by Thomas Webb
Congressman Cyrus Wallace sat at a table by himself. A scarred Native man with dark skin and long braided hair stood to Wallace’s left. To his right was the largest woman Montclair had ever seen. Montclair himself stood at six feet even, but he was forced to look up to meet her eyes. While he wouldn’t describe her as particularly ugly, he wouldn’t be very quick to bed her. . . unless it was a very slow month.
“Mr. Trotman, I presume?” Congressman Wallace stood and extended his hand. “Your daguerreotype doesn’t do you justice. I hadn’t expected you to be so handsome.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, congressman.” Greg laughed, playing his part well. Greg took the congressman’s hand and shook it. “Bill Trotman, at your service.”
“And your companion?” Wallace asked, eyeing Montclair with a look of approval.
“My manservant, Jasper,” Greg said. Greg placed his hand on Montclair’s shoulder. “I don’t go anywhere without him.”
“I can certainly see why.” The congressman licked his lips. “He doesn’t say much, does he?”
“Only when directed to although I didn’t really purchase him for his ability to carry a conversation, if you follow what I mean.”
Greg and the congressman laughed while Montclair smiled and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Greg was really playing it up.
“And please, congressman,” Greg said, “call me Bill.”
“Only if you’ll call me Wally.”
The congressman snapped his fingers, and a waiter appeared. Wallace whispered a few words and pressed a coin into the man’s open palm. As the waiter departed, Wallace ordered his bodyguards to stand up and make space for their guests.
“Anyone in this city travel without an armed escort?” Greg asked as they sat down.
“Not anyone of worth, I’m afraid.” Wallace took a sip of blood-red wine from his glass. “Conditions in the city have deteriorated since the stalemate began.”
Greg nodded. “I’ve traveled the Confederacy on business, and everywhere I’ve gone, it’s been much the same. Our economy is failing, congressman, but where others see catastrophe, I see opportunity.”
Wallace raised an eyebrow. “Really? I’d be very interested to hear more about that.”
“Of course.” Greg pretended to take a sip of wine from his own glass. “As I see it, the stalemate will play out in one of two ways. Either the Confederacy will collapse from within and be gobbled up by the Union and the Empire of Mexico, or the Confederate leadership will come to its senses and reconcile with the North.”
“I don’t necessarily agree with your assessment of the situation, Bill, but your argument does have some merit. I can see you’re a practical man, so I’m guessing you plan to side with the winning team—whoever that ends up being.” Wallace raised his glass. “Self-preservation is a philosophy we both share.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Wally,” Greg said, touching his glass to the congressman’s. “You may disagree with my predictions of the future, but however it ends up, land in the Confederacy is dirt-cheap right now. Between the constant threat from the Freedmen and the Native tribes, the Union naval and air blockades. . .”
“Not to mention the foreign trade embargo.”
“And the trade embargo,” Greg conceded, leaning back in his chair. “With all that working against them, Confederate landowners are desperate. They’re selling their deeds for pennies on the greenback. Mine is an old family, congressman, and we have old money, much of which was made in the decades before Kansas even began its march to statehood. Our aim is to use that money to buy up every parcel of cheap land we can get our hands on. Then, once things settle down, we’ll sell it back to whatever government is in power for ten times what we paid.”
“That’s nothing short of genius, Bill. Your plans have some merit, although I don’t know that they’ll develop in quite the way you think they will. Either way, of course you’ll need a liaison of some sort? Someone who could help you facilitate your land deals throughout the Confederacy? Someone with numerous government and local connections, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Greg replied, smiling.
“You and I can help one another, Bill. Which I assume is why our mutual friend Mr. Chalk brought us together?”
Greg laughed. “For an exorbitant fee, I might add. Chalk strikes me as a bit unsavory, but he does get results. And to be quite frank, he described you as a dapper man, Wally. . . but I can see that if anything, he didn’t do you justice.”
“What an exciting prospect,” Wallace said, giggling. The wine appeared to be getting to him, just as they’d planned. “I like you, Bill. I feel like I can trust you.”
Montclair watched as the congressman placed his hand on Greg’s knee.
“I’ll try my best not to violate that trust,” Greg said, looking into the congressman’s eyes.
“You’ve made an excellent choice in taking me on as your partner,” Wallace breathed, his face flushed. He glanced from side to side as if to make sure no one was listening. “A better choice than you could even have imagined. It just so happens that one of my oldest and dearest friends is poised to become the next President of the Confederacy.”
Montclair’s ears perked up.
“How could you know that for sure, Wally?” Greg asked. “The field is full of candidates. There must be at least a half dozen of them. Any of them could win.”
Excellent work, Greg, Montclair thought. Keep him talking.
Wallace sipped his wine. “Let’s just say the odds are very much in my old friend’s favor, and the plans this man has are the reason I’m doubtful your predictions on the Confederacy’s future will pan out.”
Montclair felt a surge of adrenaline. Wallace had just let something important slip.
“Oh, my,” Wallace said, suddenly less giddy. He placed his hand over his mouth. “I may have said too much.”
The food arrived. Platters of glazed ham, a ceramic bowl of greens boiled with choice cuts of pork, and a pan of hot cornbread. Wallace went quiet and picked at his food, leaving Greg to do most of the talking. There was no more discussion of business. After the meal, both Greg and the congressman declined dessert and ordered more wine.
“Bill,” the congressman began quietly. “About what I told you earlier, I want to say I—”
A tremendous boom rocked the walls of the restaurant, cutting the congressman off mid-sentence.
The congressman’s protection moved in quickly, sandwiching him between them and heading for the tavern’s rear door.
“Bill!” the congressman shouted, struggling to free himself from the iron grip of his own bodyguards.
“We’ll be in touch, Wally,” Montclair heard Greg say as they rushed out of the private room. The two Union soldiers dashed into the main dining area, heading toward the sound of the blast.
Men in expensive suits pushed and shoved to get to the entrance. Montclair stopped to help a woman who’d been knocked to the floor, while Greg shouldered their path clear.
Montclair and Greg pushed through a set of French doors and out onto a patio. Montclair’s hands flew to his face. Even at this distance, he could feel the heat of the flames. Across the street, a fire raged from a two-story mercantile.
Thick black smoke poured from the building’s windows, choking Montclair and making his eyes water. He grabbed a napkin from the nearest table and tied it around the lower half of his face. He watched as what was left of a flatbed steam carriage smoldered next to the building.
“Wagon bomb,” Montclair said, coughing and pointing at the remains of the steam carriage.
Greg nodded, unable to speak through a fit of coughing. Montclair picked up a second napkin and gave it to his friend.
“My God,” a woman next to Montclair muttered. “They’ve set off another one.”
“Who is ‘they?’” he heard someone next to her ask.
“The poor,” she said.
Montclair took in the scene. People lay burned and bleedin
g in the street, while a few Good Samaritans struggled to drag the surviving wounded away from the flames. Torn bags of flour, potatoes, and broken jars of canned goods littered the ground.
A crowd had formed along Marshall Avenue. They stared in horror as a woman and a young boy ran from the burning mercantile, the woman clutching several jars of tomatoes to her chest. Soot covered her face, and flames licked at the hem of her homespun dress. The boy fell to the ground, choking, a sack of grain spilling to the dirt in front of him. Even from across the street, Montclair saw the burn marks on the boy’s back and the soles of his bare feet.
Just then, a Confederate peacekeeping patrol thundered onto the scene. Montclair felt relieved to see them until the graycoats rode their brutes through the crowd of onlookers. They galloped straight for the woman and the boy.
The woman turned and looked at the burned boy. “Run!” she screamed.
The peacekeepers skidded to a halt. Then, they opened fire.
Montclair crossed himself. “It’s worse than we thought.”
“Jesus Christ the Healer,” Greg swore. “All this over food?”
Montclair saw his friend reach for his Colt. He grabbed Greg’s shooting hand. “No!” he said though clenched teeth as he fought Greg for control of the pistol. “There’s nothing we can do for them now.”
The jars shattered and burst as the peacekeepers’ bullets ripped into the woman’s body. The soldiers kept firing as she fell, her blood and the tomatoes both soaking bright red into the ground.
When it was over, the woman in the threadbare dress lay face down in the street, broken glass sparkling like diamonds all around her. There was no sign of the boy. People wandered, directionless, most still in shock and not knowing what to do. The peacekeeping soldiers didn’t even bother to dismount. They turned and left almost as suddenly as they’d appeared, riding away as the crowd jeered and the mercantile burned.
13 Washington, D.C., the Capitol Building, July 1864
“Make sure you address him as ‘Senator’,” Copperhead told her as they walked, “or ‘Mr. Chairman’.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, sir,” Scarlet replied, admiring the exquisite marble floors of the Great Rotunda.
“Cummings is a particular old bastard. One who can make life hard for us if he wants.”
They passed a young group of congressional staffers, all of whom turned their heads to get a better look at Scarlet. She smiled politely as she and Copperhead walked by.
“Let me see,” Copperhead said, thinking to himself. “What else? Oh, yes, there’s Senator Huffman, whom you already know. She has a soft spot for you. You should use that. A member of the Oversight Committee would be a very powerful friend to have.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then there’s the final member of the committee. There’s been no word since Senator Valentine’s death as to who his replacement is. Been to all my sources, both in and out of the department, and I still haven’t been able to dig anything up. I don’t like that.”
Scarlet took her minder aside, away from the Great Rotunda’s heavy flow of foot traffic. They stood next to the statue of Thomas Jefferson. She straightened the old man’s crooked necktie.
“Do you remember when you first found me?” Scarlet asked.
Copperhead fidgeted uncomfortably. “Of course I do,” he said, staring up at a painting. The Baptism of Pocahontas, the plaque read. “Orphaned pickpocket, barely nine, rat’s nest of red hair stuffed into a threadbare cap. Skinny as a rail and trying to survive off whatever you could steal.”
“You remember what you used to say to me back then?” Scarlet reached up and adjusted his collar.
“I think I probably used to say a lot of things to you back then, girl.”
“‘An agent in the field can’t control for everything, Cecelia,’” she said in her best Copperhead voice. “‘One day, you’ll find yourself in a fix you didn’t plan for. When you do, two things will get you out of it: your will and your wits. Best keep them both sharp.’”
The old spy grinned. “Sounds like sage advice.”
Scarlet gave his tie one last pull. “I’d say so.” Satisfied, she offered Copperhead her arm.
Together, they crossed the Rotunda. They took the north passageway between paintings of the surrenders of Cornwallis and Burgoyne and then headed up a marble staircase and onto the building’s second floor.
No expense had been spared in the construction of the newly completed Capitol building. Carpets of bright red crimson and deep purple ran the lengths of the corridors. Handmade mahogany furniture lined the walls, and portraits of past heads of state looked down upon those who walked the halls.
Scarlet and Copperhead took a right at the top of the stairs, eventually arriving at a large set of doors near the western end of the hallway. Two clockwerk sentries, both polished to perfection, stood to either side of the entry. Beside the doors, a large brass sign read, S-238.
Room S-238 was more of a suite than a simple room. A long wooden desk with three seats behind it dominated the space. In front of the table were two French chairs, upholstered in a garish floral pattern, a small tea table placed between them.
Scarlet sat down and took stock of her surroundings. The room was as lavish as the rest of the capitol building with silk rugs, oil paintings, and rich wood furniture. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and elegant lamps sat on every tabletop. A doorway on the left side of the suite swung open, and when it did, the three members of the Strategic Intelligence Oversight Committee filed in. Scarlet and Copperhead stood.
Scarlet recognized Senator Pratley Huffman immediately. The older woman usually had a smile for Scarlet, but today, she avoided eye contact. Senator Al Cummings, the committee’s ranking member, moved painfully slow as he came in next. Senator Cummings was followed by a man Scarlet didn’t recognize. The newest member of the Oversight Committee was so obese he had to turn himself sideways to fit through the door.
“Son of a bitch,” Copperhead swore under his breath as soon as he saw the man waddle in.
“Agents Nathaniel Faraday and Cecelia Alayne,” Senator Cummings croaked. “Thank you both for coming today. Let’s all have a seat, shall we?” The senator grunted as he gripped an old hickory cane and collapsed into his chair. “You both know Senator Huffman and I,” Cummings said after he’d settled in, “but I don’t know if you’d ever had the pleasure of working with acting Vice Chairman McCormick?”
“Oh, I’ve had the pleasure,” Copperhead said.
Scarlet glanced over at her minder. Something about his tone didn’t bode well.
“Copperhead and I go way back,” acting Vice Chairman McCormick said. His eyes, dark and beady, were almost buried in thick folds of flesh when he smiled.
“Very good then,” Senator Cummings said. “When Senator Valentine passed away so unexpectedly, we thought it might be a good idea to appoint someone to the committee from within Strategic Intelligence, at least on a trial basis. We were fortunate Agent McCormick volunteered. With his field experience and first-hand knowledge of the workings of the department, he’s been the perfect candidate.”
McCormick smiled. “I serve only at the will of the committee and the Union.”
“As do we all,” Cummings replied.
Scarlet observed McCormick. His breathing sounded labored and heavy. Phlegm rattled in his chest. His chair groaned beneath him as he shifted his bulk in search of a more comfortable position. Despite his outward appearance of poor health, Scarlet detected a keen and cruel intellect.
A clockwerk servant arrived with coffee and tea on a bright silver tray. The automaton served coffee to the senator. Its first task complete, the clockwerk clanked its way around to Scarlet and Copperhead, placing two china cups and a pot of steaming tea on the table between them.
Scarlet poured tea from the pot for herself and then poured her minder a cup as well. Copperhead held the cup but did not drink. As Scarlet sipped at the hot, earthy liquid, she glan
ced at Copperhead’s hand. The shaking he’d been experiencing more and more as of late was barely noticeable.
Senator Cummings took a sip of the strong-smelling coffee and closed his eyes. “The Capitol building mess serves the best coffee I’ve ever had. When you get to be as old as me, you take what pleasures you can from life.” He turned to Copperhead. “Nathaniel, why don’t we begin with you telling us about North Carolina?”
Scarlet listened as Copperhead recounted their insertion into Confederate territory and their surveillance of Horton. He told the committee how they’d been discovered after three days of watching the Julip plantation and how they’d then killed the Shadow Army soldiers and barely escaped with their lives. He filled them in on their exfiltration and how they’d taken a northbound train as far as Richmond before cutting across the wastelands of the demilitarized zone.
“And you saw no sign of the scientist Telacivic during your three days of surveillance?” Senator Huffman asked. She was every inch the professional politician. Not a snow-white strand of hair was out of place. The pearls around her neck were flawless, and every fold of her handmade gown fell just so. She sat in her chair with her back straight, looking Nathaniel directly in the eye when she spoke to him.
“We did not, senator, just as we wrote in our official reports.”
“We’ve all read the reports, Nathaniel,” McCormick said, “but we’d still prefer to hear it from you.”
Scarlet saw the beads of sweat on the acting Vice Chairman’s bald head. She caught the scent of rose oil, thick and cloying, as if he’d bathed in it. Just underneath was another smell. Faint but recognizable to Scarlet as the putrid odor of the parts of himself he couldn’t reach to wash. Scarlet took a sip of her tea, hoping to rinse the odor from her mouth.
“What you’ve told us today directly supports what was written in both you and Agent Alayne’s reports,” Senator Cummings said. “Your integrity has never been in question, Nathaniel. We simply want to make sure we have all the facts. Now that we’re clear about the events as they occurred from your perspective, we’ll need to get you up to speed on what else the department has discovered. Pratley?”
