Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

Another car pokes its nose out. A navy SUV.

Marshall’s car. With Marshall behind the wheel.

As he takes off, he’s two blocks ahead. I give him another block as a head start. He’s in a rush, but I still see him.

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.