Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“If you want, I can leak the details about the assassination threat.”

“Oh, that’s far better. So the whole world thinks that the President is running like a scared kid?”

At that moment, President Wallace looked up from whatever letter he was signing. Without a word, the argument was over.

Twenty minutes later, A.J. stood outside on the South Lawn of the White House, watching as the First Lady and the President’s son climbed aboard the waiting helicopter. As a compromise, it was their standard copter, instead of the armed Black Hawk, which meant the press would see this as a regular administrative lift instead of an emergency one.

And the stated reason for the trip? That was the far more subtle compromise. The press was told that Wallace’s son was feeling pressure at school, and they begged reporters to keep it quiet to protect the son’s privacy. Of course, reporters wouldn’t keep anything quiet. Not anymore. But now Wallace looked like the perfect dad—taking the family to Camp David so he could help his kid through a hard time. As the chief of staff knew, when everything went sideways, there was no better cover than family.

With a muffled whup-whup-whup , the blades of the helicopter began to twirl, and the wheels leapt off the South Lawn. On most days, reporters would be watching from a roped-off press area. Today, by the time the first member of the press even realized what was happening, the President’s copter had everyone on board.

Craning his head back and squinting against the sudden gust of wind, A.J. watched as Marine One rose into the gray sky. Through the window in the back of the helicopter, he could see Wallace’s young son pressing his forehead against the bulletproof glass, looking down at the fire truck that always pulled onto the South Grounds when the helicopter took off.

A.J. knew why the fire truck was there: It was filled with foam in case of a sudden crash.

There could always be a crash.

A.J. couldn’t disagree.

And he knew, so soon, that the real crash was about to begin.

84

Mac, he’s gonna kill Wallace at Camp David!”

“Beecher, you need to listen to me,” Immaculate Deception’s robotic voice demands through my phone.

“No, you don’t understand,” I say, using my cell to snap a photo of the ace of clubs as it floats there in the Tupperware. “The Knight—”

“You mean Marshall.”

“Stop saying that… you don’t know that.”

“I do know that. Just like Tot knew that. In fact, the only person who doesn’t seem to know it is you .”

My hand shakes as the camera makes a ka-chick sound, blurring the photograph of the playing card. Just the mention of Tot’s name makes my whole body shrink. My God, if he’s not okay…

“I get it, Beecher—whatever you did to Marshall all those years ago… whatever happened… you don’t want it to be your old friend. But it’s time to be realistic. After all that’s happened—”

“Tot’s what happened ! And Camp David is what happened ! I found the message!”

“I did too,” Mac shoots back. “They’re pulling the trigger at noon.”

My camera phone makes another ka-chick sound as I snap another photo. “What’re you talking about?” I ask.

“That’s the kill time. Twelve p.m.”

“I don’t understand. How do you—?”

“His medical reports. I’ve been tracking these YouTube cat videos Nico’s been watching. The nurses do patient reports every shift, and those reports get filed online, which means…”

“You hacked the reports.”

“They’re using steganography. Do you know what that is?”

“Hidden writing.”

“Exactly. But in today’s world, y’know what’s even harder to track than hidden writing? Hidden videos . Think about it—when it comes to stopping terrorists from sending each other emails, our government tracks certain words across the Internet: Bomb. Bomb materials. How to make a bomb. The NSA has the best word-tracking software in the world. But when it comes to videos, there’re no words for them to track.”

“Can’t they see what’s in the video?”

“Ah, now you’re getting closer. Y’know who Mike McConnell is?”

“He ran the NSA. Then director of national intelligence.”

“Exactly. And back during Desert Storm, McConnell was so busy, his daughter kept saying, ‘I only see you on national TV—you need to tell me you love me during one of your press conferences.’ McConnell said he couldn’t. So his daughter told him to do it like Carol Burnett: Tug your earlobe, which was Burnett’s secret way of saying I love you to her grandmother. So that’s what McConnell started doing. During press conferences… on 60 Minutes … all throughout Desert Storm and his entire career, he’d tug his ear, and his daughter would get the secret message. The one message not even the best NSA software can crack.”

“So what’s that have to do with Nico?”

“I checked the other videos that Nico’s been watching, and if the time logs are right, before the second pastor was killed, Nico watched a video of a cat named Cutey Cute Lester—”

“ Cutey Cute Lester? ”

“I know it’s a stupid name, Beecher. But as the cat rolls back and forth, in the background of the video, the cat’s owner taps the front of his foot against the carpet exactly nine times… then he taps his heel a quick twenty-five times…”

“The second pastor was shot at exactly 9:25.”

“Then in yesterday’s video, his foot taps just nine times.”

“Nine o’clock,” I say, noting the time of the shooting at the hospital this morning. As another pang hits my stomach, I look down at the ace of clubs with the words Camp David on it. “Mac, you found another video, didn’t you?”

“Uploaded twenty minutes ago. This time, the cat owner taps his foot twelve times, Beecher. Noon today. And when I looked back at the President’s official schedule—which yes, they just changed after the shooting—that’s the same time that Wallace was scheduled to be leaving with his daughter from…”

“Café Milano,” I say, referring to the restaurant that I caught Marshall casing yesterday. The one where he said he’d carve out the President’s larynx with a steak knife.

“I know you see it, Beecher. That’s why Marshall was at the restaurant. He was looking for the best angle to put a bullet in the President’s brain. The only question now is, with the schedule being changed, if the President’s not going to the restaurant—”

“Camp David,” I blurt. “They’re taking the President to Camp David.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I’m sure,” I say, reading from the playing card and still picturing that thin grin on Marshall’s face. That knowing grin. The kind of grin that makes me wonder if, from the moment everything started, this is where Marshall always planned for it to end. Create a big enough emergency, and they’ll always send the President to Camp David.

I glance down at my phone to check the time. It’s almost ten. Barely two hours. “Mac, if this is right—we need to let people know!”

“Let who know? Tot’s in the hospital.”

“Then call the other agents! Call every Culper Ring member you can find!”

At that, Immaculate Deception goes quiet.

“What? What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Beecher, how many members do you think are in the Culper Ring?”

“I don’t know. A lot.”

“Define a lot .”

“Fifty…?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Less than fifty?” I ask.

Again, he doesn’t respond.

“Less then forty ?” I add.