The First Assassin (24 page)

“Have I seen you before, Jeremiah?”

“I don’t know,” said Jeremiah, a bit tentatively.

“Have you seen me?”

“Before today? I don’t think so.”

The dog remained agitated. It grumbled and refused to take its eyes off the boy.

“Do you know anything about runaways? If you know what’s good for you, answer truthfully.”

“I haven’t seen any.”

Tate liked to think he could spot a liar just by looking at him—it was an essential skill for an overseer. With Jeremiah, however, he just could not tell. Rather than shiftiness or defiance, he saw fear in the boy. It meant that either he really did not know anything about Portia and Joe or he was an above-average deceiver. Tate was tempted to put Jeremiah in shackles and quiz him.

But what would that solve? Hughes was badly hurt, and Tate did not want to alienate the Starks. Portia was long gone. It made sense to get back to Bennett’s. The overseer got on his horse and left. The horses followed Tate to the road, and the dog did too. But the dog also kept turning around for another look at Jeremiah. When the boy disappeared into the stables, the dog let out a final bark. Then it stayed by Tate’s side all the way home.

The basement of the Treasury was so dark and dank that if Rook had not known better, he might have thought it was a medieval dungeon. A king of old Europe might condemn a prisoner here and throw away the key. These were helpful atmospherics, thought Rook, but best of all was the obscurity of the place. Almost nobody ever came down here—the only reason Rook had learned of it was because he had inspected the building several weeks earlier, when he was assessing its value as a defensive structure. The place was a warren of rooms filled with everything from dusty financial records to pieces of broken furniture. In one remote corner, however, was a short corridor of empty chambers that were little more than glorified closets. It was here that Rook had taken his four prisoners from the C&O Canal, placing them in separate rooms.

Through the night, Rook, Springfield, and Clark had taken turns grilling Davis, Stephens, Mallory, and Toombs. The interrogations had not gone well. Rook had a long list of questions: What were their real names? Where were they from? Why had they walked around the Capitol? Why had they visited Violet Grenier? What were they planning to do with the blasting powder?

After a while, it became apparent that Mallory and Toombs did not say much because they did not know much. Yet even they held their tongues on simple questions about their identities. Davis and Stephens seemed to have more to hide, but they did not budge either. Rook could think of no easy way to compel them. Out of sheer frustration, he had kicked Davis in the gut and threatened to do worse, but to no avail. Rougher techniques were an option though he did not feel confident about resorting to them—at least not yet.

“What are we going to do with these men?” asked Springfield.

“Right now, we’re not going to do anything with them,” said Rook. “We know they can’t do any harm here. After a day or two of sleeping on the floor and hoping that we’ll bother to feed them, they may prove more cooperative.”

The colonel wished he could summon someone with more expertise at asking questions and obtaining answers. Unfortunately, he didn’t know anybody in the city with these skills. An even more fundamental problem than finding the right person, however, was Rook’s desire for secrecy. He was running a rogue operation without General Scott’s knowledge or approval—a clandestine program that, as he saw it, was necessary in order to counteract the complacency of his superior officers. Asking around for personnel would merely draw attention to what he was doing.

He suspected that he could keep Davis and the others locked up for at least a few days without anybody noticing. Perhaps time would break their resolve. There would be logistical matters, such as providing them with food and water, though Rook did not feel particularly inclined to give them much of either. Hunger and thirst might erode their willpower as well. Would he have to post a guard outside their doors? He was tempted not to. Right now, only he, Springfield, and Clark knew of the prisoners. He wanted to keep it that way. But could he? What if somebody happened to wander through the basement? What if the prisoners sensed that they were alone and yelled for help? Would someone hear?

How all this would play out remained unclear. For now, Rook told himself that he had achieved his most immediate objectives: determining that Davis and company were an actual threat, and then preventing them from carrying out their plans. For the time being, perhaps this was enough of an accomplishment.

“This will be difficult to keep hidden,” said Springfield.

“Let me worry about that,” said Rook. “If it becomes a problem, I’ll take the blame.”

“Just tell me what to do.”

“We aren’t going to learn anything from these fellows, at least not now. We should try to learn more about the people they’re working with. There must be others. Violet Grenier may be the key.”

On hearing her name, Springfield remembered his excursion of the previous morning, when he’d followed the stranger from Grenier’s home to the boardinghouse on H Street. He told Rook about it, including the detail about the man’s ear.

“Do you think he’s connected to Davis and the others?” asked the colonel.

“It’s impossible to say. He’s definitely connected to Grenier, and she’s definitely connected to them.”

Rook ordered Springfield to keep Grenier under watch for the rest of the day. The colonel himself had to rush around the city making appearances at several posts—he had neglected his rounds yesterday and could not afford to do it again. Clark, meanwhile, would stand guard over the prisoners.

As Rook and Springfield left the Treasury and walked into the sunlight, the colonel issued a final order. “Whatever you do,” he said, “don’t let anyone spot you.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“You can always hide behind that mustache of yours.”

John Hay handed a clutch of papers to Abraham Lincoln and quit the room. He closed the door, leaving Mazorca alone with the president.

“Hello,” said Lincoln, who sounded slightly bored. The two men shook hands. Mazorca was struck by the president’s long fingers and firm grip. Lincoln gave Mazorca’s torn-up ear a quick second look, as so many people did. He gestured to a short chair. Mazorca parked himself in it, and the president began to rustle through the material Hay had given him.

As Lincoln read, Mazorca glanced around the room. The president’s office was functional rather than grand. A modest desk sat in a corner, near one of the room’s two windows and beside a fireplace. Above the mantel was a portrait of Andrew Jackson. The opposite wall displayed a pair of maps. A long table dominated the middle of the room. It was big enough for a cabinet meeting, thought Mazorca. A small lamp rested in its center, amid a mess of documents. A black gas line ran up from the lamp to a modest chandelier above it. Sunlight from the room’s big windows and yellow wallpaper brightened the space. Next to the president, a cord dangled from the ceiling. By pulling on it a minute earlier, Mazorca assumed, the president had rung the bell in the waiting room.

Lincoln himself was all angles. His knees and elbows made sharp points as he sat with crossed legs, hunched over the papers. His face looked as though an ax had carved it from a block of wood, with jagged edges and severe lines. The deep creases were distinctive but not conventionally handsome. Lincoln’s eyes were a light blue fading into gray, and they sparkled with intelligence from deep sockets. Messy hair and a beard running low along his jaw framed his countenance. Mazorca thought Lincoln was one of the oddest looking men he had ever seen.

“You have a letter here from your congressman, plus notes from a few of my local supporters.” Lincoln continued shuffling the papers. “One of these men even seems to think that he alone is responsible for my election,” he said, more to himself than his guest. “And now this immodest fellow expects a reward for getting me into this fine fix.” The president emitted a sound that was half grunt and half chuckle. Then he looked at Mazorca. “So, Mr. Collins, tell me why you want to become a lighthouse keeper in New Jersey.”

Mazorca tried not to look surprised. “Somebody must offer protection against the reefs and shoals.”

“We must all steer clear of them—ships of sea and ships of state.”

“Indeed.”

Lincoln waited for more of a response, but Mazorca did not want to say too much. He had not planned to be in this position, and he did not like to do anything he had not planned. But neither did he want a good plan to get in the way of an excellent opportunity. He knew his assignment required seizing every advantage handed to him. Here was Lincoln, seated before him and ignorant of any personal danger. They were alone.

At last the president decided to carry on. “Lighthouses have always intrigued me, Mr. Collins. When we see a light shine in the darkness, we are invariably drawn to it, like the proverbial moth and flame. The light attracts us. It invites us to come closer. And yet in the case of lighthouses, the light is often a warning. Its message is to stay away. If we approach, we perish.”

“It is important to know what things to avoid.”

Lincoln closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and tilted his head upward. He was trying to remember something.

“Confess yourself to heaven,” he said. “Repent what’s past; avoid what is to come.”

He opened his eyes to a blank expression on Mazorca’s face. The president smiled. “Never mind me—just a little Shakespeare. I reread those lines in
Hamlet
only a few nights ago.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between the two men. Mazorca assumed that Lincoln had grown accustomed to guests who did nothing but beg favors. “I suppose you wish there were lights to guide you through the darkness now, in these troubled times,” said Mazorca.

“I surely do,” replied the president. “But I would also want to know whether the lights come from a harbor calling me in or a reef warning me away.”

“Some things are not as they seem. The trick is to know which is which.”

Lincoln’s eyes narrowed. “How many legs would a dog have, Mr. Collins, if you called his tail one?”

Mazorca paused at this riddle. He wanted to say five but knew that could not be the answer. “I’ll guess four, because calling his tail a leg would not make it one.”

The president smiled. “You are a clever fellow. Most people don’t get that one.”

“It’s an easy mistake.”

“A careless one, too. It reminds me of a story. One day, a farmer was working around his property when his son—a boy of about ten years—came rushing up to him. ‘Pa,’ he shouted, full of excitement, ‘come quick! The hired man and sis are in the barn, up in the hayloft. He’s pullin’ down his pants and she’s liftin’ up her skirt!’”

Lincoln paused, barely able to suppress a big grin. It appeared as though he had told this story many times and took delight in watching it fall on fresh ears.

“‘Pa,’” continued Lincoln, in the earnest voice of the boy, “‘they’re gonna pee all over our hay!’”

Lincoln howled at this line, doubling over in his seat. As the president wiped an eye with his sleeve, Mazorca smiled politely and tapped his foot. He felt the holster strapped to his calf. The possibilities buzzed through his mind. All he would have to do was pull up his pant leg and remove the gun. He had thought the deed might be accomplished from a distance, with a rifle. Now he wondered if it could be done up close. It would be easy, unbelievably easy. But then, this was always the easy part. The hard part was the escape.

Mazorca found himself enormously tempted to take advantage of this extraordinary moment. He looked at the window but knew from his earlier observations that the drop to the ground was too far. He would probably break a leg, or worse. The sound of the shot would set off an alarm through the whole house, too. Hay would burst in immediately, followed by the men waiting in line in the other room. Some of them were sure to have weapons. Mazorca thought he might hold them off for a moment with his pistol, but he knew a gunfight was not in his interests. Scores of Lane’s men would swarm the White House and its grounds in seconds. They would spot a man running across the south lawn and begin a chase—and a chase was the thing he most wanted to avoid. The way to escape after killing a target was not to become a target right afterwards. That meant creating uncertainty about where the shot came from and who pulled the trigger. Ideally, he would walk away calmly from the scene of an assassination.

“I have received several other inquiries about lighthouses in New Jersey,” said Lincoln, when he finally stopped laughing. “You are by no means the first and may not be the last. I have not made any decisions yet and will give your request full consideration.”

Mazorca realized he was being released from the interview, but he wanted this bizarre meeting to continue. He nodded at the portrait of Jackson. “I did not take you to be an admirer of his.”

“Doubt my credentials, do you?” smiled the president. “I thought doubting credentials was my job.” He gave a short laugh, a high-pitched hee-haw, and looked at the picture.

“Many people assume that a Republican like me wouldn’t hang his picture. It was here when I moved in—a remnant of the previous administration. I had hoped it might bring me some success in my own dealings with South Carolina. I suppose that’s what Mr. Buchanan wanted too. It didn’t help either of us much, did it? President Jackson had a little more luck with that state than we did.”

Lincoln paused for a moment and made eye contact with Mazorca, who sat motionless. “It does remind me of another story, which comes from that old revolutionary war hero Ethan Allen. Do you have time for a short one?”

Mazorca nodded his approval. Sometimes a fruit appearing ripe on the outside could be rotten on the first bite. He decided to let Lincoln survive this accidental encounter. Their next meeting would be different.

“Allen was visiting England, sometime after our country had secured its independence,” said Lincoln. “His hosts enjoyed poking fun at Americans, so they put a picture of George Washington in the most undignified place they could imagine—the back room, you know, where they kept the toilet. They could hardly wait for their guest to see the picture and were delighted when Allen excused himself for a moment. His hosts were bursting with anticipation while he was away, and they guessed at what Allen might do or say when he returned. They were startled, though, when Allen came back in with a huge grin on his face. He did not appear even mildly annoyed. One of his hosts finally asked, ‘What did you think of the décor?’ And Allen replied, ‘Very appropriate. In fact, I cannot think of a better place for an Englishman to hang a picture of General Washington than above the can.’ The reply confused everybody, so the host asked, ‘Why is that?’ And Allen replied, ‘Because there is nothing in the world except the sight of General Washington that will make an Englishman so quick to shit!’”