Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

With a soft click , the lock unclenches and the metal door to my room swings open, revealing a man wearing a black leather jacket and palming a cup of tea in fine bone china. He looks down at me with the world’s most famous gray eyes.

President Orson Wallace.

“Sir, if you need us…” Agent Reed announces, sticking his head in and making sure I’m still handcuffed to the bed.

“He’ll be fine,” insists a younger agent, who fits the description of A.J. As the President steps into the room, A.J. stays in the hallway. Whatever’s about to happen, it’s not happening in front of anyone.

Shooting a final look at the President, A.J. tugs the door shut but doesn’t lock us inside. I get the message. If anything bad happens, they’ll be in here within seconds.

Taking a sip of tea and letting the silence take hold, Wallace is unreadable as always. As he walks toward the center of the room, it’s the first time I realize his other hand has been in his pocket the entire time.

“Y’know, most people stand when I enter a room,” the President says.

I stay where I am, shackled in a sitting position at the foot of the bed.

“That was a joke, Beecher.” He shakes his head. “Would you like me to have them get you some tea?” the President adds. “Red robe oolong. The Chinese government always brings it as a gift. It’s quite good.”

I pull on my handcuffs just hard enough that he knows what I think of his oolong tea.

Next to the bed, the President spots a metal chair, but he stays where he is, taking another sip of tea and standing over me.

“What do you want from me, Wallace?”

“I want you to know, I’m not your enemy, Beecher.”

I’m silent.

“I realize you want to see me as the bad guy, but I’m not the bad guy here. Not in this one.”

I study his face, then look away.

“Actually, I came to say thank you,” he goes on. “For trying to save my life. And my daughter’s too.” Taking a final sip, he sets his teacup on the edge of the metal chair. “Whatever else you think of me, Beecher, I know that’s the reason you drove to Camp David. To keep me and my family safe.”

I shift in my seat. It’s the one point even I can’t argue with.

“I assume you also had something to do with sending Marshall there,” the President says. “He’s an old friend of yours, yes?” When I don’t answer, he adds, “I owe you for that, Beecher. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

I keep my eyes on the floor, refusing to look up at him.

“They said this Pastor Frick… They said you figured out he was the Knight,” the President says. When I still won’t look at him, he adds, “The Secret Service has the body. When they ran a black light over it, he was covered with white ink tattoos, including one on his hand with the initials J.W.B. John Wilkes Booth.”

I nod as if it makes sense.

“You’re a smart guy, Beecher. And I know this wasn’t an easy one. They told me about your friend, about Tot. I already placed a call to the doctors at the hospital. He’ll get the best help anyone could ask for.”

“He doesn’t need your help. And we don’t want it.”

“You sure about that?”

I look up, hearing that tone in his voice. It’s not a threat. He’s actually concerned.

“I know how hard you’re fighting for this country, Beecher. And how much the Culper Ring’s lost,” he says. “But if you let me help you… if we put our heads together… this is our chance to build it back. Stronger than ever.”

“You’re serious? You want to help rebuild the Culper Ring?”

“Stronger than ever,” he says, moving the teacup to the floor, taking the seat opposite me and crossing his legs. “I won’t interfere, Beecher. You keep doing everything you need to. But if you get in trouble or need help, do you have any idea of the resources I can bring? In fact, just today, when Nico escaped—”

“Nico escaped ?”

He sits up straight, enjoying the slight advantage that comes with being a step ahead. “He walked right out through the St. Elizabeths loading dock. Stabbed a poor nurse to do it. Apparently, someone who looked like his daughter, Clementine, was spotted there too,” he says, reminding me of the fact that I still have no idea where Clementine is or what she’s up to. “But when they checked the list of visitors, you know who Nico’s last official visitor was? You, Beecher. That’s what it said in the computer. Until about an hour ago,” he adds, flashing the insta-grin that convinced sixty-eight million people to vote for him. I know he’s the President of the United States, but sometimes I forget how charming he can be. Still, it doesn’t erase what I found out months ago: that as he climbed the rungs of power, he and Palmiotti were part of a ruthless attack and at least two recent murders.

“So whattya say, Beecher? Stronger than ever?”

“It’s a generous offer, Mr. President. And I’m thankful for you looking out for me. But when it comes to the Culper Ring, I think it’s better if it stays independent.”

“Now you’re talking like a politician. I’m offering you a chance to help the Culper Ring reach its true potential. Isn’t that why George Washington created it? To arm the President with a fighting force no one else would see coming?”

“You make us sound like a weapon.”

“And you make it sound like you’re in charge,” Wallace says, his insta-grin now gone. “Or that I’m asking your permission.” He lifts his grin back in place, hoping it’ll intimidate. Last time, it worked. But this time isn’t last time.

“Sir, what you said about George Washington… You’re wrong,” I tell him, trying to keep the conversation upbeat. “He didn’t create the Culper Ring to protect the President. He created it to protect the Presidency. Especially from those who might do it harm.”

“You think that’s clever, Beecher? Let me say this as clearly as I can: I’m currently extending my hand to you. If you refuse it, this offer, this opportunity I’m offering right now… it’ll never come back.”

“I appreciate that, sir. And I also appreciate that you’re not used to people saying no to you. But let me remind you,” I tell him, leaning forward so we’re only a few feet apart. “I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. And just so we truly understand each other, the Culper Ring doesn’t work with murderers.”

“Then you should talk to your friend Tot,” the President shoots back, keeping his voice steady, his legs still crossed for teatime. I forgot how he fights. No matter how hard he’s hit, he never loses his composure. He just keeps acting like he’s in control. Until he is.

“You just made that up about Tot to get in my head.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Beecher. But don’t be so sure you know who you’re working with.”

“Tot’s not a murderer.”

“If you say so,” he says, resting both palms on his crossed knee. “I’m just sorry we won’t be working together.” Calmly reaching down toward the floor, he picks up his teacup and tosses me one last false grin. “So. We’re done here, yes?”

“Y’know, you said that to me two months ago. That we were done. But we’re not, Mr. President. Not yet. In fact, do you remember what else you told me last time? You said this was a prizefight. And near as I can tell, we just finished round two.”

“From where I’m sitting, you lost round two.”

“Maybe I did. But next time I see you, Mr. President…” I tug hard on the chains, pulling them tight against the footboard. “… I’m not gonna be in handcuffs.”

“Good news for me, then. Because the next time I see you, Beecher, I most definitely won’t be offering you tea,” he says, toasting me with his teacup. Standing from his seat and heading for the door, he adds, “Be sure to say hi to Tot for me. And if I were you, I’d get there as quickly as I could.”