by Thomas Webb
Next to him sat Athena, slightly built with curly blonde hair and bright green eyes. Scarlet gave the smaller woman a nod. They’d gone through Indoctrination together.
Next to Athena was her minder, Mockingbird. Mockingbird was stern and stately in a wine-colored dress, its buttons fastened all the way to the top.
Next to Mockingbird was Copperhead. Flanked by two empty chairs, he sat sipping his tea. He stood when he saw Scarlet and invited her and Dublin to sit.
“How did it go?” Copperhead asked, settling back into his seat. His teacup sat on a small table next to his chair. The shaking of his hand was barely noticeable.
Scarlet smiled and shrugged. “How does it always go?”
“You can debrief your protégé later, Nathaniel,” Mockingbird said. “This is most unusual, holding a meeting all the way in France, even by the standards of the department. We have work to do elsewhere, as I’m certain you know. Why have you called us here?”
Copperhead took a sip of his tea and then looked into the eyes of each agent. “I’m sure you’ve all heard about our last mission by now?” After seeing nods all around the room, Copperhead continued, “While Mr. Fluvelle is an outstanding young man, and one who performed admirably under pressure I might add, his assignment to Scarlet and I was a. . . liability.”
Mockingbird nodded. “Yes, I’d wondered about that,” she said. “Assigning a civilian to a mission is highly irregular.”
“You’re right, Ramona,” Copperhead said. “Cecelia and I were lucky. Critical information was kept from us. We were meant to fail.”
The agents exchanged worried looks. The room grew quiet. Scarlet heard the crackle and pop of the wood burning in the fireplace.
“You have a history with McCormick,” Dublin said.
“I do,” Copperhead replied, nodding in agreement. “I’ll be the first to admit it.”
“History or not, sir,” Athena added, “we never place an agent in harm’s way without good cause. What you are saying the acting vice chairman has done flies in the face of our code.”
Copperhead smiled at Athena. “Correct,” he said. “The reasons for my feelings toward McCormick are my own, but this goes even beyond that. McCormick sent us into the field with incomplete information.”
Mockingbird crossed her legs, settling into her chair. “What sort of information did he withhold, Nathaniel?”
“For starters? Information about the scientist and about his work. Any of you know Telacivic was working with dark aether?”
Scarlet watched as the room went dead quiet. Her extensive training in the reading of body language and mood detection failed her. To their credit, none of the agents gathered in the parlor betrayed a thing.
“Does the Guild know?” Dublin asked.
Copperhead shook his head. “Not yet.”
Mockingbird's brow furrowed. She cleared her throat. She looked at Scarlet and then at her minder. “What proof of this do you have, Nathaniel?”
“I saw Telacivic's plans,” Scarlet said, “and we debriefed Telacivic as soon as we had him in custody. He gave us almost everything.”
Copperhead set his teacup down. “From there, it wasn't hard to put two and two together. McCormick never wanted us to know what Telacivic was capable of. I believe he hoped we'd die trying to stop the device, and I believe he's colluding with the Confederates.”
Paladin actually laughed. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you're telling us the acting vice chairman is a traitor to the Union? That's lot to accept and quite an accusation.”
Copperhead nodded. “It is, and not one I take lightly.”
“That’s preposterous,” Dublin said. “Why, I’ve known Pratley Huffman since I was fresh out of Indoctrination. She’s true as they come. She’d never allow this.”
“I think you’re right, Seamus,” Copperhead said. “She’d never allow something like this, unless she was told to do so by a higher authority. Pratley’s. . . a good soldier. She follows orders. I don't think she knows how far this goes.” Copperhead paused. “Somehow, McCormick’s gotten to the chairman.”
Mockingbird shook her head. “Impossible,” she said. “Cummings has chaired the committee since the department’s inception. He’s always been a friend to agents in the field. Now you’re telling us he’s appointed a colluder as vice chairman? I can’t believe it.”
“We don’t expect you to take us simply at our word, ma’am,” Scarlet said. “You all have your own sources. Look for yourselves. If your investigations lead you to conclude we’re wrong?” Scarlet shrugged. “Then so be it. Turn my minder and I in to Oversight and be done with us.”
“And if it turns out you’re both right?” Mockingbird asked. “What then, Copperhead?”
“If we’re right, then something will have to be done about McCormick.”
“What is it you’re suggesting we do, Nathaniel?” Dublin asked.
Copperhead took a drink of his tea and crossed his legs. “The only thing we can,” he said. “Who’s up for staging a coup?”
30 Roestree Estate, the Greenhouse, October 1864
“Anything?” Wally asked.
“Nothing," Smythe said. Smythe stared at the blood red rose petals, not really seeing them. His mind was elsewhere.
“We have to assume he was killed, James, or compromised, which would be even worse.”
“No,” Smythe said, clipping an errant petal. “He wouldn’t have been compromised. His soldier’s pride would never allow it.”
“Christ the Healer, James, is that all you have to say?” Wally squeaked. “A team of DSI assassins could be on their way here right now!” Wallace looked around the greenhouse as if a group of black-clad Strategic Intelligence agents might burst through the door any second. Wally rubbed his bald head nervously. “I’ve got to start making plans. Maybe one of my homes abroad?” he said, talking to himself. “The Dominican Republic is nice this time of year.”
Smythe’s face darkened. He’d had about as much of Wally’s anxious muttering as he could stand. “Calm down, Wally. Get ahold of yourself. Let’s think this through.” Smythe clipped away a bit of dead brown rose petal. “Horton isn’t the type to surrender information, even under duress. Besides, if DSI had any inkling this was about so much more than the Presidency of the Confederacy, they’d have sent an assassin to Rosetree long ago. We still hold the advantage, Wally, despite the general’s apparent failure.”
“How can you be so calm, James?”
Smythe finished with the blood roses and moved over to a small azalea bush. The pruning shears flew in Smythe’s gloved hands as he clipped and trimmed.
“Well?” Wally asked, impatient for an answer. “I suppose you have some sort of contingency plan?”
Smythe sighed. “How long have we been friends, Wally? I thought you’d know by now I always have a contingency plan. As a matter of fact, it’s already in the works.”
31 Outside Washington, Maryland Wilderness, October 1864
Abe watched fat drops of rain slide down the steam carriage window. So much had happened in the weeks since Copperhead and Scarlet had left him onboard the Vindication.
Not that he blamed them—anymore. He’d been angry with them for leaving him behind until he later realized the things they’d done on that train were far out of his depth.
He thought back to that day. As soon as Scarlet and Copperhead had dropped in alongside Colonel Montclair and Major Gregory, Vindication had circled back to pick up the soldiers injured during the maneuver. With all the casualties from the battle, plus the three from the drop, the ship’s contingent of healers had been overwhelmed. The head matron had wasted no time pressing Abe into service.
As he bandaged burns and lacerations and helped set broken bones, Abe had prayed Scarlet, Copperhead, and the Union soldiers could prevent the destruction of Washington. Lost amidst the work of saving lives, he hadn’t even noticed when his prayers had been answered.
Major Vincent had waited until sunrise befor
e ordering the airship full speed ahead to Washington. It’d been just past seven o’ the clock that morning when the city’s sky patrols had waved them through. A few minutes later, they’d hovered above the roof of Armory Square Hospital. As they’d lowered their wounded to the rooftop and onto waiting stretchers, the crew had looked down at the street below. Abe’s heart had sank as he watched a bloodied and unconscious Colonel Montclair being carried through the hospital doors.
Later that afternoon, two DSI security agents with thick necks and low foreheads had escorted Abe into the old brick building which housed Strategic Intelligence headquarters. When he’d seen Scarlet and Copperhead alive and well, he hadn’t contained himself. He’d raced over and pulled them both into a bear hug-like embrace.
In the days that followed, President Grant had offered the men and women who’d helped save the city anything they wanted as a reward. The president’s eyebrow had risen when Abe had asked for his.
“Are you certain this is what you want, Mr. Fluvelle?” President Grant had asked.
“Absolutely, sir,” Abe had replied.
Despite his misgivings, the president had granted Abe’s request.
Now that the day his wish was to become a reality was here, Abe suddenly wasn’t so sure anymore.
“Will it be difficult?” Abe had asked Scarlet earlier that morning.
Copperhead had laughed. “Oh, it most certainly will be difficult.”
“What you’re going to learn will keep you alive,” Scarlet had added.
Neither she nor Copperhead had seemed particularly pleased with Abe’s choice of reward, but they’d both been kind enough to see him off.
“More importantly,” Scarlet said, “it’ll keep your fellow agents alive.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question,” Abe said.
“It should be answer enough,” Copperhead told him.
Abe’s thoughts drifted further back, past this morning and all the way to the summer. Assistant Secretary Field had mentioned then that Abe was being drafted into the employ of Strategic Intelligence. Field had gone on to explain that although Abe technically worked for the agency, it would not be in the capacity of an official agent.
“All DSI recruits are required to undergo formal training and selection,” the assistant secretary told him. When Abe had pressed him for more detail, Field had tried to elaborate.
“I’m no expert,” he’d began, “but as I understand it, Indoctrination is a special course of study, one designed to instill within new agents a very basic skillset. They teach them a bare minimum, designed to both keep them alive and allow them to complete their assignments. Once in the field, the agent’s minder teaches them the rest of what they need to know.” The assistant secretary had taken off his stovepipe and scratched his head. “But for someone to be drafted directly into field work seems highly irregular. This new vice chairman must have great faith in your abilities.”
The sound of anxious laughter pulled Abe back to the present. There were three others in the carriage with him: a tall man about Abe’s age wearing a bright yellow suit, a sturdily built Native girl in a simple dress, and a slight Freedman girl with delicate features. The two young women stayed quiet. It was yellow suit whose laughter Abe heard.
“Sorry,” yellow suit said, “I laugh when I get nervous.”
The rain picked up, changing from a gentle autumn shower to a downpour. It beat down on the roof of the steam carriage like a drummer gone mad.
“It’s really coming down,” yellow suit said.
Abe gave him a polite nod but held his peace.
“I'm a bit of a genius,” yellow suit volunteered.
“Pardon?”
“I said I'm a bit of a genius,” yellow suit repeated. He laughed. “It's why they chose me. I'm sure you were wondering. They chose all of us for a reason, you know.”
Abe looked at the two young women across from him. Both returned his gaze, eyes hard and cold. Neither spoke. He suddenly wondered how they'd come to be here.
“So, how'd you get picked?” yellow suit asked.
“It's a long story,” Abe said.
The rain fell steadily as the steam carriage chugged along. The dirt road they traveled quickly became a quagmire. Twice, the driver had to stop and dig them from the mud. Finally, they turned, passing through a wooden gate and continuing on down a well-maintained gravel driveway. They’d gone perhaps a mile when the carriage came to an abrupt stop.
Abe peered out the window. An old manse dominated his view. What were once majestic white columns had grayed with age. The grand front porch looked on the verge of collapse. The mansion’s white paint flaked and peeled, revealing patches of soft, rotten wood underneath.
A sloping hill ran behind the dilapidated mansion. Several drab wooden buildings, long and low like military barracks, sat at the foot of the hill. As Abe wondered what the buildings were for, a peculiar man emerged from the mansion. He bounded down the old porch stairs, taking them two at a time.
The man wasn’t very tall. Abe reckoned the top of the strange man’s head would come up to about his chest if they stood face-to-face. The man wore a long, dark coat. A wide-brimmed hat kept the rain off his face, and a pair of round-rimmed smoke-colored spectacles perched on the end of the man’s nose. He clutched a rattan cane in his left hand, although judging by the way he’d come down the manor house stairs, he had little need for it.
The man came to a stop and stood in front of the steam carriage. The doors of the carriage swung open, seemingly of their own volition.
“Everyone, out, if you please,” the man said. He smiled, his lips tight. Abe noticed the man paid little attention to the downpour.
“But, sir,” yellow suit said. “It’s pouring outside. Perhaps we might trouble you for an umbrella?”
The strange little man moved with impossible speed. His rattan cane whipped forward lightning quick, cracking yellow suit across his cheekbone. Yellow suit fell back onto the carriage’s cushioned bench and cradled his face in pain. Dark red drops of blood ran from between his fingers and dripped onto the bright yellow fabric of his jacket. Abe didn’t think yellow suit would be asking another question anytime soon.
“Would anyone else care for an umbrella?” the small man in the coat and hat asked. “No? All right then. Let’s try this once more. Everyone, out of the carriage, please. Quickly now.”
Abe and the rest of the recruits fell over one another in their haste to exit. Less than a minute later, they all stood in a shabby line, ankle deep in muck. The frigid, muddy water soaked into Abe’s stockings.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” the man said. “My name is Mr. Lynch, but for the duration of our time together, you may call me ‘sir’.”
Mr. Lynch paused for a moment and looked each recruit over. His gaze focused on Abe for what seemed an unreasonably long amount of time. The former accounting clerk felt heat rise to his cheeks despite the bone-chilling rain.
Mr. Lynch placed his cane behind him and paced back and forth in front of Abe and the other recruits. “In these coming weeks, I will teach you many things,” he said. “Success here is not easy, but it is simple. You need only do one thing, and that is follow my orders explicitly. You will do what I say, when I say, in the exact manner I say. Or you will fail.”
Abe stood quiet with the other recruits and watched the clouds his breath formed in the cold air. Abe looked at the other recruits from the corner of his eye. Like him, they were drenched to the bone and shivered uncontrollably. Yellow suit’s cheekbone bled and had turned a nasty shade of purple. Neither Abe nor his three new companions dared to speak.
“Despite this simple key to success,” Mr. Lynch continued, “some of you will not make it here.”
The Native girl stood next to Abe. He heard her teeth chattering with cold.
“In the long run, we have found this to be a much better outcome than sending you into the field to die or, worse yet, causing the death of fellow agents. In this
world which you have chosen to attempt to enter, much can be overlooked, but responsibility for the death of a fellow agent is a cardinal sin.”
Mr. Lynch paused before continuing. The freezing rain continued to fall.
“Now,” Mr. Lynch finally said. “If you would, please, I’ll need you all to assume the push-press position. Ladies, hands and knees will do for now if that is all you can manage.”
The other recruits didn’t seem to know what a push-press position was. Abe, familiar with the exercise from his baseball days, took the lead. The chilly mud squished between his fingers as he placed his palms flat to the wet ground. A lock of soaked hair hung limp from his head. Cold water poured down his face and into his eyes. Now, Abe knew what the president meant when he’d asked if this was what Abe really wanted.
“Very good, ladies and gentleman,” Mr. Lynch said. Abe looked up from the ground to see Mr. Lynch check his pocket watch. “Twelve o’ the clock,” Lynch said. “Your training has officially begun and right on time! Let me be the first to formally welcome you all to Strategic Intelligence Indoctrination.”
32 Skies above the Atlantic, Near the Coast of New Jersey, November 1864
Montclair swung the eastern sword at a precise forty-five degree angle. Despite the chill wind on Vindication’s foredeck, Montclair worked up a sheen of sweat as he moved through the practice cuts.
Most of the stiffness was gone now. In its place, Montclair had two brand new scars. They were all that remained of the physical wounds Horton had given him. His other injuries were a different subject.
Ueda gave Montclair a rare nod of approval. “Very good, Julius-san. Your brush with death was an excellent lesson.”
“Third time’s the charm,” Montclair said.
Cats had nine lives. Montclair didn’t know how many lives he had, but between the battle on the Potomac and his duel with Horton, he’d already used up two of them.
