Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

I know Café Milano. Everyone in D.C. knows Café Milano. From Bill and Hillary, to Joe and Jill Biden, to Julia Roberts, Kobe Bryant, and every honcho in the last decade—in a town that tires quickly of trendy restaurants—Café Milano has managed to feed pols and celebs, while extending its trend. Which is why I’ve never been here. “Why are we at Café Milano?”

“I’m meeting someone,” he insists, still scanning the restaurant. It doesn’t take long; most of the lunch crowd is gone. Nearly every table is empty. Yet there Marshall is, his eyes flicking back and forth, like he’s memorizing and cataloging the room’s every detail. Unlike in his apartment, his entire stance has changed. His back is straight, his chin is up. He’s working.

It takes me a few seconds to realize that from where we’re standing, we have a perfect view of every entrance and exit.

“Marshall, I know Presidents eat here. And I know what your job is. The penetration testing… Is that what you’re doing? You looking for flaws in their security?”

He turns my way, gripping the edge of the bar with a scarred hand. “You figured me out, Beecher. Just before noon tomorrow, as he heads out to lead his daughter’s class trip to the Lincoln Memorial, President Orson Wallace will be leaving this dining room, which is when I’ll sneak up behind him and use his own steak knife to slit his throat and pull his larynx into his lap.” As he says the words, his lips press into a thin smile.

“That’s not funny, Marsh. How can you say something like that?”

“Isn’t that what you want me to say, Beecher?” he asks, still calm as can be. “Isn’t that why you came here—to prove I’m a heartless murderer?”

On our right, the bartender finally takes notice of us. So does the maître d’. Waving them both back with nothing but a dark stare, Marshall walks—slowly, like he owns the place—through the restaurant and out the front door as I walk behind him. No one approaches. They know a wolf when they see one.

Outside, the front patio of the restaurant has a few wrought-iron tables that’re covered with snow. There’s no place to sit. But at least no one’s listening.

“If you want to know something, Beecher, ask me to my face.”

“How’s your dad doing these days?” I ask.

“He died. Three years ago.”

“I’m sorry, Marsh. I had no—”

“He was sick a long time,” he says in the sort of elegant calm that comes from someone who’s grown accustomed to tragedy.

No surprise, all it does is make me miss my own dad, who died when I was just three. Two months ago, Clementine said she knew the real story of my father’s death. I know it was just another manipulation, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t leave its own scar.

As we linger in front of the restaurant, I wait for Marshall to say something else, but he’s still scanning our surroundings, checking the building across the street and every window in it that looks down on us.

“You want to tell me what really happened at that church?” I say.

“I told you what happened.”

“So you just coincidentally were there? You were just saying some prayers?”

“What’s wrong with saying prayers? When we were little, your mom made us say that morning prayer, for what we were thankful for. You’re telling me you still don’t do that?”

My shoulder brushes against one of the metal poles that holds up the restaurant’s blue awning, sending a sprinkling of snow toward the earth and once again making me think of my own father. “I really did look you up, Marshall. This stuff at GAO—I know how good you are at getting into places you shouldn’t be. So stop insulting me. Why were you really in St. John’s Church last night?”

His stance is still all business. He keeps staring across the street, dissecting every window across from us.

“Marshall, if you’re in trouble—”

“I don’t need your help, Beecher.”

“That’s not true. A man was murdered. You were the one arrested for it!” I hiss, fighting to keep my voice down. “This group I work with… instead of being so stubborn and pushing us away…” I swallow my words, amazed at my own rush of anger.

I take a deep breath. “I know I haven’t been part of your life for over a decade. But for years, I was part of your life. Y’know how many hours I spent with you in that treehouse?”

Marshall is still facing the building across the street. He won’t turn my way. But he’s no longer checking windows.

His voice is still. He never gets upset. “You know that rector who died at the church last night,” he finally says. “The one who got his throat slit?”

“Yeah?”

“He wasn’t the first rector who was killed. There was another. One before him.”

“What’re you talking about?” I ask.

“Two and a half weeks ago. Another pastor died. That’s what I was looking into. That’s what led me to St. John’s.”

Kicking at the ground, Marshall pivots his foot like he’s putting out a cigarette. But the force he puts behind it, it’s like he’s trying to dig through the concrete itself. Last time I saw that look, urine was running down his father’s wheelchair.

“Why were you looking at that first pastor?”

He kicks again at the ground. The snow is almost gone. “He was someone I knew. From Saggy.”

“Wait. You knew him from home ?”

Marshall nods. “You knew him too.”

33

St. Elizabeths Hospital

Washington, D.C.

How long’s he been like that?” Nurse Rupert asked.

“Almost twenty minutes,” Nurse Karina replied, eyeing the beige brick labyrinth, where Nico was still standing directly at the center, his hands flat at his sides. Like a military man.

“ Twenty minutes? You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“Karina, you’re telling me you’ve watched Nico stand there— right there —at the center of that stupid maze—”

“It’s a labyrinth. Mazes have dead ends.”

“You’re telling me that for twenty minutes—” Rupert cut himself off. “If Gosling sees this—” He cut himself off again. “Why didn’t you call for help?”

“I am calling for help. That’s why I called you,” she said with Nico’s leather book still tucked under her arm. “Tina said he likes you.”

“Nico doesn’t like me. He just does better with male nurses. Always has.”

“I don’t care if he does better with transvestites. Last time he shut down like this, Tina said he put a mechanical pencil in Dr. Herthel’s leg.”

Remembering the incident, and the blood that went with it, Rupert snatched the old book from Nurse Karina. Every few months, Nico would find an object of obsession. For a while it was his Redskins wall calendar. Before that, it was his red glass rosary, preceded by a pair of reading glasses that reminded him of a truck driver whose throat he punctured. Today, Rupert knew Nico’s current obsession.

Turning back to the labyrinth, he waved the book in the air. “Nico, I got your book.”

Nico didn’t answer.

“I know you heard me,” Rupert called again, refusing to get close until he was sure it was safe.

Nico just stood there, hands flat at his sides.

Rupert took a deep breath, annoyed. Dammit. “Nico, you wanna go to the computer room?”

Nico turned. He knew they’d only offer the computer if they were desperate. That’s why he needed to make his stand in the labyrinth. This was what he was waiting for. It was time to get the Knight’s new message. “Is the computer room here the same as the old one?”

“Even better,” Rupert said, waving Nico out of the maze and steering him with a gentle back pat. “C’mon, you’ll love it.”