by Brad Meltzer
The same thing happened the last time someone took a shot at President Wallace. After the 9/11 attacks, when President Bush was chaotically hopscotched across the country, the Secret Service learned its lesson. Since then, protocols have been put in place for terrorist and other assassination scenarios. Today, the Service doesn’t just randomly decide where to hide the commander in chief. Those decisions were made years ago, based on thoughtful research and careful threat analysis. When there’s a threat at the White House, they move the President to Camp David; when there’s a threat at Camp David, they know the next spot too. But from what I can tell, Riestra’s carving a new path.
“He’s not gonna be happy. Mrs. Wallace either,” Francy warns.
“Y’know what’ll make them even less happy? Having their heads separated from their bodies,” Riestra says.
Francy grits her teeth. Riestra’s assistant heads to the corner and starts whispering something into his wrist. But based on the infighting—and the fact that the White House and Camp David have already been compromised—this isn’t just about how Nico, or White Eyelashes, or whoever’s doing this, broke in. It’s that this person has the Service’s private playbook, and he knows where the President—and First Lady—will be next.
“You sure you’re not doing exactly what this killer wants you to do?” I ask.
Riestra turns back to me.
“Think about it,” I tell him. “Last time Nico attacked—and used the invisible ink—he knew I’d break his code. He was counting on it. In fact, when we chased after him—Francy, I know you know this—that’s when someone else took an open shot at the President. For all you know, they’re doing the same thing here.”
“That’s the beauty of being spontaneous,” Riestra says. “No one knows where Wallace is going but us.”
“That’s not true! Just to move him, your agents know!”
“He’s got a point. Listen to him,” Francy says.
“Francy, Beecher…I appreciate both your advice. But we’re done here.”
“Don’t do this! When it comes to Nico, he’s not— For all you know, his whole goal is to get you out of your protocols! Maybe that’s what he—!”
“I said we’re done.” Behind me, his deputy puts a hand on my shoulder, lifts me from my seat, and shoves me toward Francy and the door. As I stumble, Riestra again readjusts his glasses, his smile wider than ever. “Don’t worry, Beecher. As long as I’m taking care of Wallace, he’ll be perfectly safe.”
52
The door slams behind me like a thunderclap, leaving me alone on the second-floor landing.
When I caught Riestra staring at the mail slot, I thought President Wallace might still be in the building. But as I trudge downstairs, I finally see who it really was. I forgot he was here, always listening.
A.J. glances up, then quickly looks away. Body language says he’s pissed, maybe at me; maybe at his boss. Either way, it’s something to exploit.
“I’m surprised they kept you down here instead of up there,” I say, hoping to put him on my side.
He looks me square in the face, nearly a full head taller than me. “Eat a bag of shit, Beecher.”
With a shove on the door, he points me into the bright cold. But just before the door closes, I glance back, catching A.J. staring my way. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t make a face. But he’s watching. And thinking.
I don’t care how tough he is. Y’know what they call the person who does all the work but gets none of the credit? An opportunity.
Three steps from the storefront, my phone vibrates over and over again. Seven voicemails. Upstairs, they were blocking my cell, and yes, even for them, that’s illegal.
Caller ID shows seven different randomly generated numbers. I know who that is. As I call her back, she picks up on the first ring. “They give you anything good?” Immaculate Deception asks.
“First things first. Please tell me you found something.”
“Of course I found something. Tanner Pope,” her robot-generated voice says, referring to the Reagan Secret Service agent who owned the orange lapel pin and who, like the owner of the missing arms, died just a few weeks ago. “When you look at Tanner’s death at the ripe old age of ninety-two, the poor guy didn’t even have an obit, much less anyone to come to a funeral.”
“So no family?” I ask.
“I didn’t say that. No wife. No kids. But according to the overly talkative receptionist at his nursing home, Pope apparently has a twenty-nine-year-old grandson. Name is Ezra.”
“You think that’s White Eyelashes?”
“It would explain how he got Grandpa Tanner’s Secret Service pin.”
I nod to myself. According to the medical examiner, the severed arms trace back to someone who’s a similar age. Late twenties, early thirties. “What do we know about Ezra?” I ask Mac.
“Bright guy. Grandpa Tanner was giving him money too: private school at Andover; undergrad at Yale; now doing graduate work at GW’s Elliott School, studying international security policy. No loans, no debt.”
Across the street, the two Secret Service agents are still sitting in the restaurant window, pretending to sip coffee. “Mac, why do I feel like there’s something you’re not saying?”
“Because, Beecher, those schools are the only places where Ezra’s left a trail. Other than a campus email, he’s got no driver’s license…no bank accounts…a P.O. box for his tax returns… I can’t even find a cell number. Living in the twenty-first century, the only time you see anonymity like that is with major wealth or witness protection.”
“So you couldn’t find anything?”
“What kind of computer genius do you take me for? Of course I found something: According to the registrar at GW, Ezra’s been on academic leave for the past two weeks.”
“Y’mean since his grandfather died?”
“Not just his grandfather,” Mac says, her robot voice starting to creak. “Apparently, poor Ezra’s roommate died too. Some kid named…”
“Kingston Young,” we both say simultaneously.
My windpipe constricts tighter than ever.
“How’d you know Kingston’s name?” Mac asks.
“The buried arms…that’s who they belong to,” I say, already running down the block, back to the Archives. “Mac, I need Ezra’s home address—”
“Already checked it out. Landlord said he hasn’t seen Ezra in weeks.”
“What about the victim? Does Kingston have family? Someone we can talk to?”
“Got it. On it.”
“By the way, your old pal Riestra sends his best.”
“Who?”
“Leonard Riestra. He said he worked with you and Tot.”
“Riestra? As in director of the Secret Service?” Mac asks. “He’s barely been on the job six months. I’ve never met Riestra in my life.”
53
Twenty-nine years ago
Devil’s Island
There was no funeral for Julian. On the island, there wasn’t even a coffin.
Instead, they tied his charred body to a field gurney and covered it with an American flag held in place by bungee cords. That was it. The body was there one day, gone the next. According to one of the guards, they put it on a coast guard cutter that took it to Homestead Air Force Base back in Florida.
It all happened so fast, Colonel Doggett didn’t even do the helmet, rifle, and boots service that’s done in every branch of the military. Whether you’re army, navy, air force, or marines, when there’s a fallen soldier—even a suicide—they display the helmet, rifle, and boots, giving everyone a chance to say a final prayer. But out here, Julian hadn’t had a helmet or a rifle. None of them did, Nico pointed out.
On their own, the remaining members of the Plankholders gathered in the dilapidated chapel on the second floor of the fort, where the red brickwork was most ornate. Joining hands, they lowered their heads. At the center of their circle was a handwritten note that someone had found among Julian�
�s belongings. Julian had written it to his older sister. From what they could tell, both their parents had died when they were young, and Julian wanted to thank her for all she’d done, and apologize for how he’d failed.
From that day forward, every member of the Plankholders, from Nico to Timothy to Alby, carried a pre-written goodbye note everywhere he went.
Colonel Doggett gave them the next day off, letting them fish and snorkel around the island, while Dr. Moorcraft gave each of them an extra pill to take at bedtime. “To help you relax,” he promised.
For the better part of a week, it seemed to work.
Then one night, Alby awoke at 2 a.m., sweating from the heat and holding his chest like someone was standing on it.
Bolting up, he frantically looked around. No one moved. Everyone else was asleep.
Out of habit, he checked Julian’s cot. A few days back, Timothy had swiped the pillow, but otherwise the bed was perfectly made. Yet as Alby glanced across the aisle to the other row of cots, he noticed a second bed was also empty.
Nico’s.
Probably just in the bathroom, go to bed, Alby told himself as he squinted through the dark. Unlike Julian’s bed, Nico’s was unmade, the covers thrown aside. The pillow still had a dent in it. But something on the top sheet caught Alby’s eye: a paperback book.
“Nico, you here?” Alby whispered toward the bathroom.
No answer.
Alby glanced back at the bed, and the paperback. Without even seeing the cover, he thought he knew what book it was, but there was only one way to know for sure.
Throwing his own top sheet aside, he scuttled across the aisle. The laminate floor puckered with each step. Halfway there, he could see the black-and-white photo of Dr. Mudd on the cover. For sure, it was Julian’s old book. The book he was reading the day before he—
The laminate floor puckered again. This time, on Alby’s far right. Not by the bathroom, by the door that led outside.
Alby spun toward the sound. The room was dark, and the door too far away to see anything clearly. Just muddy shadows.
“Nico, that you…?” Alby whispered. No answer. He looked down and noticed…Nico’s boots were gone.
Alby raced toward the bathroom, checking every stall. All empty. He glanced back at the main door. It was after curfew. If Nico had snuck out—
A flash of light flickered through a nearby window. By the time Alby turned, it was gone. Whatever it was, it had come from outside.
For the second time, Alby told himself to go back to bed. But he knew the rules. If Nico was caught out there this late, they’d all be paying the punishment.
Rushing for the door, Alby was still barefoot as he shoved it open. “Nico, if you’re out there, get back!” he hissed.
Something with a tail scampered under the barracks. There were rats all over the island. The grassy courtyard…the brick furnace…all of it was dark silver, glowing faintly in the moonlight. In the distance, ocean waves played their metronome. The only bright light came from Alby’s left, past the grove of date palm trees. A single window was lit in the redbrick New Orleans–style house that served as the officers’ quarters. Home to Colonel Doggett.
No. Please no. Nico, you’re smarter than that.
Of course, a week ago, Alby would’ve said the same thing about Julian.
Feeling the grass bite between his toes and hearing another small animal skitter through the darkness, Alby took off, rushing toward Colonel Doggett’s glowing window.
“Nico, you dumbass, where are you…?” he hissed again, ducking down and running low, passing palm tree after palm tree. Even at night, the hot island air burned his face. Sand was scattered through the grass, sticking to his feet. A mosquito bit his ear.
“Nico…!?” he whispered to his left, into the fort’s arched brick storage areas known as casemates. A century ago, the casemates had been designed to hold weapons and gunpowder. A few still did, holding barrels of gunpowder for the cannons. But most were just for storage, filled with tools, industrial spools of cables, and milk crates full of canteens and supplies.
A loud thud-thud-thud echoed up ahead, like someone coming down a flight of stairs.
Alby stopped, ducking behind a dying date palm tree with a cracked trunk. Up by Colonel Doggett’s house, a bright light flickered on the front porch. The screen door opened. Someone was coming out.
Peering out from behind the tree, Alby squinted into the dark. He could hear another mosquito orbiting his head, buzzing with a steady hum.
Doggett’s door opened wider. There were men talking, though from this distance, Alby couldn’t hear much. Couldn’t see them either. They were still inside.
“—much harder than you think,” one of them said, giving the door a final shove. Alby knew that voice. A bright fluorescent glow rolled across the front porch as Colonel Doggett stepped outside. He turned slightly, holding the door for someone behind him.
Fifty feet away, still crouched in the darkness, Alby gripped the date palm hard.
“Boat should be waiting for you,” Doggett added, glancing around as Alby ducked lower.
There was a hollow thunk thunk as two loud boots joined Doggett on the porch. At first, Alby assumed it was a guard…or even Dr. Moorcraft. Whoever it was, they were dressed in fatigues with no nametags or patches. Same as the first guards who’d found Alby after the plane crash and brought him into the Plankholders.
“So I’ll see you on the other side?” the stranger asked Doggett.
As Alby heard the voice, he balled his bare feet into the grass. He knew that voice, though it was happening so fast, Alby’s brain still hadn’t placed it.
It wasn’t until the stranger stepped outside—and the fluorescent lights lit his face…and his familiar red hair—that Alby realized it wasn’t a stranger at all.
Mother of God… How can that—?
Alby’s stomach sank to the dirt. The stray mosquito took a final orbit around his head. And right there, on the square porch of the redbrick house, was a man with pale freckles and a confident smile.
His red hair was buzzed, but it was starting to grow out. His shoulders were straight now, not slumped. And his skin was perfect: no burns, no bandages, not a single mark on him.
It… It can’t— It’s not possible. He died in the furnace eight days ago.
Julian.
That’s Julian.
54
Today
Baltimore, Maryland
I press the chipped, circular button, feeling it vibrate on my fingertip.
“Who’s there?” an older woman’s voice crackles through the intercom.
“My name’s Beecher White. I have a delivery. Needs a signature.”
There’s a pause, followed by a loud, metallic roar that no modern building would ever permit.
“How’s it look?” Mac asks through the phone in my ear. When I don’t reply, she adds, “Why’re you being so quiet?”
Pushing my way inside, I still don’t answer.
“Beecher, what’re you seeing? Something wrong?”
I’m in an area of Baltimore called Pigtown, which pretty much lives up to its name. A few blocks away, some of the apartment buildings and row houses have been refurbished. This four-story walk-up hasn’t. It’s not a terrible area. “It just reminds me of my neighborhood in Wisconsin,” I explain. “Working class. In another life, I’ve lived here before.”
“Welcome home, huh?”
I nod to myself as I climb the narrow staircase. The hallway smells of fresh paint, but there’s no missing the frayed gray carpet, loose banister, or missing metal treads on every third or fourth step. Our landlord used to do the same: adding new paint, hoping it would cover all problems.
“You can leave the package on the mat,” the woman yells through the door at apartment 4D.
“Sorry, ma’am. Needs a signature,” I call back, working extra hard to sound friendly.
She lives in a rough neighborhood; she’s no sucker. She open
s the door a half inch, chain still in place as her narrow bloodshot eyes stare up at me. “Where’s your package?”
“Mrs. Young, I’m sorry to bother you—”
She slams the door in my face.
“Ma’am, please,” I say. “I’m here to ask you about your son.”
The door stays shut.
“Your son is Kingston Young, yes?” I ask, using the name of Ezra’s former roommate who died from a suicide two weeks ago and, according to the Secret Service, is the owner of the severed arms that were buried in Camp David and the Rose Garden.
“If you’re not police, I’m calling them right now,” she threatens.
“Tell her you’re FBI,” Mac says in my ear.
I shake my head. “Mrs. Young, you don’t know me, but let me tell you the most important thing about me: I will never lie to you.”
“You lied about delivering a package,” she shoots back.
“Time to stop being nice,” Mac scolds in my ear.
“Ma’am, I care about what happened to your son.”
“Did you even know him?” she challenges.
“I didn’t, but here’s the absolute truth: I don’t think Kingston committed suicide.”
I stare at the peephole. A solid ten seconds go by. The chain rattles and clinks, then the door swings open, revealing a sixty-year-old pudgy woman with elegant silver hair and a mouth that curves downward at the corners. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a month.
“You won’t regret this, Mrs. Young. I promise you that.”
55
Arlington, Virginia
Marshall couldn’t put his finger on it. But he could feel it coming.
“Three more minutes,” Clementine said from the driver’s seat, gripping the door handle but waiting to open it.
Marshall barely noticed. In the passenger seat, he was scanning the strip-mall parking lot, focusing on the lone BMW motorcycle parked by the dog groomer’s. The only thing worse than a Harley snob was a fool on a BMW.
“That motorcycle’s always there,” Clementine reassured him.
