The Fifth Assassin (41 page)

His good mood had nothing to do with their current location or the fact that everyone thought he was still at Camp David. It had to do with who he was
with
.

Behind him, following him out of the SUV, Wallace’s eleven-year-old daughter, Vanessa, stuck her head outside, instinctively looking around. Their SUV had stopped along the edge of the road on the D.C. side of Memorial Bridge. But to her surprise, there was no crowd waiting, no one cheering, no cell phone flashbulbs popping. It was the same trick they used for Obama’s surprise Christmas visit to Iraq… and for sneaking President Bush to his daughter’s rehearsal dinner before her wedding. Instead of a motorcade, they put the President in a pair of jeans, the leather jacket he never got to wear, and an unmarked black baseball cap—then tossed him in a single SUV that no one would look at twice.

On her far left, pulled up on the grass, was an ambulance parked under one tree, and a black van tucked behind another. The Secret Service had prepositioned a few assets, but all were far enough away
that father and daughter truly had something they never got to have: peace and quiet.

“It’s just us,” Wallace promised, which, really, was the point.

The President was determined not to miss this day. He’d missed so many already. Not the big ones, of course. Nessie’s birthdays, her elementary school graduation, even the spring piano recital—those were easy to block out on his calendar. But the small, everyday ones—like Fifth Grade Art Night or the softball game where they gave her a chance to pitch and she struck out two hitters!—those were the days he’d never get back.

When Wallace had first taken office, he heard the stories—about how Chelsea Clinton learned to drive from her Secret Service agents at Andrews Air Force Base. Wallace swore he’d do better than that. But as he learned during the very first days on the job, if you want to be the leader of the free world, sometimes the fifth-grade field trip needs to go on without you.

But not always.

“So. You
excited
?” the President asked, kicking himself for sounding so much like his own overenthusiastic father.

Nessie didn’t answer, shooting him the kind of preteen-daughter look that even the Secret Service can’t protect you against. Still, as Wallace reached out to help her from the SUV, Nessie reached back, taking her father’s hand and holding it in her own.

In just a few minutes, Nessie would be sobbing uncontrollably as a Secret Service agent carried her, clutching her to his chest. But right now, as they walked hand in hand—her thin fingers intertwined in his—the President’s day couldn’t possibly get any better.

“Sir… Miss Nessie—this way, please,” A.J. called out, pointing them toward the narrow path that led through the wide-open, snow-covered field behind the Lincoln Memorial.

“Not as good a view as the front, is it?” Wallace asked.

“I like it better from back here,” his daughter said, looking up at the enormous symmetrical columns that lined the back of the Memorial. “It’s quieter—like it’s ours.”

“Mmm,” the President said in a wordless hum that encompassed the pure joy of simply being alone with his daughter. Or as alone as a President gets. In front of them, a casually dressed Secret Service agent and a similarly dressed military aide—both in unmarked baseball caps—walked at least twenty yards ahead so they wouldn’t look like bodyguards. In back of them, A.J. brought up the rear, keeping a similar distance. For a full two minutes, as snow tumbled from above, father and daughter were just two more tourists exploring the nation’s capital. Nearing the back of the monument, A.J. whispered something into his hand mic. The President couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder. A.J. shot him a knowing nod.

Wallace knew what it meant: Palmiotti had put the meat in the bear trap, and it had finally snapped shut. They had everything they needed at Camp David. Soon, they’d have the rest: Beecher, Nico, Marshall… The President still wasn’t sure
how
or
why
—but he knew they were all tied together. And now, whatever fight they were picking, one by one, they’d all go down.

“Sir, this way please,” the lead agent called out as he and the military aide approached the back of the Memorial and stopped a few feet shy of the granite base. On cue, from the ground, bits of snow popped as two metal cellar doors opened and a rusted old platform rose upward on an industrial scissor-lift. When the Lincoln Memorial was built back in the 1920s, the scissor-lift helped them lower electrical, mechanical, and plumbing equipment down to the basement level. These days, it lowered Presidents and visiting VIPs.

“Your chariot,” the President teased, motioning his daughter toward the steel platform with its three-sided railing. It wasn’t big enough to hold all of them. The lead agent and the mil aide went first, thinking they were being safe.

“So you think your friends will be excited to see me?” the President asked as the platform’s scissor-lift grunted and screeched, swallowing the first two members of their party.

“Dad, I hate to break it to you, but my friends didn’t vote for you.”

“That’s only because they’re eleven,” Wallace said as the now
empty platform churned upward. When it stopped, the President and Nessie stepped onto it. Joining them, A.J. glanced around, doing his usual recon.

“
Goliath and Glowing moving
,” A.J. said into his hand mic as he squeezed next to Nessie. With the press of a button, the platform rumbled, and all three were eaten, slowly sinking underground.

Eighteen years ago

Sagamore, Wisconsin

T
he drop was longer than he thought.

He was on his stomach, lowering himself feet first through the basement window. While the top half of his body held his weight, his legs kicked in every direction, searching for something to stand on. Chairs. Suitcases. Anything to break his fall.

Finding nothing, Marshall didn’t panic. Even if it was four feet… five feet… the basement ceiling wasn’t that high. The drop couldn’t be that bad. With a quick shove, he slid down on his stomach, like a child on a steep playground slide. But as he picked up speed and the ground still hadn’t arrived… the drop was farther than he anticipated.

Off balance, Marshall tumbled on his ass, crashing to the concrete, which, in the dark, felt like it was covered with a thin membrane of fine dirt, the last remnants of all the filth washed up by the dishwasher flood.

Two weeks ago, this room was filled with water. Today, it was dry but smelled of wet books… and something else. Something old.

Climbing to his feet and readjusting his glasses, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small penlight, trying hard not to think of Pastor Riis entertaining young Bobby McNamera down here. By now, Marshall was sweating, though he didn’t think too much of it. Marshall was always sweating.

“Get in, get out,” he whispered to himself, remembering Beecher’s rules and heading for the bookcase. As the penlight cut through the dark, spider-bugs hopped in every direction. Last time, there were three or four. Now there were dozens, pinging from the floor to the walls and back again. But in the half an eyeblink that it took for Marshall’s eyes to adjust, all he cared about was the built-in bookcase, where he saw…

Nothing.

The books were gone. The case was picked clean. Forget the porn, even the shelves were taken out.

It was the same with the rest of the room. The file boxes, the folding chairs, the luggage, the brooms, the mops, the milk crates—every single thing that had been stacked up around the room—with that much water damage, it was all removed. That’s why the drop from the window was so—Oh jeez.

The window.

Spinning back, Marshall looked up at the small rectangular window that he’d just snuck through. Not only was it shut. It was high. Way above his head.

Panicking, he looked for something to stand on. The room was empty. He reached up, but the way the window was perched just below the basement ceiling, it was too far. As he added a quick jump, his fingers skittered at the ledge, but not enough to take hold. He even tried running at the wall, jumping up and—“
Uff.
”

His chest crashed into the concrete, and the result was the same. The window was too high.

“
Beecher…!
” he whisper-hissed. He gave it a moment.

“
Beecher, I’m stuck!
” he whispered again.

But even as he said the words, as he looked up at the closed window like he was praying to God Himself, he knew there’d be no answer.

Sweating hard now, and finally starting to notice, Marshall spun back around. On his left was the doorway that led into the basement’s main room.
In there.
Maybe there’d be something to stand on.

Wasting no time, he darted next door, looking for a stepladder, a mop bucket, for anything to boost himself up with. But as he skidded to a stop and another swarm of spider-bugs pounced toward the walls, it was more of the same. Except for the boiler and water heater, the place was picked clean. Even the stairs—He stopped again, doing a double take.

The stairs.

There it was. His way out.

No, don’t be stupid
, Marshall told himself, knowing better than to take that kind of risk. The last thing he needed was the pastor grabbing him in the kitchen.

Darting back into the other room, Marshall again headed for the high window.

“
Beecher, please!
” he called out, up on his tiptoes and waving his penlight back and forth like a lighter at a rock concert.

The only response was a skittering noise down by his feet.

The shadow moved fast, disappearing in the corner. Marshall jumped at the sound, spinning with the penlight and barely spotting it. But there was no mistaking the
tkk-tkk-tkk
of tiny claws clicking and scratching against the concrete. Whatever it was, it was way larger than a spider-bug. One thing was clear: Marshall wasn’t the only one in the basement.

And that was it.

“
Gaaah!
” Marshall whisper-yelled, scrubbing at his own skin and racing for the stairs as fast as he could.

He didn’t go up. He just stood on the first step, anxious to get on a different plane from whatever it was that had just run through the room. But as he looked up—as the shine from his penlight ricocheted off the stairs’ metal treads—he saw that at the top of the stairs, underneath the door to the kitchen, the lights were off. No one was there.

Doesn’t matter. Stay where you are
, he told himself, shutting the light so the pastor wouldn’t see him either.

But the longer Marshall stood there in the dark, reality was sinking in. Beecher wasn’t coming. Neither was Paglinni. Plus, it wouldn’t be long until his mom started panicking, wondering why
he wasn’t home. Unless he planned on sleeping with the spider-bugs and whatever animal was running around down here, he was running out of options.

Glancing toward the top of the steps, he could hear the rise and fall of his own breathing. The sweat was pouring down his chest, making his shirt stick to his stomach.

He wished there was another way. But there wasn’t.

Slowly and carefully, he shifted his weight to the second step, whose old wood let out a loud creak. Marshall stopped in place, his eyes locked underneath the kitchen door. Still dark. No one there.

Taking a breath, he gently made his way to the third step, then the fourth.

Step by step, he climbed slowly in the dark, listening for even a hint of anyone upstairs. At the top, on the second-to-last step, his heart sank as he grabbed the wooden doorknob. What if it was locked? What if it was…?

Kllk.

The latch gave easily, pulling its tongue from the strikeplate and freeing the door to open. Gently… carefully… Marshall eased it open, pressing his face so close to the threshold, the corner of his glasses scratched against the doorframe.

The smell of fresh bread hit him first. At his feet, a lone spider-bug pounced out onto the worn linoleum.

Otherwise, the kitchen was dark and empty. The only sound was—

“Oh, God… Oh, Lord…”

It was a woman’s voice—faint—coming from one of the front rooms. At first, Marshall thought it was a prayer… someone was hurt.

To be honest, Marshall didn’t care. He was moving too fast, already eyeing the back door, ready to shove it open and escape through the yard. But as he took his first steps, he couldn’t help but turn. That voice…

He knew that voice.

Stopping on the linoleum, he glanced over his shoulder, back toward the living room.

That sounded just like his mother.

Six minutes ago

Washington, D.C.

Y
ou okay?
the President asked his daughter with just a look.

Nessie nodded, but was still holding tight to the railing of the scissor-lift. As the platform descended underground, below the Lincoln Memorial, a dark shadow rose up, enveloping them.

“What is this place?” Nessie asked, her eyes squinting and adjusting as the white brightness of the snowy day was replaced by a damp, poorly lit basement that smelled of mud, rainwater, and oil. With a final
thunk
, the platform locked into place and the cellar doors in the ceiling clamped shut, stealing the gray sky with it.

“Mechanical room,” A.J. explained, pointing around at the roomful of huge industrial equipment. “These are the generators that light up Lincoln and his famous columns. Plus you need a boiler, chiller, and a water supply in case there’s a fire or other emergency. Every tourist attraction in the world—from the Eiffel Tower to the Pyramids in Egypt—they’ve all got one of these below it,” he added, trying to be reassuring.

Nessie still didn’t release her grip on the railing.

“Don’t worry, there’re no spiders,” her father finally said. Turning to A.J., he added, “She’s not worried about the dark. She hates spiders. Always has.”

Following them off the platform, Nessie didn’t argue. She was too busy looking around at the peeling ceiling, the cracks along the
concrete wall, and even some old graffiti. The machinery was relatively new, but the room hadn’t been updated in nearly a century.