton…?” the Knight called out, tugging open the stained glass door. As the smell of rose candles wafted past him, he lifted the Lincoln mask into place and couldn’t help but think that Nico was right. With each new lamb, he was definitely getting stronger. “Chaplain Stoughton, are you in there?”

  77

  You’re joking, right? The Name of God?” I ask.

  “Most people don’t want to believe it,” Nico says.

  I glance over at Clementine, who’s still digesting it herself. Even for Nico, it’s a new level on the tinfoil-hat scale.

  “You asked about the Knight’s mission,” Nico adds, eyeing the two squirrels spiraling around the tree. “Now you won’t accept it?”

  “So everything you told us… about the Knights and God’s Name…” Clementine interrupts. “Is that true?”

  Nico turns slowly toward his daughter, his crooked smile crawling back in place. “Does it matter if it’s true? Or only that the Knight believes it’s true?”

  “And that’s why he’s killing pastors?” I ask. “He thinks he’s on a holy mission?”

  “He knows he’s on a holy mission. Why do you think he’ll only kill in temples? Look at his pred
ecessors! Why did John Wilkes Booth pick Good Friday—the most solemn day in the Christian calendar—to take down the king? Why did Czolgosz say that he could’ve shot his king at Niagara Falls, but instead wanted to shoot him at the temple?”

  “Time out. Lincoln wasn’t—”

  “Lincoln was a king! Just as Garfield and McKinley—and JFK—all were at the height of their power! Just as Wallace is today!”

  As Nico raises his voice, the perimeter guard, who’s still pretty far away, turns toward us. When it comes to Nico, they don’t take chances. The guard’s not just watching anymore. He heads toward the curving concrete path, coming our way.

  Nico leans to his left, like someone’s whispering in his ear. I almost forgot. His imaginary friend.

  “Benjamin, do you remember what I told you the first time we ever met?” he finally asks.

  “You said I was the reincarnation of Benedict Arnold.”

  “No. I told you about your soul. I told you we all have souls, and that our souls have missions. Missions that we repeat over and over, until we conquer them. That’s the battle you’re facing here.”

  “So now this is my mission?” I ask skeptically.

  “It’s all our mission. You, me, the President… Do you know what entanglement theory is, Benjamin?” Before I can answer, he’s already into it. “Scientists found that when two subatomic particles come in contact with one another, they’re forever entangled. Even when they leave each other’s presence, if you reverse the spin on one—no matter where they are—the other one automatically reverses its spin. It’s the same in life. The moment you meet someone, you cannot be unchained.”

  Clementine is silent. I can’t tell if she’s horrified or mesmerized. But she can’t take her eyes off him.

  “It’s why I’m chained to the Knight,” Nico adds. “He came to me thinking I was the Knight. That I was the chosen one. But don’t you see? The mission is his!”

  “Nico, you need to lower your voice.”

  “Look at the cards—think of the roles that Vignolles picked all those centuries ago: king, knight, knave. Always king, knight, knave. These roles exist forever, Benjamin. Always chained together. King Wallace rules. The Knight slays. And the Knave—Do you know what the Knave does?”

  “The Knave serves. He’s the servant.”

  “No. Look at the original meaning. The Knave is the Trickster—the one who claims to fight for good, but brings only darkness with him. That’s why the Knave always dies in battle, or causes others to die, Benjamin. So as you leave here—as you try to stop the Knight—don’t you see? That’s your role, Benjamin. You’re the Knave. You’re the one who’ll die in battle.”

  On our left, one of the two fighting squirrels gets a piece of the other, sending him skidding across the snow. But he rights himself so quickly, it’s like it never happened.

  “Nico, I came here to save innocent lives.”

  “You say that, but what were the first questions you asked? You wanted to know about your father. Then about the burned man, about Marshall. Which haunts you more, Benjamin? The victims, or your own childhood guilt?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m trying to catch a murderer.”

  “Then if that’s the case, why haven’t you asked me one question about the next murder? We all know it’s coming; we all know who the Knight is building toward. So why haven’t you asked one question about how he’s going to kill King Wallace?” Nico asks, his voice grinding louder than ever. Clementine swallows hard, glancing at the guard walking toward us. “I’ll tell you the answer, Benjamin. It’s because, in your heart, you’d be happy to see the President dead. You’re the Knave, the bringer of evil. That’s why the Knave dies—and causes others to die with him.”

  In my pocket, I feel my phone vibrate. I don’t bother to look.

  “Nico, do you really know when the next murder will take place?” I ask.

  “I told you: This is destiny, Benjamin. The Knight can’t be stopped.”

  My phone continues to vibrate. I still don’t answer. On our left, the guard’s getting closer, approaching the curving concrete path. He pulls out a walkie-talkie, but we can’t hear what he says.

  “Nico, if you know something,” Clementine pleads. “Please… Dad… Tell Beecher. He can help you. He can get stuff for you.”

  Nico turns at the words. He kicks his shoulders back and stands up straight.

  “That’s not true,” I say.

  “Nico, everything okay?” the guard calls out.

  Nico pretends not to hear. “What can you get me, Benjamin?”

  “Tell us what you want,” Clementine says.

  Nico doesn’t even have to think about it. He looks at me, but points at Clementine. “I want to talk to her. Without you. I want to know why she’s wearing a wig.”

  Clementine stutters. “It’s not a—”

  “I know it’s a wig. I need to know why you’re sick,” he demands, his voice cracking. Eyeing the guard in the distance, he’s fighting to hold it together. At his chest, he clutches his book tighter than ever.

  My phone vibrates again, but goes silent when I don’t pick up. “We didn’t come here to make deals,” I say.

  “Beecher, it’s okay.” She turns to her father. “If I stay, you’ll tell us when the next murder is?”

  I wait for Nico’s eyes to narrow. They don’t. They go wide. Like a child. “You’ll really stay? You’ll talk to me about your sickness?”

  “I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t want to talk to you.”

  Two days ago, I would’ve said she’s working him. But last night, I saw the tears in her eyes. And those freckles along her bald head. It’s still her father.

  “Nico, you hear what I said?” the guard calls out from about half a block away. “Everything okay?”

  Once again, Nico leans back and to the side. Final advice from his imaginary friend. This time, he disagrees with her.

  “Please, Nico,” Clementine pleads. “Tell us when the next murder is.”

  Holding his wrist out, Nico glances at his watch like a proper butler checking teatime. “The murder already happened. Ten minutes ago.”

  My phone again starts to vibrate. My throat goes so dry, I can’t feel my tongue. As I pull my phone out, caller ID shows me a randomly generated number from an area code that doesn’t exist. Only one person has that.

  “Beecher, you need to get out of there,” Immaculate Deception demands in his computerized voice.

  “What’re you talking about? What’s wrong?”

  “You haven’t heard, have you?”

  “Heard what?”

  He pauses, leaving me with the high-pitched squeal that leaks from my phone. “Beecher, when was the last time you heard from Tot?”

  PART IV

  The Fourth Assassination

  “You know, last night would’ve been a hell of a night to kill a President.”

  —President John F. Kennedy,

  three hours before he was shot

  He was the fourth President murdered in office.

  78

  Ten minutes earlier

  Stepping out of the elevator, Tot was thinking about coffee.

  Not the taste of it. The smell of it.

  He didn’t smell it now; hospitals smelled of ammonia and bleach, not fresh-roasted coffee grinds.

  But as Tot speed-limped up the first-floor hallway, trying to move as quickly as he could to the chapel in back, he couldn’t help but think about the smell of coffee from all those years ago—after his wife’s brain aneurism—when she was the one in the hospital. Back when she was first admitted, the doctors said it wasn’t that bad, that she’d recover. But when her liver and kidneys began to fail and the paralysis started causing bedsores, Tot didn’t need a medical degree to know what was coming.

  The doctors wanted her transferred to hospice, but one of the senior nurses in the unit knew Tot from the Archives. Tot helped the nurse find the documents that prove
d her great-great-grandfather—a slave at the time—fought during the Civil War. She made sure Tot’s wife stayed in that private room in the ICU.

  Over the course of the next week, Tot would sit at her bedside, staring at the plastic accordion tube that ran down from his wife’s neck—the feeding and breathing tube—that was still spattered with blood from where it entered her throat. He watched his wife’s weight plummet to less than a hundred pounds, her skin sagging against her cheekbones. She didn’t even know Tot anymore. When they could rouse her… if they could rouse her… the only question she could answer was, What’s your sister’s name?

  But for Tot, the very worst came in those final days, when the nurses began stocking the room with open coffee cans filled with freshly ground beans. At first, Tot didn’t understand. Then he realized… the coffee cans were there so he couldn’t smell what was happening to his wife’s body.

  It was that lingering thought—of cheap Chock Full O’ Nuts French Roast—that nibbled through Tot’s brain as he reached the far end of the hallway and approached the stained glass door of the chapel.

  Grabbing the door-pull of the chapel and determined to refocus on the task at hand, he let the memories of his wife dissipate. He tried thinking about what Immaculate Deception had said, that all of the Knight’s victims were clergy members who had spent at least some time with the President. As Tot just found out, the hospital pastor—Pastor Stoughton—had done the same when President Wallace was here last year. But as Tot gave the door-pull a tug, the smell of coffee still lingered.

  “Pastor Stoughton?” Tot called out, stepping inside and smelling… he knew that smell too… that burnt smell like fireworks or…

  Gunpowder.

  “Pastor, are you—?”

  Tot almost tripped on the coat-rack, a wooden one. It was lying diagonally across the carpet. Like someone had knocked it over.

  As he stepped over it, he heard breathing. Heavy breathing. Like someone panting. Or crying.

  Feeling time harden into slow motion, Tot headed deeper into the room. It was difficult to walk, as if he were moving underwater. As he looked around to his right, he saw the blood—small drips of it, like a barely spilled soda dotting the light beige carpet. Behind that was her body.