The First Assassin (36 page)

Just then, Springfield appeared from a block away. When he saw Rook, he broke into a sprint. He stopped in front of the colonel, panting from exhaustion and excitement. “You won’t believe whose letter I found in Grenier’s mail just now,” he said. He held out a piece of paper.

Mazorca rubbed a hand against his cheek and felt the scratchy stubble of a new beard. He tugged on the shawl wrapped over his head, hoping to cover more of his face, but it was already pulled tight. The whiskers growing on his chin and jaw were pale in color and so not as immediately obvious as they would have been if he were brown-or black-haired. Yet anybody taking a look at his face probably would notice them. His disguise was not going to work for long. He knew that he needed to avoid eye contact and conversation. And that meant getting out of Center Market, where the crowds would swell as government clerks left their jobs for the day.

For now, however, the disguise would suffice. Mazorca was glad that Tabard had been a large woman. Her closet was full of clothes that fit him comfortably. Most were plain, which was to Mazorca’s liking. He had chosen a dull gray dress that seemed especially ordinary. The fact that it was a little smudgy on its sleeves and slightly frayed at its bottom probably added to its authenticity. To the typical passerby who paid no special heed, Mazorca appeared as a woman who was trying to run errands and keep to herself.

Killing Tabard had been an unfortunate necessity, thought Mazorca. She was not guilty of a penetrating insight, like Calthrop, though there was the question of the missing letter. If Tabard had played a role in its disappearance, she probably would not have told him to look for it under his door. This seemed like a safe assumption. When Mazorca spotted the man with an unusual level of interest in the boardinghouse, however, even the safest assumptions seemed to have their risky elements. Mazorca needed to escape quickly. The idea of using Tabard’s clothes as a disguise came to him immediately. He killed her because he wanted to move with speed, plus there was the possibility that she might say something unhelpful to his pursuers.

Mazorca did not regret the murder. He did not care whether Tabard lived or died. The inconvenience of having to silence her merely annoyed him. Her blood was splattered on the clothes he wore beneath the dress, and they would need replacing. The fact that he had not planned on her murder, however, distressed him. His plans were swerving off course. The government’s security apparatus was onto him. He was no longer in total control.

Mazorca realized what a close call he had just been through. Agents were watching the boardinghouse. They had put a tail on him when he left. Fortunately for him, the tail was inept. Mazorca had spotted him almost immediately, saw him again in the reflection of a storefront window, and then watched him try to board the omnibus at the last possible moment. Just as he had gotten on, Mazorca had gotten off, slipping out from the rear of the vehicle. Then he had crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and darted into Center Market.

Now he wandered among the farmers and fishmongers. Their prices were rising, owing to the city’s nervousness about its immediate future. The local cost of food was far from his mind. His real purpose in visiting Center Market was to confirm that nobody else was following him. After half an hour of maneuvering, he was convinced that he had escaped. Now he needed to get out of Center Market and out of Tabard’s garments.

As Mazorca stepped outside, the sky was clear and the temperature was comfortably cool. He immediately noticed that quite a few people were standing along the Avenue, looking toward the Capitol as if in anticipation of something. The crowd thickened as others streamed out of buildings and lined the street. Mazorca had wanted to cross, but he decided to wait. A woman standing nearby spoke to a companion with excitement. “It’s the Seventh! It’s finally here!” Everyone seemed to be pointing and chattering. From a few blocks away came the sound of music and cheers.

A long column of soldiers marched toward the White House, complete with a band. Mazorca kept his shawl pulled and his head down, so he did not see much of the procession. But he learned that this was New York’s Seventh Regiment. It had come into the train station following a difficult and delayed journey by train and ship. The soldiers had traveled through Annapolis to avoid another violent reception in Baltimore. “There must be a thousand of them!” said one awestruck spectator. “Abe Lincoln will love the sight of this,” said another. “At last, we’re safe!”

Mazorca listened and waited. As the troops strutted by, many in the crowd fell in behind them, on their way to what they imagined would be an enthusiastic reception at the White House. The president was sure to come out and say a few words expressing his gratitude and relief.

When the numbers thinned and the Avenue returned to normal, Mazorca moved on. He would skip the grand affair with Lincoln. His own appointment with the president would come soon enough. He would make sure of that.

Violet Grenier closed her book when Polly walked through the front door. The girl launched into a story about a soldier and a photograph. “He said this man is very dangerous and requested that I show this picture to everyone I know.”

Her earnestness amused Grenier. “Well, you had better let me see it,” she said.

Polly came over to where Grenier was sitting and handed her the photograph. A look of astonishment must have crossed Grenier’s face, because Polly immediately sensed what Grenier knew. “Do you recognize him?” she asked in a mix of excitement and fear.

At first, Grenier was speechless. It was clearly Mazorca. How in the world had Polly obtained a photograph of him?

“Where did you get this?” she asked, making Polly repeat her story. This time, Grenier peppered her with questions about precisely what the soldier had said to her.

When she was done, Polly narrowed her eyes. “Who is he?”

“I have no idea,” lied Grenier. “I’ve never seen him before.”

Polly was suspicious. She did not dare contradict the woman who employed her. Yet she sensed that Grenier was hiding something.

“Have you seen him, Polly?” asked Grenier.

“Me? Oh, good heavens, no. I have not.”

“Are you sure?” Grenier’s voice was heavy with doubt.

“Never—I swear it,” said Polly, nervously. “I’m just trying to do what the soldier asked. That’s all.”

The girl was flustered, which was just how Grenier wanted her.

“Okay, Polly. That’s fine. If this man is dangerous, then we need to be very careful. I’m going to keep this picture. I’d like you to clean the white chair in the guest room. Calhoun has been napping on it again, and he’s left it covered in fur. And you might dust the room while you’re in there.”

Grenier watched her go. She had done a poor job of masking her surprise but believed she had recovered adequately.

She looked at the image again, hoping it would somehow look different and contradict her first impression. Yet she grew even more certain that the picture was of Mazorca.

This was very bad news.

Rook heard Scott before he saw him. The big general’s hearty laugh boomed through the Winder Building as he made his way to his office, where Rook was waiting for him.

“A glorious day!” roared the commander of the army. Rook stood up as Scott entered the room in full military regalia. An enormous, plumed chapeau sat on his head, making him seem even taller than his six foot four and one-quarter inches. His uniform was a crisp blue, with golden epaulettes strapped to his shoulders, their fancy fringes dangling down. A sword was fastened to his belt. Shiny black boots completed the outfit.

Rook never had cared for the pomp and circumstance of the military, but he had to admit that whereas another man might have looked ridiculous, Scott looked majestic. He was fat and old and never would use that sword, or possibly any weapon, in a real battle again. Yet he inhabited his flamboyant costume as perhaps no other American could.

Two other men came into the room behind him. The first was Locke, the general’s ever-present shadow. He was trying to look his best too. His uniform was clean and crisp and its buttons shone. Rook thought he looked more prepared for the intrigues of a ballroom than the ferocity of a firefight. Scott could dress up and still look like a soldier, but not Locke. The second man was Seward, who seemed to be lurking around constantly these days.

“Colonel!” bellowed Scott when he saw Rook. It was both an announcement of surprise and a greeting. The general removed his hat and set it on a peg. “Did you see that marvelous procession?”

Rook knew that he was referring to the arrival of the Seventh Regiment from New York—he had heard the commotion and learned the full story of the regiment’s sudden appearance from a lieutenant just a few minutes earlier. The influx of a thousand fresh men meant that Washington at last was ready for a fight. Lincoln and members of his cabinet, plus Scott and many of his officers, had come out for an impromptu rally.

“I didn’t see the Seventh,” said Rook. “I’m glad that it has arrived.”

“That’s too bad. You missed quite a parade. The best part was to see the president. He was relieved.” Scott emphasized the final word and looked at Seward, who nodded in approval.

“I didn’t think this day could get any better,” continued the general. “If you bring me good news, though, it may indeed do just that!”

“I’m afraid that I’m going to make it worse, sir,” said Rook.

“I see.” The smile vanished from Scott’s face. He fell into a chair and gestured for Rook to do the same. Locke and Seward also took seats. The general’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“What do you have?”

Rook hesitated. “Sir, what I have to say might best be said to you alone,” he said, casting a quick glance at Seward. The general saw it and seemed to consider Rook’s request for the briefest of moments before rejecting it.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Secretary Seward is fully aware of the Mazorca situation and will soon present us with a valuable piece of data. Isn’t that right, Mr. Secretary?”

“Yes, General, in a few moments anyway.” He made a motion to rise. “I could easily step out…”

“Nonsense, sir!” thundered Scott with such force that Seward dropped back into his chair. “We will have a frank discussion about the Mazorca operation. It is indeed fortuitous that we are all here.” He looked directly at Rook. “Colonel, give us your report.”

Rook described what had happened: the beginning of the surveillance, Mazorca’s murder of Tabard, and the raid that had revealed the whole operation as a failure.

“No wonder you wanted to make your report to me alone. This is an embarrassment. We had him in our clutches, and you let him get away.”

Rook bristled at the phrasing but let it pass. “The reason he got away is because he knew we were coming,” he said.

The general raised his eyebrows in at least partial disbelief. Seward shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Mazorca has an informant—someone who may not know that he is passing information to a man who seeks to murder the president, but someone who nonetheless is doing it through his own sheer recklessness.”

Rook paused. He wanted to read the general’s face. Did he harbor any suspicions? Scott merely sat still. His face was expressionless. Seward pursed his lips and scratched his chin. Locke made no attempt to conceal his disdain: he rolled his eyes and let out a mocking sigh.

Scott broke the silence. “That is an extraordinary charge, Colonel. Do you have extraordinary proof to back it up?”

Rook reached into a pocket and pulled out the letter Springfield had given him. He unfolded it slowly.

“This may explain our problem,” said Rook, handing the letter to Scott.

The general took the letter and read it in silence. Rook watched Scott’s eyes widen in astonishment as he read a few lines and checked the signature at the bottom. He let out a little gasp. “This is an unwelcome development,” he said. Then he read aloud, with disgust:

Scott glowered at Locke. “Is there anything you can possibly say for yourself, Colonel?”

Locke buried his face in his hands. When he looked up, Rook could see his eyes turning red from tears. “Sir, it is an innocent mistake!”

“Your dealings with Mrs. Grenier do not sound very innocent to me,” said the general, his voice rising in anger. “It would be bad enough if you were merely divulging sensitive information to a random whore—but here is the proof that you’re giving it away to a woman whom we now know is in league with the enemy!”

“I’m sorry, I did not know,” sobbed Locke. “She seduced me.”

“Get out of my sight,” sputtered Scott. “You are relieved of your rank and your duties. Leave this building and never come back.”

As Locke rose and headed for the door, Scott turned to Seward. “This is a tremendous embarrassment. I personally guarantee you that I will get to the bottom…”

He was going to say more but became distracted when Locke nearly crashed into a new figure in the doorway—a short man with dark eyes, thick black hair, and skin the color of bronze. He wore black clothes as well.

Seward rose. “General, I believe that this man will have some answers for us.”

Mazorca rolled the dress into a ball, tossed it into a half-empty closet, and shut the door. He hoped he would never have to see it again. The experience of wearing Tabard’s clothes was humiliating, but it could have been worse. Nothing would have been more humiliating than the defeat he had so narrowly avoided.