The Fifth Assassin

by Brad Meltzer

  I know where we are. Nearly every cabin in Camp David is named after a tree: Laurel, Hickory, Birch, Dogwood. Elm is home to the Secret Service command post. That means…

  I glance over my shoulder. There are more ranch-style cabins in every direction. The whole place looks like Boy Scout camp. But directly across the snow-covered field, there’s a perfect view of one bigger cabin: a rustic but elegant California-style bungalow with a low-pitched gable roof, tall brick chimney, and wide bulletproof windows. Even without the four agents in winter coats standing along the front steps, there’s no doubt that I’m looking at the cabin known as Aspen. The President’s house.

  “They’re gonna try and kill Wallace. In seventeen minutes,” I tell the agent in the sweater who’s watching Palmiotti.

  “Stewie, tell him to keep his mouth shut,” the agent with small ears warns, running the metal detector up the front of my legs, toward my chest.

  “Beecher, let them do their job. They’ll get us to who we need to see,” Palmiotti insists as Small Ears grips my shoulder and spins me back toward him, away from the President’s cabin.

  At my chest, the detector beep-beep-beeps. The other agent, a tall Muslim man, pulls his gun, pointing it at my heart. In the distance, through the bare trees, two different snipers—one on another cabin’s roof… one in a tree—appear from nowhere.

  “Whoa—no—it’s a key. Just a key,” I tell them as I pull out the old skeleton key that I wear around my neck. The Muslim agent lowers his gun. It doesn’t make anyone unclench. The snipers stay where they are.

  There’s a loud zuu-zeee as the detector curves up my neck, to my chin. Wanding complete.

  “You should wand him too,” I insist, pointing at Palmiotti. I’m done taking chances. He may’ve been helpful getting us here, but that doesn’t mean I trust him.

  Palmiotti raises his hands, knowing the Service think the same. But it’s not until the agent steps toward Palmiotti and moves the buzzing wand away from my ears that I realize just how quiet it is here. And how alone we are.

  I shift my weight, hearing the crunch of rocks below my feet. There’s a high-pitched hum that always lurks around campgrounds, and a far-off squawk of a distant bird. I glance around, but there are no staffers, no bigshots, not even a stray golf cart. This place feels like a ghost town. In fact, as I scan the compound and check each residence, every single cabin has its lights off… except for Wallace’s. A wisp of smoke twirls from his brick chimney. It’s just him and his family.

  Across the snow-covered field, all four of the agents outside the President’s house are staring only at me.

  One by one, I search each of their faces. They’re all wearing winter coats and khakis. None of them match A.J.’s description. That means A.J.’s inside, closest to the President. But for the first time, I wonder if that’s good or—

  “He’s clear,” the agent with the small ears calls out behind me as he finishes wanding Palmiotti.

  Up on our left, toward the porch, there’s a low metal thunk. Like a bank vault unlocking.

  At the top of the concrete steps, the front door of the Secret Service’s Elm cabin swings open, revealing a Secret Service agent with thin curly hair that’s graying at the temples. He’s not in sweater and khakis. He’s suit-and-tied. We’re moving up the chain of command.

  “Reed, before you say anything,” Palmiotti pleads.

  Reed shoots him a look that’s usually saved for drunk relatives. “Get them inside,” he barks to his agents as they fall in behind us and usher us into the cabin. For a full thirty seconds, I think everything’s going perfectly.

  97

  Inside the Secret Service house, it’s no different from any rustic foyer. Hardwood floors. Wood-paneled walls. There’s even an iron umbrella stand in the corner. But as I look to my left, in what was designed to be the living room, there are two side-by-side desks. Both are covered with an array of high-tech radio consoles and TV monitors. From the bird’s-eye view of the cameras, these are the feeds from the hundreds of security cams throughout Camp David.

  “This way,” Reed says, leading us away from the surveillance room.

  There’s a Secret Service agent at the desk with more TVs. The other desk—the one with more radio equipment and views of the President’s helicopter—is manned by two uniformed marines, one of whom is wearing headphones and presumably scanning marine frequencies. Forget the three outdoor fences. This is why Palmiotti said Camp David was safer than the White House. Even assuming you get past the Park Service… even if you fight your way past the Secret Service… you still have to take on the marines.

  “They ready for us?” Reed calls out as we follow him into the room on our right. I’ve read about rooms like this: a Secret Service down room. Filled with old couches, folding chairs, and a small TV, it’s where the agents rest and relax when they’re not on post. But what catches my eye is what’s at the back of the room: a heavy steel door with a high-tech card swipe, and next to it, an old gray phone built into the wall.

  It reminds me of the SCIFs we have at the Archives—the bombproof saferooms where the most classified documents are read. Like ours, this one has redundancies built-in: In addition to swiping your card, you also have to be cleared in manually.

  On cue, Agent Reed swipes his ID through the scanner and then looks up toward the ceiling. A thin security cam, like the ones in the White House, stares down at us. “Viv, coming down,” he announces.

  Down?

  There’s a pregnant poomp—my ears pop—and the airtight steel door opens toward us. The foul whiff of—I can’t place the smell, but it’s awful as it wafts through the room.

  I look back toward Palmiotti, who nods that it’s okay.

  Before I can change my mind, Agent Reed grips my shoulder and adds a not-so-subtle shove. As I near the threshold, I finally place the smell. Burnt hair.

  With our first step through the doorway, automated lights blink awake. Another burst of foul cool air belches from below. Industrial metal stairs go at least two stories down.

  This isn’t a saferoom. Or a SCIF. Or even a basement.

  This is where they brought President Bush after 9/11. One of the safest places in the entire United States. The real hidden tunnel below Camp David.

  98

  Eighteen years ago

  Sagamore, Wisconsin

  By now, it ran like clockwork.

  The school bell rang at 3 p.m., and most kids reached the schoolyard by 3:05. Of course, there was always some screwing around in the schoolyard… a quick game of boxball or off-the-wall… and then the extra lingering that weeded out anyone with after-school commitments, tutors or piano lessons.

  By 3:20, the group was set. There were sometimes a few variations, but like any neighborhood bar, the regulars were the regulars: Marshall, Beecher, Paglinni, Lee Rosenberg, Paul Mackles, and the rest. Every day, they’d gather around Marshall, humming impatiently in place until they found the critical mass that sent them weaving back across the six-block, eight-minute trip to their final destination: Marshall’s treehouse. No two ways around it, the Watchtower was finally living up to its name.

  “Dibs on the beanbag!” Paglinni called out.

  “I get the other!” Paul Mackles added as the rest of the group spread out, taking seats on the foldout beds, on the floor, or, as Lee Rosenberg (in his Lee jeans) always did, alone on one of the milk crates.

  Otherwise, as Marshall gathered the porn from the hiding spots—in the Lucky Charms box… under the mattresses in the foldout beds—there was no arguing. As he handed out copies, they all knew the math. There were seven magazines in total, so the group would peacefully, without fuss, silently pair off into seven smaller factions. Paglinni usually got his own. Same with Mackles and any of the other older ones. The rest would share.

  At this point, after nearly two weeks with their X-rated contraband, every member of the group had been through the photos hundreds of times. But that didn’t mean they were finished. Like
the pubescent vultures they were, they scoured every single page for something new, something unseen. They read the articles, the ads, the interviews, even the letters page, in the hopes it would contain some new piece of illicit information.

  On this day, Eddie Williams realized that in Chic, at the bottom of every Letter to the Sexpert, they’d print the letter writer’s full name and address, prompting Paglinni to wonder what would happen if they wrote a letter to Coco Bean.

  “We should tell her we’re tall. She likes tall men,” Paul Mackles said.

  “Are you illiterate?” Paglinni asked with a laugh. “She likes big men. When she says big, she doesn’t mean tall.”

  “Then what’s she—? Oh. Ew,” Mackles said as the group piled on, their laughter echoing through the treehouse. Then, at precisely 5:15 p.m., Marshall’s mom would get home from work at the church and yell up to the treehouse that it was time for everyone to go.

  On this night, though, Marshall’s mom was working late. So whatever they were laughing at, it continued well into the dark. Beecher was laughing. Paglinni was laughing. Even Lee Rosenberg, still in his Lee jeans, still sitting alone on the milk crate in the corner, was laughing.

  In twelve years, most of them had shared nothing in common, but tonight they were one unit. And at the center of it, finally the ringmaster, Marshall relished every second. Even Beecher couldn’t argue with the uncontainable joy that lit up his friend’s chubby face.

  They had porn; they had friends; they had laughter.

  By tomorrow night, it would all be gone.

  99

  Today

  Camp David

  The clanging is loud, like we’re in a submarine, as we descend the metal staircase.

  Agent Reed leads the way, followed by me and Palmiotti. Behind us, there’s another loud pooomp as the agent with the small ears yanks the steel door shut, sealing all four of us down here as we head for the hidden tunnels below.

  I’d heard rumors they existed. In the Archives, we have most of Camp David’s building plans. According to some, the tunnels are part of an underground shelter that connects with the President’s cabin and has its own secret entrance that’s built into the President’s bedroom closet. If there’s an emergency, the Service can burst out of his closet and grab him at a moment’s notice.

  “So this’ll take us to Wallace?” I ask.

  Reed doesn’t answer.

  I don’t mind the silence. What I mind is the smell, which is stronger than ever. My stomach lurches with each whiff of it.

  Burnt hair.

  You okay? Palmiotti asks with a glance.

  I nod, trying to keep pace, but I know something’s wrong.

  From the industrial design of the staircase, the cinderblock walls, and the buzzy fluorescent lighting, the whole place feels like a 1960s bomb shelter. But there’s no missing the recent additions: motion detectors in the corner… a chemical sniffer that I spotted when we first walked in… and a thin plastic sheath—like flypaper—that coats the metal banister. I don’t even want to think what it’s for. What really matters is, if the world goes boom, this is where they’ll rebuild it from.

  As we reach the first landing, an open door reveals a narrow hallway, like an old hospital, lined with doors on both sides. Agent Reed keeps going, down toward the lower level. My ears again tighten and pop. By my count, we’re at least two or three stories underground, and all I can think about is that when Richard Nixon’s secretary, Rose Mary Woods, transcribed the Nixon tapes and famously lost eighteen and a half minutes, it was at Camp David, where no one would see the crime.

  With a final thump, Reed slams down on the final metal step, his feet slapping against the concrete. We’re at rock bottom, or at least the bottom of the stairwell.

  Reed’s pace never diminishes. As I follow him through the threshold and into a hallway that’s lined with closed doors, the ceiling gets lower, but the fluorescent lighting stays bright.

  “Here, we’re in here,” Reed says, leading us into the first room on our left. Like the stairwell, the walls are cinderblock and bare. There’s not much inside: an army barrack metal bed, a matching government-issue dresser, and in the corner, a new Secret Service agent—a pale Irish-looking man with a pointy nose—who sits at a wooden desk and is watching something on TV. This isn’t like the surveillance room, though. As far as I can tell, these are sleeping quarters.

  “We’re all clear, sir,” the Irish agent calls out, standing up as we enter. “He’s on his way.”

  I hesitate, staying back by the door, still unsure what’s really going on. But I know what he means. He is always the President.

  “Relax. Take a breath, Beecher,” Reed says, his voice now warm and friendly. “You did good.”

  He gives me a small smile and I can’t help but smile back, feeling strangely comfortable as I step into the room. “So Wallace is safe?” I ask. “You got him covered?”

  “You have nothing to worry about,” Reed says. “The President has never been safer.”

  Behind him, on the TV, I catch a glimpse of a waving American flag. But as the camera pulls out, I see that it’s one of the tiny flags on the front of the President’s private limo, the black Cadillac known as the Beast. The way the handheld camera’s shaking… this is the Service’s live surveillance footage.

  As the door to the car opens, President Wallace steps out, followed by his young daughter. They don’t wave or look around. They head straight for their destination. But from the background, from the black pavement where they’re parked—

  “President and his daughter on her school trip,” one of the agents announces.

  School trip? But wasn’t that—? I squint at the TV, confused. I thought they canceled the school trip. Wallace took a helicopter here. So how’d—? I don’t understand. “Wallace brought the school trip here?”

  Reed looks over at Palmiotti, then back to me. “I’m sorry, Beecher.”

  From behind, the Irish agent grabs my arm, nearly pulling my shoulder from its socket. There’s a loud kk-kk-kk as something bites my wrist. A handcuff. Then another kk-kk-kk and a metal clang. I look down as—I’m handcuffed to the metal foot of the bed.

  “What’re you—? Get these off me!” I shout, trying to tug myself free. The cuffs bite deeper into my wrist. The bed’s bolted to the floor.

  “You’re not listening, Beecher. You can wait here until he’s done,” Reed says. “Our job’s to keep him safe.”

  “Safe!? I just told you someone’s gonna try and kill him here in the next ten minutes! Why would you suddenly let him walk around Camp David!?”

  “Camp David?” Reed asks, his lips curved in a thin smile. “You really think we’d let you through the gates if the President was still at Camp David?”

  Onscreen, the camera cuts to a wide shot of familiar marble columns and the wide steps that run up to it. Everyone knows that building.

  “Breaking news,” the agent at the TV teases. “President Wallace surprises daughter at Lincoln Memorial.”

  I tighten my glance, making sure I’m seeing it right. Wallace holds his daughter’s hand as they make their way toward what looks like the back of the Lincoln Memorial. But this event… this tour of the Memorial… they said it was canceled. The press said he was coming to Camp David. I saw the footage of them all getting on board the helicopt—

  No. I saw his wife get on board. And their son. Then the helicopter took off. Which means—

  “President Wallace was never on that helicopter, was he?” I ask, trying to step toward him as the handcuffs tug me back. “You never had any intention of bringing the President here!”

  “We’ve got four deaths mirroring four different assassinations,” Reed explains. “You really think we’re gonna sit on our thumbs and let there be a fifth?”

  “But if you—”

  “I told you, Beecher, our job is to keep the President safe. And do you know the best way to do that? You take him to a place where no one knows he’s comi
ng. Or at least… well… where most people don’t know he’s coming,” he adds, tossing a quick thank-you look at Palmiotti, who grins back, gloating like a toad with newfound flies.

  A flush of blood runs through my ears. My wrist swells from the bite of the handcuff. He knew. He knew all along. That’s why he took me here—he knew Wallace was somewhere else.

  Palmiotti stares at the TV, refusing to look my way. “You protect your friends; I protect mine,” he tells me.

  “You think Wallace is your friend? How many times can he chew you up and crap you out before you realize you don’t owe him anything?”

  “Think whatever you want of me, Beecher. What Wallace and I have been through… When I buried my father and had to identify the body, he was the one standing next to me. In his will, I was the one named to take care of his kids in case he died. He was the same for mine. When that person leaves your life, you have any idea how bad you want him back?”

  As he says the words, all I can see is my own mental image of Tot in the hospital, lying there with a bullet in his head. No brain activity. The anger hits so fast, I nearly bite through my tongue.

  “YOU SPINELESS TOADY! YOU KNOW HOW MUCH PAIN YOU CAUSED!?” I scream, lashing out with my free hand and grabbing his neck. I dig my fingers into his scar. I don’t let go. My fingers burrow down. His scar goes purple as I press even harder. No question, his skin’s about to split—

  Puuum.

  The punch clips me in the back of the head, knocking me to the ground. The Secret Service are all over me.

  “Get off me!” I scream, thrashing and kicking wildly as flecks of spit fly from my mouth.

  The Irish agent grabs my free arm; Small Ears grabs my legs. I fight hard, refusing to let them take hold, but…

  I have no chance. They’re the Secret Service. They train for this every day. Without a single word uttered—without even a grunt—the Irish agent presses his thick forearm across my neck. As I gasp for air, they pin me to the cold concrete ground, my handcuffed arm still hooked to the bed and raised, like a kid in junior high asking a question of the teacher.