Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

Until Clementine could unlock those years, she’d never know what really happened, never know what her father went through. Most important, assuming she was right that the experiments on him had been passed to her , she’d never be any closer to understanding the cancer that was currently eating through her own body.

She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. What’d she expect? That the President would hand her a smoking gun wrapped in a big bow? Here you go… even though we’ve kept it hidden for two decades, here’s that top-secret info about your dad that you kept asking for.

The truth was, the file already told her the answer. Or part of the answer. Those three years—by the mere fact they were missing—that’s when the damage was done.

Unfolding herself from her Indian position and sliding one leg under her, Clementine continued flipping through the file. In front of her, on the table, she made four different piles—one for each of the “acknowledged” years that Nico served in the army.

Page by page, she distributed the papers, assigning each document to its appropriate year. Most of the commendations came in the early years, the reprimand letters in the later years. But for the most part, it was the same as before: nothing.

That is, until Clementine flipped through a set of paper-clipped documents and noticed a pale pink sheet that was stuck inside. Of course, the pink color stuck out. She’d seen these sheets before: immunization reports. The army took vaccinations seriously, and Nico had a form like this for all four of the years that he’d—

Wait.

Cocking an eyebrow, Clementine stared at the piles on the table and counted again. Nico already had four of these.

This was a fifth.

Staring down at the sheet, she double-checked the date. The page started shaking in her hand. This was from one of Nico’s missing three years.

She was reading fast now. There wasn’t much to it. Request for… Nicholas Hadrian… to receive influenza vaccination…

It was a request for a flu shot. So easy to overlook. But unlike the other immunization reports, this one was… Approved .

For whatever reason, someone had to specifically approve this flu shot.

Her hand still shaking, Clementine looked at the bottom of the sheet. There it was, in thin black pen: a muddled signature. The signature of the doctor who approved it. Dr. Michael Yoo.

From there, the next half-hour was easy. An Internet search with the terms Dr. Michael Yoo and army brought back only two candidates. One died last year, at the age of forty-two. Too young.

The other lived in San Diego, California.

Ten digits later, Clementine had her cell phone to her ear, listening as it rang once… twice…

“Hello…?” a soft older man’s voice asked.

Clementine didn’t say a word.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

“I’m looking for Dr. Michael Yoo,” Clementine blurted.

“Who’s this?” he countered.

For an instant, Clementine searched her brain for the best way to keep him talking. But all she came up with was, “I think you know my father. Nico Hadrian.”

There are certain moments that change a person’s life. For some, it comes in the form of a car crash. For others, it comes at a doctor’s office.

For Clementine—as she sat there, her hand now steady—it came from a stranger on the other end of a phone call.

“You must be Clementine.”

25

Today

Crystal City, Virginia

I spin around. Marshall’s almost nose to nose with me.

“I hope your call wasn’t bad news,” I say.

“Now you’re wondering about the mask,” he says, calm as ever.

“Listen, Marsh—”

“ Marshall. And I’m not mad, Beecher. You saw the mask. You should have some questions. Especially considering it came from the crime scene.”

“The mask did?”

He makes a mental note, tracking the fact that, at least for me, the mask is a new piece of the puzzle. “Where do you think I found it?” he asks.

“So now you found the mask?”

“Please don’t take that tone, Beecher. If my story didn’t check out, you think the detectives would’ve released me last night? I know how investigations go. I do them for a living. And I know how often they incorrectly grab the first suspect just because they’re the closest suspect.”

“Just tell me about the mask, Marshall.”

“I found it two blocks away. In a garbage can on the corner of 17th Street.”

“Why’d you even go looking for it?”

“You’re joking, right? If you really have friends who are D.C. Police, you know how overwhelmed they are. If they’re accusing me of murder—which thankfully, they aren’t anymore—you better believe I wanted every piece of evidence that proves my innocence.”

“So why didn’t you tell the police about it?”

“I did. Called them last night. Then again this morning, which is when they finally assigned a detective to the case. Check their call log; you’ll see. They asked me to handle it only with gloves, pack it up in bubble wrap and bring it in today.”

I glance over my shoulder at the closed box that holds the mask and the bubble wrap. Another perfect story.

“What kind of investigations do you do?” I ask.

“I was about to ask you the same,” he counters, reaching for the deck of playing cards and sliding them back in his pocket. “I mean, for you to be looking into this… to track me here… Who you working with these days?”

“Uncle Sam,” I reply, watching him carefully.

“Funny. I have that exact same uncle,” he replies, watching me just as carefully.

My brain starts making guesses. CIA… NSA… FBI… In this town, the acronyms are endless. But if he’s telling the truth—if he’s really on the same side I am—No. Nonono. There’s no way this is all just coincidence.

“We really should grab a drink sometime,” he says, putting his gloveless hand on my shoulder. It’s scarred even worse than his face. Whatever he was reaching for in that fire, he wanted it desperately.

“I didn’t realize I was leaving.”

“Sorry. I need to deal with this phone call,” he says, steering me to the door.

“Well, let me at least give you my email, and my phone at the Archives,” I say, going for one of my business cards. But as I reach for my wallet…

I pat my right back pocket. Then my left. Then my front pockets…

“My wallet!” I blurt, already mentally retracing my steps. “Maybe it fell out in your car…?”

“You check your coat pockets?” Marshall asks.

I pat my coat pockets. Right one. Then left. Sure enough, there it is. Left coat pocket.

“I do that all the time,” Marshall says as I stare down at my wallet.

The thing is, I never put it in my coat pocket. Ever.

“Let’s grab that drink ASAP,” Marshall says, opening the front door, his grin now spread across his face.

As he ushers me into the hallway, I’m still staring down at my wallet. I flip it open. My cards, my ID: Everything’s perfectly in place. I look up at Marshall, then back down at my wallet.

“Really glad we got to see each other, Beecher. Let’s do it again real soon,” Marshall says as the elevator pings behind me and he steps back into his apartment.

I jam my foot in his doorway, preventing it from shutting.

“Beecher, I really have to run…”

“One last question,” I tell him. “Do you remember a girl named Clementine?”

He squints, his glance sliding diagonally upward. “Clementine…?”

“Clementine Kaye,” I remind him. “From that night… With the closet…”

He presses his lips together, shaking his head. “Sorry, Beecher, I don’t. Remember, I left when we were still little.”