John Miller - The First Assassin

“Never-I swear it,” said Polly, nervously. “I’m just trying to do what the soldier asked. That’s all.”

The girl was flustered, which was just how Grenier wanted her.

“Okay, Polly. That’s fine. If this man is dangerous, then we need to be very careful. I’m going to keep this picture. I’d like you to clean the white chair in the guest room. Calhoun has been napping on it again, and he’s left it covered in fur. And you might dust the room while you’re in there.”

Grenier watched her go. She had done a poor job of masking her surprise but believed she had recovered adequately.

She looked at the image again, hoping it would somehow look different and contradict her first impression. Yet she grew even more certain that the picture was of Mazorca.

This was very bad news.

Rook heard Scott before he saw him. The big general’s hearty laugh boomed through the Winder Building as he made his way to his office, where Rook was waiting for him.

“A glorious day!” roared the commander of the army. Rook stood up as Scott entered the room in full military regalia. An enormous, plumed chapeau sat on his head, making him seem even taller than his six foot four and one-quarter inches. His uniform was a crisp blue, with golden epaulettes strapped to his shoulders, their fancy fringes dangling down. A sword was fastened to his belt. Shiny black boots completed the outfit.

Rook never had cared for the pomp and circumstance of the military, but he had to admit that whereas another man might have looked ridiculous, Scott looked majestic. He was fat and old and never would use that sword, or possibly any weapon, in a real battle again. Yet he inhabited his flamboyant costume as perhaps no other American could.

Two other men came into the room behind him. The first was Locke, the general’s ever-present shadow. He was trying to look his best too. His uniform was clean and crisp and its buttons shone. Rook thought he looked more prepared for the intrigues of a ballroom than the ferocity of a firefight. Scott could dress up and still look like a soldier, but not Locke. The second man was Seward, who seemed to be lurking around constantly these days.

“Colonel!” bellowed Scott when he saw Rook. It was both an announcement of surprise and a greeting. The general removed his hat and set it on a peg. “Did you see that marvelous procession?”

Rook knew that he was referring to the arrival of the Seventh Regiment from New York-he had heard the commotion and learned the full story of the regiment’s sudden appearance from a lieutenant just a few minutes earlier. The influx of a thousand fresh men meant that Washington at last was ready for a fight. Lincoln and members of his cabinet, plus Scott and many of his officers, had come out for an impromptu rally.

“I didn’t see the Seventh,” said Rook. “I’m glad that it has arrived.”

“That’s too bad. You missed quite a parade. The best part was to see the president. He was relieved.” Scott emphasized the final word and looked at Seward, who nodded in approval.

“I didn’t think this day could get any better,” continued the general. “If you bring me good news, though, it may indeed do just that!”

“I’m afraid that I’m going to make it worse, sir,” said Rook.

“I see.” The smile vanished from Scott’s face. He fell into a chair and gestured for Rook to do the same. Locke and Seward also took seats. The general’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“What do you have?”

Rook hesitated. “Sir, what I have to say might best be said to you alone,” he said, casting a quick glance at Seward. The general saw it and seemed to consider Rook’s request for the briefest of moments before rejecting it.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Secretary Seward is fully aware of the Mazorca situation and will soon present us with a valuable piece of data. Isn’t that right, Mr. Secretary?”

“Yes, General, in a few moments anyway.” He made a motion to rise. “I could easily step out…”

“Nonsense, sir!” thundered Scott with such force that Seward dropped back into his chair. “We will have a frank discussion about the Mazorca operation. It is indeed fortuitous that we are all here.” He looked directly at Rook. “Colonel, give us your report.”

Rook described what had happened: the beginning of the surveillance, Mazorca’s murder of Tabard, and the raid that had revealed the whole operation as a failure.

“No wonder you wanted to make your report to me alone. This is an embarrassment. We had him in our clutches, and you let him get away.”

Rook bristled at the phrasing but let it pass. “The reason he got away is because he knew we were coming,” he said.

The general raised his eyebrows in at least partial disbelief. Seward shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Mazorca has an informant-someone who may not know that he is passing information to a man who seeks to murder the president, but someone who nonetheless is doing it through his own sheer recklessness.”

Rook paused. He wanted to read the general’s face. Did he harbor any suspicions? Scott merely sat still. His face was expressionless. Seward pursed his lips and scratched his chin. Locke made no attempt to conceal his disdain: he rolled his eyes and let out a mocking sigh.

Scott broke the silence. “That is an extraordinary charge, Colonel. Do you have extraordinary proof to back it up?”

Rook reached into a pocket and pulled out the letter Springfield had given him. He unfolded it slowly.

“This may explain our problem,” said Rook, handing the letter to Scott.

The general took the letter and read it in silence. Rook watched Scott’s eyes widen in astonishment as he read a few lines and checked the signature at the bottom. He let out a little gasp. “This is an unwelcome development,” he said. Then he read aloud, with disgust:

Dearest Violet,

So much to tell you! I have an amazing story to relate about the insubordination of Col. Rook and a group of prisoners that I personally released, acting upon intelligence from an unnamed source. It appears that the unauthorized surveillance of ordinary citizens was much more extensive that I had originally believed. Expect me Friday night. I will keep no secrets from you. I desire to tell you all-and I desire you.

Most intimately,

Sam Locke

Scott glowered at Locke. “Is there anything you can possibly say for yourself, Colonel?”

Locke buried his face in his hands. When he looked up, Rook could see his eyes turning red from tears. “Sir, it is an innocent mistake!”

“Your dealings with Mrs. Grenier do not sound very innocent to me,” said the general, his voice rising in anger. “It would be bad enough if you were merely divulging sensitive information to a random whore-but here is the proof that you’re giving it away to a woman whom we now know is in league with the enemy!”

“I’m sorry, I did not know,” sobbed Locke. “She seduced me.”

“Get out of my sight,” sputtered Scott. “You are relieved of your rank and your duties. Leave this building and never come back.”

As Locke rose and headed for the door, Scott turned to Seward. “This is a tremendous embarrassment. I personally guarantee you that I will get to the bottom…”

He was going to say more but became distracted when Locke nearly crashed into a new figure in the doorway-a short man with dark eyes, thick black hair, and skin the color of bronze. He wore black clothes as well.

Seward rose. “General, I believe that this man will have some answers for us.”

Mazorca rolled the dress into a ball, tossed it into a half-empty closet, and shut the door. He hoped he would never have to see it again. The experience of wearing Tabard’s clothes was humiliating, but it could have been worse. Nothing would have been more humiliating than the defeat he had so narrowly avoided.