Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

Checking over his shoulder one last time, Marshall approached the passenger side of the Mustang, then got down on one knee like he was tying his shoe. Beecher had already done enough damage. Now it was time to return the favor.

47

That’s them. The Knights of the Golden Circle. You’ve heard of them?” Dale asks, revealing just how little she knows Tot.

“We have a few of their items in the Archives,” Tot replies, holding the photocopy to his nose and studying the strange eagle tattoo. “I know them from there.”

He’s not the only one. Back during the Civil War, groups like the Knights were popping up in every direction, providing outlets for all the anger running rampant in the country. But unlike the Freemasons or other secret societies, who were focused on longtime traditions, the Knights of the Golden Circle wanted something far more hateful: for the Union to end so they could run their own slave-based society. Their goal was to create a true, physical “golden circle”—with Mexico and the Caribbean—to build a private part of the country where slavery would continue.

The Knights supposedly had two famous members: Jesse James. And John Wilkes Booth.

“So this tattoo,” Tot says, pointing to the top right corner of the photocopied skin. “Any idea what this stands for?”

Dale and I both lean in. Just above the eagle, in the corner, there’s another tattoo—a smaller one, of a knife—a dagger, really—that’s drawn 3-D style so it looks like it’s stabbing into the skin. What Tot’s pointing at is the tiny red item on the hilt of the dagger.

A red diamond.

“You guys know better than I would,” Dale says. “Maybe Guiteau liked playing cards.”

“Maybe so,” Tot says, handing me the photocopy.

As I look for myself, Tot drills me with a long stare. I have no idea if John Wilkes Booth really was a member of the Knights. But no matter the answer, one thing seems unarguable: Over two hundred years ago, the only reason Booth got into Ford’s Theatre was by showing a mysterious card to Lincoln’s valet. Last night, after the rector was murdered at St. John’s, the police found Marshall carrying a deck of cards—with this exact eagle on the package—that was missing the ace of spades. And now, as I study the cracked beige skin of the killer who hunted President Garfield, I’m seeing that Charles Guiteau clearly had a tattoo of a dagger with a red diamond on it.

Two presidential killers. Two suits of playing cards.

For a moment, I tell myself to focus on the present and what we know: that there’s a copycat killer who’s imitating old assassins and slaughtering religious leaders. But if John Wilkes Booth had the ace of spades. And Charles Guiteau had the ace of diamonds. Either we just stumbled onto a hell of a coincidence…

… or throughout decades of history, two of the world’s most ruthless hunters were not just organized, not just linked together—they might’ve actually been working for the same cause .

48

Oh, please. Now you’re just rewriting history,” Tot says a bit too angrily as he tugs the steering wheel and the Mustang rumbles and bounces back onto 16th Street.

“What’re you talking about?” I ask as Walter Reed fades behind us. “You’ve seen what we’ve found: the mysterious card at Ford’s Theatre, plus the missing ace of spades, and now this ace of diamonds…”

“No, Beecher, what we found is someone killing pastors and imitating the most famous presidential killers. Which is twisted enough. What you’re saying now is, even though every history book on this planet says otherwise, that somehow all these killers were what ? Plotting together over the course of a hundred and fifty years?”

“How long’s the Culper Ring been around, Tot? Two hundred years? Two hundred and fifty? You’re telling me George Washington can create that, but that the Knights of the Golden Circle—”

“The Knights of the Golden Circle were a bunch of racists from the Civil War…”

“… who suddenly disappeared just as John Wilkes Booth put a bullet in the back of Lincoln’s head!”

“I know how it played out, Beecher, and I know that every conspiracy nut in the world likes to say that the Knights’ real motives went underground with them, but I’m telling you: The Knights of the Golden Circle don’t exist today.”

“How do you know that?”

Tot licks his lips, suddenly quiet.

“Tot, just say it.”

Holding the steering wheel like he’s about to strangle it, he turns to me with his milky bad eye. “I know because we fought them already. Years ago. And beat them.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“We—the Culper Ring—we beat them. Years ago. And the last time I heard the Knights mentioned, it was—” He cuts himself off. “Back when I was first recruited.” He stops again. “We’re talking nearly fifty years ago, back when Kermit—”

“Kermit?”

“Kermit,” Tot says, his voice catching. “Kermit was to me what I hope I’m being to you.”

As we veer around the traffic circle at Colesville Road and head for the Beltway, momentum pins me against the passenger-side door. I stare at him, appreciating the—

“Don’t go mushy on me, Beecher. I’m just saying, when I was younger and Kermit brought me in, like any parent, there was a lot he didn’t say in front of me. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t listening. And back then, what they were always whispering about—like Holocaust survivors whispering about the concentration camps—were the horrors that happened with the Knights of the Golden Circle.”

“Did you ever find out what happened?”

“I know what happened: We won. We beat them. Whatever they were up to—and I can tell you, it had nothing to do with John Wilkes Booth or ancient playing cards—Kermit made one thing absolutely clear: We stomped them. So the odds of them suddenly being back, and being responsible for murdering these religious leaders, or even working their way up to the President—”

“Are you even listening to yourself? You’re part of a secret underground group that’s existed for the past two centuries, and you’re telling me that there’s no way that another secret underground group could’ve done the same?”

Tot hits the gas, the Mustang jerks, and we pick up speed on the highway. “Beecher, y’know how every family has one moment where they weren’t at their best?”

“Can you please just spare me the metaphor and tell me what you’re really trying to say?”

He pauses, and then: “You have to understand—the Culper Ring, for all our secrecy, we’re no different than any other clandestine unit. We’re made up of people. And for that reason, the Ring itself always develops its own personality, especially depending on who’s in charge.”

“You’re saying someone bad was in charge back then?”

“Not bad . Aggressive. Proactive. In the right situation, those are still good words. Back then, it was exactly what we needed. So when it came to the Knights, and every last person involved with them… anyone they were associated with…” His voice slows down to that tone you only hear at funerals. “The Culper Ring tracked and hunted and slaughtered them all. Like dogs.”

As the words leave his lips, he pulls on the steering wheel, exiting the highway at Rockville Pike. At this hour, the roads are quieter and a bit less crowded. But it doesn’t bring a single bit of calm.

“You never tried to find out why ?”

“Of course I tried to find out why. But it was like trying to find out about when your grandfather had an affair on your grandmother. Like I said, there are some things only the adults talk about. I was a child.”