John Miller - The First Assassin

His own clothes were ruined. A mirror confirmed it. Tabard’s blood had streaked across his shirt and pants. There was no way he could go out in public. He was annoyed at himself for letting it happen. He could have killed Tabard more cleanly. She had not even put up a fight and probably did not know what was happening to her before she was dead. He had taken her completely by surprise.

The problem was that he had been caught by surprise as well. Someone had exposed him. He reviewed everything that had happened since his arrival in Washington. He had tried to cover his tracks, even murdering Calthrop when the smallest hint of possible detection surfaced. He wondered about whether Tabard was some kind of informant, but that seemed far-fetched. Then there was Grenier. Was she a weak link? Bennett had vouched for her. She must have been the author of that missing letter, because she was the only person who knew his whereabouts. He wished he could read it now. Had she tried to warn him of something?

Before he could plumb these mysteries, he needed a change of clothes. At least this problem had an easy solution. Beneath the mirror sat a dresser. Several of its drawers were empty, but others contained shirts and pants for a man. Mazorca dumped them onto a bed and sorted through the piles. The closet held a few coats and ties. Within minutes, he found all that he needed. He stripped and changed, then threw his old clothes into the closet beside the dress.

His next dilemma was only slightly less urgent. He was in the safe house at 1745 N Street that Grenier had recommended for a time of emergency. Was it truly safe? He could not be certain, and there were few things he disliked more than uncertainty.

From a window, he looked at N Street. People across the city were leaving their jobs and heading home. Three soldiers strolled by. Mazorca figured they belonged to the New York regiment. They must have broken ranks and obtained some free time to explore the city they had come to defend.

Mazorca left the bedroom and drifted down the staircase. In a closet by the foyer, he found a light coat with a pair of large pockets and a hat with a wide brim. A layer of dust covered them. Mazorca brushed them off and put them on. At the front door, he slipped his deadly book into one of the oversize pockets. He grasped the door handle and stepped onto the front porch.

After closing the door and locking it with the key Grenier had given him, Mazorca turned to walk in the direction the soldiers had taken. He collided with a red-haired boy who was running home with a loaf of bread from the market. The boy, less than half the size of Mazorca, tumbled to the ground.

“Watch where you’re going,” snapped Mazorca. He bent over and picked up his hat, which had fallen beside the boy. He placed it back on his head and continued on his way.

For several moments, the boy sat on the ground and watched Mazorca go. Then he stood, grabbing his bread and brushing off a few specks of dirt. His parents would never know that he had dropped it. But there was something else that he suspected he would have to tell them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph that the soldier on Connecticut Avenue had given him-the picture of “a very bad man who needed to be found as soon as possible.”

Rook did not recognize the man in the doorway to Scott’s office, but Seward clearly did.

“Thank you so much for coming, Ambassador,” said Seward.

“My pleasure, Mr. Secretary.”

Seward put an arm on the ambassador’s back and swept the other one toward Scott and Rook, who also had risen.

“Allow me to introduce Senor Don Luis Molina, the minister to the United States from the Republic of Nicaragua.”

The men shook hands. Rook noted Molina’s firm grip. In a moment, all four were seated, facing each other.

“I asked the ambassador to come here because he may have some information about Mazorca,” said Seward. “Before this morning, I had not heard the name. It is certainly unusual. I repeated it over and over-Mazorca, Mazorca.” He was enunciating the name, vibrating his tongue as he trilled the R.

“I came to the conclusion that it sounded vaguely Latin, and specifically Spanish.”

Here he paused, as if expecting a dollop of praise for his ingenuity. Nobody spoke, and he continued.

“So I sent a note to Ambassador Molina, whom I first met last month, when he was formally received at the White House by President Lincoln. He speaks Spanish, and more to the point, he knows a great deal about the affairs of Spanish America. But best of all, he is a great friend of the United States.”

Seward paused again. This time he looked directly at Molina, who nodded in acknowledgment.

“So I sought the ambassador’s wise counsel and asked if he had ever heard this name, Mazorca. He replied in the affirmative, and we arranged this meeting.”

“It is good of you to come,” said Scott. “What can you tell us about Mazorca?”

Molina folded his hands in his lap. “I have not encountered this name in some time, and I certainly never expected to rediscover it here in Washington.”

The ambassador spoke with an accent, but his English was good.

“The name comes from Argentina. It is not my home, but I know something of it. Have any of you heard of Juan Manuel de Rosas?”

Rook shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. Scott did not seem to be familiar with it either. Finally, Seward spoke, with some hesitance in his voice. “Was he the ruler of Argentina?”

“That is correct,” said Molina. “He was a rancher who became a dictator. He moved in and out of power, but he dominated the politics of Argentina for more than twenty years until he was finally ousted, once and for all, in 1852. Today, Rosas lives in exile, in London. During his reign, Argentina fought with its neighbors. Inside the country, Rosas ruled by fear. One of his instruments of terror was a secret police force-a gang of thugs and killers. Its members were fanatically loyal to Rosas. Within their ranks, they were so closely united that it was said they were like the kernels on an ear of corn.”

Molina illustrated the point by pressing his fingertips together. He squeezed them so hard that they turned red.

“In your language, there is another word for corn,” he continued. “You don’t use it as much, but you know it. The word is maize. In my language, corn is called maiz and an ear is oreja . Put them together in an ear of corn, and you have la mazorca . This was the name that the secret police of Rosas used for themselves.”

Seward straightened his back. “I see we’ve come to the right place,” he said with obvious satisfaction.

“There is something else as well,” said Molina. “Mazorca is a joke-what I think you call a play on words or…” His voice drifted off as he searched for the term.

“A pun,” said Rook.

“Yes, a pun,” said Molina. “ Mazorca also means mas horca .” He paused for effect. “ Mas horca means ‘more hanging.’”

“That is all very interesting,” said Scott. “But what does it have to do with our man here in Washington?”

“I cannot answer with certainty. What I have said up to now is based on fact. It is all true. What I am about to say is speculative. But it is also reasonable.”

“We’re all ears,” said Seward, who suppressed a chuckle when he remembered that this was no time for laughter.

Molina ignored him. “During the final years of the Rosas period, the mazorqueros were less active than they had been previously. Yet they maintained a horrifying presence. The most ruthless among them was said to be a foreigner-an American. He arrived in Buenos Aires shortly after your country’s invasion of Mexico and conquest of Mexico City.”