The Fifth Assassin Read online

  Time to find out where he’s going.

  28

  Beecher, listen to me,” Tot says through the phone as I kick the gas and trace Marshall’s path. “You ever hear of something called pen testing? Penetration testing?”

  Up ahead, Marshall weaves through traffic. But as he makes a sharp left, it’s clear he’s going straight to the highway—north on 110—back toward Washington.

  For the most part, he sticks to the left lane, making good time. I let him keep his lead.

  “Long before SEAL Team Six or even the Navy SEALs themselves,” Tot explains, “there was a group known as the S&Rs—Scouts and Raiders.”

  “The first group of frogmen,” I say, sticking behind a white van and using it to stay out of sight. “I’ve seen their files in the Archives.”

  “Exactly. The Scouts and Raiders started eight months after the attack on Pearl Harbor—made up of army and navy men. And in 1943, these sneaky sons of bitches’ graduation exercise was supposedly to kidnap the admiral in charge of the 7th Naval District. During wartime!”

  “Did they do it?”

  “The point is, that’s what penetration testing tells us. When our own guys break in and grab an admiral, that tells us we have a real problem in security. The military’s used it for decades: hiring units to try and penetrate our top facilities, from nuclear depots, to Air Force One.”

  Up ahead, as we approach Arlington Cemetery, Marshall’s SUV veers to the right, following the exit toward the roundabout at Memorial Bridge. Time to pick up the pace. “So that’s what Marshall does now?” I ask as I pull out from behind the white van and hit the gas.

  “It’s what everyone does now. These days, we have people trying to break into the White House, into the Capitol, even into the cafeteria at the Air & Space Museum.”

  “Like when you see those news stories about guys successfully sneaking knives onto airplanes.”

  “Penetration testing,” Tot says as I spot the roundabout up ahead. The few cars around us all begin to slow down. I’m now barely five or six cars behind Marshall. He’s never seen my car. I pull down my sun visor so he can’t see my face. “After 9/11, the GAO realized that it wasn’t just useful for the military. It’s a test for all of us,” Tot explains. “Penetration testing isn’t just about breaking in. It’s about solving problems.”

  “So again, back to Marshall,” I say. “He does these penetration tests.”

  “And does them well. That’s how he got out of jail last night. In his line of work, when things go bad, he’s got a direct line to the Justice Department, who’ll get him out of any mess he gets into. But yes—from what we can tell, he’s spent nearly four years in the GAO’s Office of Investigations.”

  “So why do I hear that worried tone in your voice?”

  “Because he’s the whole office, Beecher. There used to be a few of them, but once Marshall came in… that’s it. He’s all they needed. According to our source, when he first started, Marshall was sent to break into some unlisted military base out in Nebraska, and since the general in charge of the base didn’t want to be embarrassed—which is what happens when strangers break into your military base—the general actually broke the rules and told his security guys that Marshall was coming… that they should keep a serious lookout. That night, at three in the morning, Marshall was standing in the general’s bedroom—and woke up the general by putting a gun to his head and whispering, ‘You lose.’ ”

  As Marshall’s SUV merges onto the roundabout by Memorial Bridge, my thoughts run back to his apartment—to my wallet being in my coat pocket and me telling myself that there’s no way Marshall could’ve pulled it off.

  “Now you understand why I don’t want you confronting him? Look at the facts from last night: for a guy like Marshall—a guy who regularly sidesteps the best security in the world—for him to get nabbed coming out of a church… by two D.C. beat cops…”

  “It was bad timing. Maybe the cops just got lucky.”

  “No. There’s no luck. Not with people like this, Beecher.”

  “So what’re you saying? That Marshall killed this rector and then got arrested on purpose?”

  Tot’s silent, thinking it through. “That’s the real question, isn’t it? Do you think you found Marshall, Beecher? Or did Marshall actually use all this to find you?”

  The heat in the car is blasting full steam. But for the first time, I’m feeling it. In front of me, as I snake around the roundabout, I’m barely three cars behind Marshall. The white van slides in front of me. I still see the SUV… up by twelve o’clock, where the entrance to Memorial Bridge is. I’m at four o’clock.

  “Listen to me, Beecher,” Tot says as I twist the wheel. “I know you two go back a long way. And I know there’s something about this guy—something that happened with him—that’s making you want to believe, with all of your nostalgic heart, that he’s not a murderer. But know this: your pal Marshall? He finds weaknesses in things. That’s how he breaks into things for a living. And of all the things he’s dissecting—when you come chasing him… when you get suckered into his apartment—the thing that he’s found the biggest weakness in, and that he’s broken into the most…

  … is you.”

  With a final jerk of the wheel, I twist the Mustang to the right and slide out from behind the white van. I look to my right, out the passenger-side window, and onto the bridge. The SUV isn’t there.

  I stay on the roundabout. He’s not here either.

  I search the next turnoff. There’re only three in total. He’s not there either.

  It’s daytime. Light traffic. There aren’t many options, but even so…

  “You lost him, didn’t you?” Tot asks through the phone. “You have no hope of catching a guy like this, Beecher. He’s a professional ghost. And y’know what the worst part is? Guess who the GAO reports to?”

  “To the legislature. They’re the legislative arm of Congress.”

  “That’s right. But the head of the GAO—the comptroller general—guess who appoints him?”

  “The White House.”

  “The White House, Beecher. So you know who someone at Marshall’s level really works for?”

  I turn the heat down in the car, but it still feels like it’s blasting full steam. “The President.”

  “Or more specifically, President Orson Wallace, who attacked and was responsible for the murder of a man known as Eightball, and who promised to bury you for finding out about it.”

  I’m still circling the roundabout, still searching for the SUV. It’s gone.

  Two months ago, this is where I’d bang the steering wheel and give up.

  That’s because two months ago, I wasn’t part of George Washington’s secret spy ring.

  “Beecher, please tell me you—”

  “Of course I did, Tot. I just need to turn it on.”

  He knows what I’m talking about, and how it works. I need to get off the phone.

  He wants me to be careful, but I hang up before he says it.

  To Tot, this is Culper Ring business… presidential business… and it is. But for me, think of your best friend growing up. No. I take that back. Think of the friend you hurt the most. Think of what you owe him. Whatever’s really going on, I still owe that to Marshall.

  Back in his apartment, Marshall was amazed that my phone was getting a signal there. He doesn’t know the half of what it can do.

  As Tot hangs up, I scroll to an app called Jupiter.

  After the Revolutionary War, George Washington was committed to building our country. But in his personal life, his commitment was given to, of all things, breeding.

  Not kids. Washington never had kids.

  He had dogs.

  According to his papers, he wanted a superior dog, one that had speed, sense and brains. He did it too—after merging a set of hounds that were a gift from the French with a set of tan-and-black hounds here.

  His creation was the American foxhound. The ultimate hunting mac
hine.

  More than thirty hounds were listed in his journals, with names like Drunkard, Tipsy, Sweet Lips, and of course…

  Jupiter.

  With a press of my thumb, the screen on my phone displays a map. The circular road shows the roundabout and Memorial Bridge. There’s a tiny green pin, which represents me. There’s also a red pin. That’s the SUV.

  When I was in his apartment, Marshall may’ve grabbed my wallet to pick through my life. But when we were in his parking garage—when I was in his SUV—I dropped a small silver beacon into the plastic well on the passenger-side door.

  Marshall’s smart. And clearly smarter at this than I am. But he’s not smarter than the Culper Ring.

  Based on the map, he’s making his way toward the Key Bridge, headed to Georgetown.

  When I was little, my mom said I shouldn’t get out of bed until I said a prayer for something I was thankful for. It’s a rule I carry with me to this day. God bless GPS. And Jupiter, the ultimate hunting machine.

  Within ten minutes, I see where he stops.

  Ready or not, Marshall. Here I come.

  29

  St. Elizabeths Hospital

  Washington, D.C.

  Don’t let them put you in it, Nico,” the dead First Lady warned.

  Nodding at her, Nico squinted down at the floor of the redbrick courtyard, where a section of light beige bricks formed a circular maze pattern.

  “So it’s a maze?” Nico asked, his book—with its ten of spades bookmark—tucked tightly under his armpit.

  “It’s not a maze. It’s a labyrinth,” Nurse Karina, a short Asian woman with black statement glasses and perfectly smooth skin, offered, motioning her clipboard toward the bricks. “Do you know the difference between a maze and a labyrinth?” Well aware that she wasn’t supposed to let Nico tangle with a problem he couldn’t solve, she quickly explained, “A maze is designed to be an obstacle, with dead ends and wrong turns. A labyrinth will never block you—it gives you a winding but totally clear path right to the center and then back again.”

  “So a bad hospital would have a maze?” Nico asked, still eyeing the wide, circular labyrinth that… no question about it… looked like a twenty-foot-wide maze.

  “Yes, a bad hospital would have a maze. In The Shining? That’s a maze. We have a labyrinth. It’s very therapeutic. Now would you like to begin?”

  Nico didn’t want to begin. It was cold outside, and even though the courtyard was covered, he didn’t like the cold. But he did like Nurse Karina, who always looked him right in the eyes. Most of the nurses never looked him in the eyes.

  “I start here?” Nico asked, entering the labyrinth.

  “I can hold your book for you. If you like,” Karina offered.

  At first, Nico hesitated. But then he saw her outstretched hand… and the pale pink polish on her thin, crooked fingers. His mother had fingers like that.

  “I want it back when I’m done,” Nico said, handing Karina the book as she offered a small smile in return.

  He trusted her now. Enough to hand her the book and to step into the labyrinth. Yet as he took his first steps around the outer edges of the circle, Nico couldn’t help but notice the double-pane window that looked out onto the courtyard. Through it, he saw a breakroom, where a group of construction workers were watching the local news. In St. Elizabeths, they never let Nico watch the news.

  “Y’know back during the Crusades, walking a labyrinth represented a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. For many, they’re still sacred places,” Karina added, knowing that Nico always responded well to religious references.

  Nico barely heard the words. As he followed the zigzag and it led him past the window of the breakroom, his eyes were locked on the handsome news anchor sitting at the news desk. The graphic onscreen said: Shooting At Local Church. But it wasn’t until the camera cut to video footage of Foundry Church that Nico stopped midstep.

  “Nico…?” Karina called out. From the angle she was at, she couldn’t see into the breakroom. It looked like Nico was staring blankly at the wall.

  “Nico, what’s wrong?”

  His body was tensed, his arms flat at his sides. He wanted to say something to the dead First Lady, but with the nurse watching, he just stood there, looking in the window, at the screen. There it was. The message he’d been waiting for. Just as the Knight had promised.

  “Nico, look at me!” Nurse Karina pleaded, as if she were saying it for the fifth time.

  He whipped around, facing Karina. His chest was pumping, though his sniper training kicked in quickly. You don’t hold your breath as you squeeze the trigger. You learn to breathe into it.

  “Don’t move,” the dead First Lady agreed. “Let her get us what we need.”

  Nico nodded. There was still so much to do. Beecher… and Clementine… would be here soon.

  “Nico, you okay?” Nurse Karina asked.

  He just stood there, frozen.

  “Nico, please. I need you to say something.”

  His chest continued to rise and fall. Maybe even a little bit faster. The dead First Lady was right. This was how he’d get what he wanted.

  “Nico, I’m serious,” Karina demanded. “Please say something.”

  30

  I find Marshall’s SUV on a narrow side street in Georgetown, just off the main drag of Wisconsin Avenue. The tracker I hid is still in the car, but it only takes a few footprints in the snow to trail him along the lumpy brick sidewalks.

  Up the block, there’s a redbrick building with royal blue awnings. The footprints make a sharp left, into an alley just before the building.

  I scramble as fast as I can, sticking to the streets so I get a better foothold to run.

  With each of my steps, the gray slush leaps from the pavement, arcing up and outward, like synchronized divers. I don’t stop until I’m near the blue awnings; then I look to my left to make sure the alley’s clear.

  Darting from the street and toward the sidewalk, I step through a drift of black snow that doesn’t look that deep but somehow swallows my leg all the way up to my ankle. My sock fills with frozen water. I remind myself I’m not a spy. I’m an archivist. A history major.

  But that’s the thing about history majors. We know the value of what’s left behind.

  In front of me, the alley’s empty. Marshall’s gone.

  But once again, his footprints—curving around to the right… behind the building—are right where he left them.

  Racing forward, I tear around the corner. The alley widens into an open brick courtyard. But the first thing I see is—On my right. There’s a door. A propped-open door that’s about to slam shut.

  It leads into the back of the building. Where Marshall just ducked inside.

  I race for the door, catching it just before it closes. With a yank, I pull it open and step inside. A familiar but unplaceable smell wafts through the air. Like I said, Marshall’s smart. But I’m—

  Uccck.

  His fist hits me in the throat first.

  He grabs me. My throat—!

  He grips my Adam’s apple with the tips of all five of his fingers. Like he’s plucking it from my neck. The pain is—It’s not just that I can’t breathe… My neck…

  He’s crushing my larynx—!

  My knees collapse. My eyes flood with involuntary tears. But I still see him. The melted-wax face. Those gold eyes.

  Marshall’s trying to kill me.

  31

  Staring down at his eelskin wallet, Dr. Palmiotti knew better than this. He did. But a few minutes ago, as he left Wok ’n Roll and stood out in the cold—amid the back-from-lunch rush crowd—he couldn’t help but watch A.J. walk up the block, back to work.

  Back to 16th Street. Back to the White House.

  For two minutes, Palmiotti stood there, knowing it shouldn’t matter. But it did.

  And so there he was, staring down at his eelskin wallet. Or to be more precise, at the fortune from the fortune cookie that was sticking out of that
little secret hiding space that, if he were thirty years younger, he would’ve used to hide a condom. It was the hiding space that you can only get to if you dig at it with your pointer- and middle fingers, which Palmiotti quickly did to pull out the paper fortune.

  It wasn’t the contents of the fortune that mattered. It was what was written on back.

  Two months ago, after A.J. helped him send that text during the funeral, as they were putting his new identity together, Wallace took the little scrap from a fortune cookie and wrote a ten-digit number on it. The President told Palmiotti that if anything went wrong… if there was an emergency and Palmiotti needed to talk… even if he just needed a friend… this was the number he should dial. A number that would connect him directly to the President.

  Palmiotti knew what that meant. The public was told that Wallace carried a BlackBerry. It wasn’t a BlackBerry. Neither was Obama’s or any other President’s. It was a Sectéra Edge, a phone made specially by General Dynamics solely for the use of the President. The one phone Wallace carried himself.

  So you won’t be alone, Wallace had promised. I’m always a phone call away.

  For two months, Palmiotti had never used the number. Didn’t even think of it.

  Okay, that wasn’t true.

  He thought of using it during the very first week, when he was watching the Michigan game, which brought back memories of their college years. Then he thought of using it again, later that same week, when he was out for a walk and saw a dog that reminded him of the beagle Wallace had when they were young.

  But Palmiotti wasn’t dumb. And he wasn’t shallow enough to break the emergency glass and place a direct call to the President of the United States simply because he was feeling homesick.

  Yes, Palmiotti had known it wouldn’t be easy to just walk away from his life. But in those moments of doubt, he’d think back to what his mentor used to tell him twenty years ago when he was doing his cardiac residency: The bleeding always stops—one way or another. It was good advice. True advice. And when the advice didn’t make him feel any better, Palmiotti would close his eyes and inevitably start making a list of all the other people he now wanted to speak to, including his kids.