Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“You’re telling me that’s a secret message?”

“Tot, you of all people know how much gets lost in the march of history. Today, we keep printing cards like this out of habit. But it’s no different than when the dollar bill was first designed and someone decided to put a pyramid with the all-seeing eye on the back of it. The designers didn’t just pick random symbols. They selected things for their meaning.”

“That doesn’t mean there are secret messages hidden in playing cards.”

“You sure about that? Look at these here,” the Diamond added, kneeling back down to the file drawer and flipping through the loose cards in the file, eventually pulling out a modern-day king of hearts.

“In just about every deck in the world, every face card—the jacks, the queens, all the other kings—they all have two hands. The king of hearts always has four—two of which are stabbing him with a sword, like he’s stabbing himself. That’s where we get the term suicide king from. But look closely. His sleeves don’t match. He’s not stabbing himself or committing suicide. He’s being stabbed by someone else . Someone so hidden, the king can’t see him coming.”

Tot pulled the card closer, examining the image.

“You see it now, don’t you? They match another card in the deck,” the Diamond said, now excited. “Those are the sleeves of the queen of spades .”

“So the spades kill the hearts?”

“Or as Vignolles designed in his original symbols: the knights—and by extension the king—kill the church.”

“But you said the queen—”

“Forget the queen. In the very early decks of cards, there was no queen. Women weren’t recognized as a part of civil society. Even jacks were introduced years later. So in Vignolles’s original deck, and the decks that were passed down generation to generation, it wasn’t king, queen, jack . It was king, knight, knave . That was the warning Vignolles was sending. The real killers of the church were the knights of the king. So if the church’s greatest secret was to be protected, a new army had to be formed. A secret army. A sacred group sworn to protect the church. A group of knights who would hide amongst the king’s knights and attack when they were needed most… and when no one would expect it,” the Diamond explained as Tot glanced back at the antique ace of spades from the deck Marshall was carrying.

Tot eyed the familiar eagle on it: the symbol of the so-called modern Knights—the Knights of the Golden Circle.

“Vignolles knew this battle would outlive him,” the Diamond explained. “The battle between church and king has been waged for centuries. It’s the ultimate civil war. So for his few secret knights who were loyal to the church, Vignolles hid his warning right there in the images: Without these sacred knights, the king would slaughter the church. The cards were their call to arms—the message hidden right in front of everyone—as a secret signal that would make sense only to those who knew the message was there,” he added as Tot thought about the mysterious card that John Wilkes Booth used to get into Ford’s Theatre… or the red diamond tattoo on Charles Guiteau’s shoulder.

“Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s all silly folklore,” the Diamond continued. “But when you look at a deck of cards, make no mistake, those cards still tell a story. And it’s a story that always ends the same way…”

“With a knight murdering the church.”

“There you go. Now you see Vignolles’s warning—and why he wanted to change that story. When his signal was given…”

“His knights would murder the king,” Tot whispered.

“Or murder whatever leader was in charge when there was no king,” the Diamond countered.

Confused, Tot asked, “What’re you talking about?”

“You think I just keep a stash of antique aces for no good reason?” the Diamond asked, motioning to the ace of spades with the ancient eagle. “Those cards you brought in here—they’re the same ones that belonged to George Washington.”

60

Marshall. You remember him?” Clementine asks, sounding energized as she grips her wig.

“Of course I remember him,” I reply weakly. “Marshall was my friend.”

“He was? I forgot that,” she admits, still not putting her wig on. “According to Dr. Yoo, before Marshall’s dad was in the wheelchair, he was a plankholder too. They were young back then, before any of us came along or—”

“Clementine, when was the last time you saw Marshall?”

“I dunno, when did he move away? I think I was… maybe thirteen or fourteen?”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“Where would I see him?”

“What about speaking to him? Have you spoken to him?”

“Beecher, you okay?”

“Please just answer the question.”

“Y-You’re acting like—”

“Just answer the question, Clementine! Have you spoken to Marshall or not!?”

Clementine’s eyes go wide, then quickly narrow and tighten, clicking back and forth like she’s frisking me for information.

“You spoke to him, didn’t you?” she blurts. “You know something about Marshall.”

“I don’t—”

“You do , Beecher. I know you do. Your left eyebrow goes up when you lie.”

“Clementine, I barely saw the guy…”

“Hold on. You saw him!? I told you! I knew it!” Rushing forward, she grabs me by the front of my shirt, like she’s about to attack. “What’d he say to you!? You need to tell me!”

“Are you high ? Let go of me!”

“Tell me what he said, Beecher!”

“I said, let go !”

“ Then tell me what the hell is going on! ” she demands, tugging harder on my shirt and still clutching her wig. It’s so close to my nose it smells like wet fur. “ Tell me what Marshall said about Nico! ”

I pull back, confused. Nico? This has nothing to do with Nico.

Before I say a word, her eyes flood with tears and her shoulders fall. “I told you everything about your dad, everything I knew,” she says, steeling her jaw and refusing to let herself cry. “How can you not tell me what you know about mine?”

“I don’t know anything, Clemmi. I swear to you.”

“But you saw Marshall, didn’t you? You spoke to him?”

“Yes, but when I spoke to him, it wasn’t about Nico . It had nothing to do with Nico. Or the plankholders.”

She looks left, then right, like she can’t get her bearings. I’ve never seen her so rattled. In fact, I’ve never seen her rattled.

With her hands shaking, she touches her ear, brushing an imaginary curl of hair behind her bare earlobe. At this point, some things are pure instinct. “If this isn’t about Nico, then why were you talking to Marshall?”

“Because we’re trying to figure out if… it sounds crazy when I say it out loud.”

“My father lives in a mental institution and tried to shoot a President. I’m used to crazy . Just say it, Beecher.”

“I’m trying to figure out if Marshall killed someone while pretending to be John Wilkes Booth. There. That looney-tunes enough for you?”

Clementine takes two steps away from me, clutching her wig at her chest. “What’d you just say?”

“I know. And if we’re right about what’s going on, it’s not just Booth. There’s also Charles Guiteau, who—”

“I need to go,” Clementine insists, finding the tag on the inside of her wig and sliding it back on her head.

“What? Where’re you going?”

“I need to go, Beecher.” She’s patting her blonde locks back into place. Even with the hair, she looks paler than I’ve ever seen her.