The First Assassin

FIFTEEN

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 24, 1861

The sun’s rays had just started to touch the crane poking through the top of the half-built Capitol dome when Nat Drake heard the whistle blow. He always looked forward to the overnight train pulling in from Virginia at dawn. The load was sometimes big, and he was usually tired from hours of work, but its arrival marked the end of his shift. He could go home and sleep as soon as this last chore was done. This morning, the train was a little ahead of schedule. Nat hoped he would be walking toward his bed before the whole Capitol building was lit.

When he arrived on the platform, though, Nat frowned. Two members of his crew had not yet appeared. They were on the day shift, and they were supposed to show up in time to help unload the Virginia train. Nat knew what they were doing because they had done it plenty of times before: they were choosing to come in late. They would get away with it too, because they were white. Nat and the other night-shifters were black.

Nat understood that there was no point in complaining. He might have been a free black man, but that did not make him as free as the white people. He accepted this reality even as he did not like it. When the day shifters failed to show up on time, Nat just had to finish his job without them. He only wished they would treat him with the respect he thought he deserved as a fellow worker.

As the four members of his crew waited silently for the train to pull in, Nat remembered the morning, about two months earlier, when Abraham Lincoln had arrived. Nat was scheduled to work a double shift that day to prepare for the president-elect’s arrival in the afternoon, but the man appeared on a Baltimore train first thing in the morning. Instead of the celebration that would have greeted Lincoln later in the day, a handful of somber-looking men escorted him away from the train station and into the city without fanfare.

Nat did not know what to expect from the new president. He had heard all the talk about Lincoln freeing the slaves-it was something his neighbors discussed almost daily, though never in the presence of a white person. When Nat set his eyes on Lincoln that morning, a part of him wanted to quit what he was doing and applaud the man who had become the symbol of so much hope. But Nat kept on working, partly because he did not want to draw attention to himself and mostly because he was a natural skeptic. He worried that Lincoln was just another white man who did not show up at the station on time.

The Virginia train was fairly empty, as it had been for weeks. His crew opened a car that normally would have been full of cargo only to discover that it was mostly vacant.

“Gimme a hand with this one, Martin,” said Nat when he saw a square box in the corner. “It’s kind of bulky.”

Another man came over and they lifted the box together. Nat did not think it was too heavy, but the weight of it seemed to shift around inside. He was glad someone was helping him carry it out.

“I think this is the last one,” said Martin as they moved the box off the car. “Unloadin’ is quick when nobody wants to come to Washington. I could get used to this.”

“You could also get used to not having a job,” said Nat. “If this keeps up, there won’t even be a train station here.”

Nat thought he felt the weight of the box shift around again. “Hey, Martin, keep this thing balanced,” he said.

“What’re you talkin’ about? You’re the one who can’t hold it straight.”

“It’s not movin’ around because of me. That leaves you,” said Nat as they lowered the box onto the platform.

“Give it up, Nat.” Martin let go of his end of the box when it was still a foot off the ground. Nat could not prevent it from dropping hard onto the ground.

“Ouch!”

Nat thought the box had landed on Martin’s foot, but Martin had already stepped away. Then it occurred to him: the voice came from inside the box. He stood up and looked at it for a moment. Was he hearing things? He shook his head and started to walk off.

Then he heard a sharp knocking sound. He spun around and listened. It was definitely coming from the box. Something inside was trying to get out.

“Martin, get over here,” he yelled.

As Martin approached, he heard the knocks too. The top of the box started to budge. All of a sudden, it burst into the air. Beneath it stood a small woman in crumpled clothes. She arched her back, spread her arms, and groaned loudly.

Nat was dumbfounded by the scene in front of him. The woman squinted. “Is this Washington?” she asked.

“Yes it is,” replied Nat.

Portia smiled briefly before a look of pain crossed her face. She twisted around, trying to loosen her muscles from the long trip.

“Who are you?” demanded Martin.

Portia did not answer. She stepped out of the box, almost falling over. Her head whipped around, looking for an exit. Then she stumbled off and disappeared from view.

Nat and Martin looked around the platform, then at each other, and finally at the empty wooden box. Apparently nobody else had seen the woman. They were not even sure they had seen her themselves.

“Don’t say a word about this,” said Nat.

“I don’t think anybody would believe me if I did.”

Grenier leaned into her back door and pressed it closed. She let out a deep sigh. Finally rid of him, she thought. At least he was worth the effort. The men who came into her bedchamber were rarely there because of Grenier’s raw attraction to them. The only thing that drew her to this latest bedmate was his willingness to provide details on the inner workings of the government. This was plenty. He was an exquisitely well-placed source.

Her informant must have recognized her keen interest in his work. She was constantly asking him questions about it. The key, of course, was that he provided the answers. Sometimes it took a bit of enticing, but he never failed to give her what she wanted. He got what he wanted in return. Grenier wondered if he even knew their relationship was based on a transaction. It was conceivable that he did not know, and that his vanity kept him from understanding her actual motives. Or he could have been willfully blind-vaguely aware of his own recklessness but refusing to confront it because he enjoyed the reward so much.

Whatever awkward justifications went on inside his head were of little interest to Grenier. If he kept providing information, she would keep arranging rendezvous. As far as she was concerned, they could go on like this for as long her friends south of the Potomac found it helpful-and so far they had found it extremely helpful.

Unless somebody tried to stop them. Before last night, surveillance of her activities had been nothing more than a theory-the knowledge that it might happen. Now there was actual proof: her recent guest’s information about Rook’s interests and her own observation of the man who was watching her house.

Grenier was not a woman to ignore a problem. She locked the back door and headed for the staircase. This morning would be dedicated to solving problems, she decided.

Her cat squeaked a greeting as Grenier entered the second-floor study. The animal was on her desk, sprawled across loose papers. She rubbed his head and listened to his loud purr. With her other hand, she yanked a piece of paper from under the cat’s paws. “This letter has weighed on me all night, Calhoun,” said Grenier, glancing over the Bennett correspondence once more. “I don’t want to call off Mazorca. What good would come of that? I want him to succeed. It took months of planning to get him here, and we can’t afford to let more time pass while we search for a replacement.”

She put down the letter and walked to the window, looking out toward the president’s mansion. “If Mazorca fails, then he fails-and we are no worse off than we would be if we terminated his assignment. And if he succeeds…” Her voice trailed off, and her lips curled into a smile. “I have an idea,” she said, settling into her chair by the desk. “I will write two letters.” The cat sensed that it was time to leave. Still purring, it hopped to the floor. Grenier removed two small envelopes and some stationery from a drawer.

On the first envelope, she wrote “Mr. Mays” followed by Mazorca’s address at the boardinghouse. Then she scribbled a short note:

I have reason to believe Rook is watching me. You may be in danger as well. Proceed with extreme caution.

She folded the paper and stuffed it into an envelope. Then she placed the second envelope in front of her. For a moment, she stared at its blankness. Finally, in a careful script, she wrote the name of its intended recipient: General Winfield Scott.

Nat Drake finished unloading the other cars on the Virginia train, but he could not stop thinking about the woman in the box. When his crew was just about done, he returned to the open box. A cloth lay inside, along with a gimlet, some crumbs of bread, and an empty pouch that probably had contained water. He could not believe that this small space actually had enclosed a whole person. From the slight stench, he could tell that she had been in it for a while. He shook his head in disbelief.

The lid of the box rested a few feet away, upside down. Nat flipped it over. It was addressed to “H. Brown, Washington City.” The name sounded familiar, but he was not sure why.

Then it dawned on him: H. Brown was short for Henry Brown, which was the proper name of Box Brown, the slave who had escaped to the North in a box. Nat had heard the story many times. He recalled the abolitionist leader Frederick Douglass criticizing its notoriety. Douglass thought the method should be kept secret, to prevent publicizing a successful method of liberating men and women from slavery.

Nat figured the woman was a slave. The only thing that made him wonder was the address on the box. Slavery was still legal in the District of Columbia. Box Brown had been shipped to Philadelphia, in the free state of Pennsylvania. That made sense, even if it was not foolproof. Fugitive laws covered the whole country, meaning that slave owners could reclaim their escaped slaves in states that did not permit slavery. There was no truly good place for runaway slaves to go except Canada or Europe, which many of them actually did. But free states were better destinations than slaveholding ones. Why would a boxed-up slave from the South allow herself to be taken to Washington when Philadelphia was only a little farther away? Nat could not think of a good reason. The box and its former occupant continued to puzzle him.

He decided that although he might not know the motives of the woman in the box, he might be able to protect her, assuming she was in fact a runaway.

“Martin!” he called out. Martin was carrying the last crate off the Virginia train. He set it down and came over to Nat.

“What, boss?”

“Did you mention this to anybody?” said Nat, pointing toward the box.

“No. I haven’t done anything but unload.”

“Let’s keep it to ourselves. I don’t think any good will come from it if we start talkin’.”

“Do you think that woman was a-”

“Stop right there. We should forget it even happened.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Go home now. See you tonight.”

When he was gone, Nat put the lid in the box and moved them off the train platform. He was not sure where to put them, but just about anywhere was better than leaving them where they had been unloaded, in plain sight. He carried them out of the depot. The first thing he saw was the Capitol. He headed toward it.

Before long, Nat was in a construction yard. There were piles of coal and wood. Columns in various states of disassembly lay strewn about, plus blocks of marble, keystones, and iron plates. He set the box down by a pile of rock chips and grabbed a small ax lying by a wheelbarrow. He pried and chopped until only a pile of scrap wood remained.

Leaving the work area, Nat thought he heard a foot scrape against the ground behind a tool shed. He hoped that nobody had seen him. When he heard the noise again, he went around to the back of the shed. There she was: the woman from the box. She was crouched low, with her arms folded across her chest. She was not well dressed for the brisk morning weather, and she shivered a bit at the cold. Had she followed him here? Nat was not sure. He could tell she was exhausted and confused. This did not surprise him, considering what she had just gone through. How long had she been in that box? One day? Two days? More? It was amazing she had even survived.

Yet her ordeal was not over. For a moment Nat considered leaving her there. As a free black, he knew his position in Washington was tenuous. He was not a slave, but helping one escape would make him lose what few rights he did have. It was a problem he did not need or want.

Just then, some life appeared in the eyes of the woman. She looked up at Nat. Her lips parted and her voice was weak.

“Please help me.”

Grenier’s guest slipped through an alleyway behind her house. He moved with a mixture of caution and speed, pausing in the shadows but also determined to get away as quickly as possible. The last thing he needed was for somebody to recognize him here. It would lead to questions he did not want to answer. He wished he had left when it was still dark.

At least it was early. The day had only barely begun. At Seventeenth Street, he stood in the gap between two houses and waited. When he was certain that nobody was on the street, he turned left and walked toward H Street. There he made another left. He tried to act indifferent to his surroundings, but at the corner of Sixteenth and H he could not resist a glance toward Grenier’s house.

He did not love her, but he imagined that it would be nice if she loved him. Sometimes he even let himself believe that she really did. It would have struck him as romantic to see her peering from her bedroom window, hoping to catch one more look at him. Perhaps he would risk a little wave, something to make her smile as he set off for another day of important meetings with top officials in the government.

No such luck. The curtains were drawn. The front of her house was as blank as the others nearby.

He crossed the street and entered Lafayette Park. He sat on a bench, aware that he had some time to pass before his first appointment of the day: a security meeting with General Scott and his top advisors.

Grenier’s desire to know about the inner workings of government was peculiar. He had never known a woman with such an interest. But what harm was there in telling her? She was merely curious. Why should he deny himself the opportunity to be in her good graces? What a pleasure it was to know such a woman, and in such a way. Already he wanted to go back to her.

His mind churned with ideas of how to make that possible and how soon it might happen, but he found it difficult to concentrate. That dark-haired beauty had a grip on his imagination.

A young man walked by-a civilian, probably a clerk at one of the government agencies. His footsteps snapped the man on the bench to attention. If the bureaucrats were already on their way to their offices, he thought, then he should be on his way as well. General Scott did not appreciate latecomers.

He rose from his seat and looked once more toward Grenier’s home.

“You’ll be hearing from me soon,” he whispered. “Very soon.”

He decided to send her a note promising more secrets the next time they were together. She would have it by morning-and he would have her again too.

The conference in the Winder Building was drawing to a close when Scott turned to Rook and gave the colonel a devilish grin. Right away, Rook did not like it. He had barely spoken during the meeting. Roughly the same cast of characters was present as compared to the previous day-Seward, Locke, and all the rest. Rook just wanted it to end without incident. The general’s look suggested that he would not get his wish.

“So, Colonel Rook,” said Scott, pausing for effect. “We haven’t heard much from you. How goes the sandbagging?”

Locke snickered, but Rook ignored him. He kept his eyes fixed on Scott. He despised the question, but his goal of getting out of the meeting remained unchanged.

“They’re piled high, sir. I’d be happy to give you a tour if you want to inspect them yourself.”

“That won’t be necessary, Colonel. I have faith in your ability to get this job done.”

The exchange was infuriating, but Rook let it rest. Earlier, they had discussed serious matters. Washington’s latest security troubles included another suspension of train service from Baltimore. The reason for the interruption was unclear, though probably the result of sabotage. Whatever the cause, it meant that no mail or newspapers from New York or Philadelphia would get through. The lines to the South remained open, at least for the time being. When Scott had shifted his attention away from these developments and toward sandbags, Rook assumed that their meeting was about to break up.

He was correct. Moments later, Rook walked from the room. In a corridor, he passed a private who was moving in the opposite direction, toward Scott. Rook thought nothing of the soldier, who was little more than a boy, and continued on his way out of the Winder Building.

Behind him, the private stepped inside the room and saw that Scott was occupied with several farewells. It took a few minutes for the room to clear. Seward was the last to depart.

“It’s very good of you to come again,” said the general, shaking Seward’s hand. Although decorum normally would have called for Scott to be standing, he remained planted on his chair. Seward did not seem to mind. Everybody made accommodations for the weighty general.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” said the secretary of state. “It’s good for a member of the president’s cabinet to attend these gatherings. I just hope that before long the purpose of our encounters won’t be quite so pressing.”

When Seward finally left, the private approached Scott and stood at attention. The general examined him for a moment. His back was nicely arched, chest out, arms straight, heels together. This was a well-trained soldier who knew how to present himself to a superior officer. Scott let him stand this way for a few moments-long enough for his unnatural pose to grow uncomfortable. It would build the boy’s character. At last he spoke.

“Yes, Private?”

“Sir, this just arrived for you.” He held out an envelope.

The general took it. The outside read, “Gen. Scott-personal and urgent.” He ripped the seal and unfolded a piece of stationery. The script was delicate and elegant. As he read it, he grew angry.

Dear General:

I hope this note finds you well. I know you are busy-perhaps too busy to know what some of your men are doing. Surely you would not order anybody to keep watch on my home, as if I were a common criminal. The current crisis is far too important for you to concern yourself with a lady’s dinner parties and visits to church.

You may want to discuss the matter with Col. Rook. You may also want to inquire as to why he puts prisoners in the Treasury Department.

Apparently I have enemies, so I can’t possibly sign my name to this letter. To have my name attached to a scandal would be ruinous.

Yours in desperation and hope,

A Friend

Scott read the letter a second time, then a third. Part of it felt like an insult-the implication that he did not know what his own men were doing. That irritated him. But the rest of it enraged him-an accusation about surveillance and a question about prisoners. He knew what he had to do.

Scott looked up at the private and barked an order: “Get me Rook!”

Mazorca woke late and tumbled downstairs. Tabard was sitting in the dining room, hunched over a copy of the previous day’s National Intelligencer. A steaming cup of coffee sat on the table beside her. She looked up as he approached. “Good morning, Mr. Mays,” she said. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

The woman is efficient, thought Mazorca as he sat down. He began to reach for the newspaper when she came back with his coffee. “You were out late last night,” she said.

It was not a question. Mazorca wondered whether this was an innocent attempt at small talk or the kind of inquisitive behavior that he could not tolerate. His first task was not to arouse her curiosity any further than it already had been.

“Yes, I was,” he said with a smile. “I started playing cards with some new business acquaintances. We lost track of time. I’m a little embarrassed, actually. I tried to keep quiet coming in.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m an early riser.”

That was true enough, Mazorca knew. “Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing to the newspaper. “Not at all,” said Tabard, pushing it toward him.

Mazorca opened the pages, using it as a shield to hide his face from the woman. It stopped their conversation, which he had hoped it would, but it did not end his concern about her curiosity. He gulped down his coffee, continuing to hold the paper but not reading its words. When he was done, he folded the paper, set it on the table, and stood.

“Anything interesting in there?” asked Tabard. Mazorca wished she had not asked, but at least the question fell squarely in the category of small talk, rather than nosiness. “Not really,” he said, smiling once again. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Back in his room, Mazorca turned his attention away from the conversation downstairs. He collected the knife and a few items from his trunk and placed them in a bag.

When everything was ready, his thoughts returned to what had transpired in the dining room. It was probably nothing, he assured himself. But he wanted to be certain. Once he was gone, Tabard could unlock the door and scour his room from floor to ceiling.

With the tips of his fingers, Mazorca combed through the hair on the crown of his head. When he had isolated a single strand, he yanked it out. The hair was short, light in color, and slightly curled. Mazorca opened his trunk and positioned the hair inside, on the edge of a folded shirt. If intruders went through his belongings, they would almost certainly knock it out of place.

When this was done, Mazorca gave his room a last glance. If the previous night was late, he knew that the one ahead was likely to be even later. In fact, he was not sure when he would return.

As he descended the steps, Tabard was still sitting in the dining room. Mazorca kept his eyes trained on her the whole time, but she did not look up. She was keeping to herself. He considered it a good sign.

Less than ten minutes after Mazorca had departed, a boy carrying Grenier’s message knocked on the door of the boardinghouse and handed it to Tabard.

Rook knew he would reach the Naval Observatory well ahead of Springfield. He did not like to spend his time waiting around, but he had been so desperate to get away from Scott and the Winder Building that it was a relief to stand alone with his horse. He held the horse’s reins and rubbed its muzzle. The black ball above the observatory would not drop for several more minutes.

When Rook saw Springfield, he was surprised to see that the sergeant was not alone. A lieutenant walked with him-it looked like Lieutenant Fick, who had graduated from West Point within the last year or two. Rook had attended a handful of meetings with him but did not know him well. He and Springfield approached at a rapid pace.

“Sir, General Scott demands to see you immediately!” said Fick, still walking toward Rook and almost shouting the sentence.

“I was just with him not half an hour ago,” said Rook.

“He’s very insistent,” said Fick. “He dispatched half a dozen of us to track you down.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say. We’re just supposed to get you back to the Winder Building as quickly as possible.”

Rook looked at Springfield. “Do you know what this is about?”

“No, sir,” said the sergeant, shaking his head. “Lieutenant Fick spotted me a couple of blocks from here and said he needed to find you. I told him to come this way.”

“That’s strange. The general hasn’t had much use for me recently.”

“Sir, we really should get to the general,” said Fick, sounding impatient.

“Before we go anywhere, I have some business to discuss with Sergeant Springfield.”

“Forgive my impertinence, sir, but the general is likely to become angry at any delay.”

“Calm down, Lieutenant. You only found me a minute ago. It sounds like General Scott is mad enough to begin with. I can’t see how another minute or two will make a difference. If you like, go back to the Winder Building and tell everyone that I’ll be along shortly.”

“Sir, I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”

“Then by all means keep a steady gaze on me. But please allow me to have a private conversation with Springfield,” said Rook. When Fick did not quickly back away, Rook raised his eyebrows in mock irritation. “And Lieutenant, that’s an order.”

The young man was unsure of how to respond. He crossed his arms and took a few steps back. Rook and Springfield turned away from him.

“You really don’t know what this is about?” asked Rook.

“No, but I doubt it’s good.”

“Lately, none of my meetings with Scott have been good. Anyway, what intelligence do you have for me?”

“Not much. Grenier had a visitor last night. He wasn’t there for a meal.”

“Could you identify him?”

“Afraid not. It was late when he walked up the steps to the door. I wasn’t close enough to get a good look.”

“Was it our friend, the bibliophile with the bad ear?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you know he wasn’t there for a meal?”

“He arrived alone, and he stayed long past any hour of decency.”

“Did you see him leave?”

“No. I gave up waiting at about three in the morning. If I hadn’t, I swear I would have fallen asleep on a park bench.”

“All right, Sergeant. I’m not sure what that proves, but it may be helpful. See what you can learn about Grenier’s friend, the one you followed to the boardinghouse.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll check in with you later, if General Scott hasn’t bitten off my head.”

Fick stood about fifteen feet away-not close enough to hear anything they had just said, and still struggling with the question of whether he should have tried. Rook saw his uncertainty. The lieutenant’s earnestness was impressive.

Rook mounted his horse. “I’ll see you back at the general’s,” he said, leaving at a trot. Fick ran behind, trying to keep up.

Portia slurped at the soup, enjoying the taste but more interested in filling her belly. Her meal was gone in a few spoonfuls. The last part of her journey from Charleston had been hard. She had grown cold, sore, and hungry. There were moments when she wanted to push out of her box, give up, and go back home, whatever the consequences.

A blanket covered her shoulders and another wrapped her legs. Beneath them, she wore the clothes of the man who found her behind a shed. He sat a few feet away from her. His own bowl of soup was still mostly full.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anybody down my soup so quickly,” said Nat. “Keep that up, and you’re gonna make me think I’m a good cook.”

Portia smiled. She was weak, but not so weak she could not appreciate a joke-especially one coming from a man who may have saved her.

“Want more?” asked Nat, nodding toward her empty bowl.

“Yes, please.”

As Nat took her bowl and ladled soup from a pot in the next room, Portia reached into her shirt for the picture her grandfather had given her. She knew it was there because she must have felt for it a hundred times during her train trip. But she had not actually laid eyes on it since she was in South Carolina. It was a little more crinkled, but essentially the same: a black-and-white image of a man she had never seen.

Nat turned around just as she was thrusting it back into her shirt. She hoped he had not seen it.

“What’s that?” he asked as he handed her a steaming bowl.

“What’s what?”

“You put a piece of paper into your shirt. I see the corner stickin’ out.”

Portia looked down, and there indeed was the corner. She pulled out the picture and flashed it.

“It’s just a picture. Nothin’ important.”

She put the picture back in her shirt, this time making sure none of it was exposed. She was irritated with herself for letting Nat have a look. She was grateful to him for what he had done, but she did not know whether she could tell him about her real purpose for being in Washington. Her grandfather had said only Lincoln was to see that picture, and she intended to follow his instructions.

“This soup is wonderful,” she said, wanting to change the subject.

“Tell me about yourself,” said Nat. “The only thing I know is your name and that you jumped out of that box on the platform.”

“Maybe that’s all you should know.”

“Does that mean I’m gonna get in trouble if somebody finds you here?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t ask questions. You’ve been very kind, and I don’t want to make a problem for you. I won’t be here long. I have somewhere to go.”

“You look tired. Get some sleep here, and then you can be on your way.”

When they finished eating, Nat collected their bowls and went into the other room. He was gone for just a minute or two, but it was long enough. When he returned, Portia was lying on her back with her eyes closed, breathing heavily.

As Nat tried to adjust her blanket, Portia rolled onto her side. The photo fell from her shirt. Nat stared at it a moment. Then he picked it up.

“Shut the door,” snapped Scott when Rook walked into his office. “It took you long enough to get here.”

Rook had not even removed his hand from the doorknob. “I came as soon as I heard you wanted to see me,” he said.

“You were quiet at the meeting this morning.”

“My mind has been focused on sandbagging. I’ve discovered that it’s a contemplative activity.”

“Knock it off, Rook, or that’s what you’ll spend the rest of your career contemplating.” The general reached for a piece of paper on his desk. He held it up in one hand and pointed at it with the other. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Rook took the letter. It was printed on cream-colored paper. The contents startled him. His secrets were secrets no more. Inexplicably, the letter seemed to have been written with knowledge deeper than what would come from mere observation. There was more to this.

“I would say that the author is Violet Grenier and that she is correct: some of your men have been keeping a watch on her. And I’ve locked four prisoners in the Treasury.”

“Damn it, Rook. I brought you into this position because I thought I could trust you. Now I find that you’re breaking orders and running rogue operations. How far has this gone?”

Rook felt he had no choice but to come clean. He described his activities going back to a week earlier, when he first took an interest in Davis and Stephens. He told of their walk around the Capitol, their visit to Grenier, the riddle that led him to the canal, the discovery of blasting powder on the boat, and his decision to imprison the collaborators. By the time he was done recounting these events, he felt better about them. He might have broken a few rules, but it was difficult to argue with the result: a group of dangerous men was now behind bars.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about any of this?” said Scott.

“I didn’t believe you were taking the security threat seriously. One incident led to another, climaxing in the discovery of these men and their explosives. Since their capture, I’ve been trying to learn more about their plans and who they’re working with-so far without much success, though I hope at least one of them will break soon. We haven’t had them down there for long. It was never my intention to keep this hidden from you, but I was waiting for the right moment to reveal everything.”

“Unfortunately for you, it was revealed to me before you were ready.”

“I’m sorry about that, sir. But based on what we have here, I’m sure you’ll agree with me about the significance of all this.”

“It’s certainly significant, Colonel-it’s a significant blunder on your part.”

“Again, sir, I’m very sorry. Please tell me how we can get past the blunder and do right by this government.”

“I’ve already taken care of that. I’m ordering the release of the men you’ve been holding.”

“You’re letting them go?”

“They’ve committed no crime. You thought they looked suspicious, so you followed them on a tour of Washington and found a few barrels of blasting powder on a canal boat. I don’t consider this compelling proof of a sinister plot. Colonel Locke will see to their release.”

“It’s enough blasting powder to take down half the Capitol!”

“Or to use in a mine. We can’t go around arresting people on mere hunches.”

“This is a grave mistake. Those men are part of a broader conspiracy. They were in contact with Violet Grenier, a known secessionist…”

“Don’t get me started on her again,” interrupted Scott, pointing his finger aggressively at Rook. “Their contact with one of Washington’s society ladies convinces me of nothing except their good taste. Violet Grenier hosts parties for members of the Lincoln administration and Congress. She is an acquaintance of mine too. Are you going to toss me into the cellar of some building as well?”

Rook was flabbergasted to hear this. For a moment, he was tempted to tear the insignia off his uniform and quit. He could tell Scott that he was done trying to protect the president, only to have his best efforts blocked by an old man who would fail to see a threat if a gun were pointed directly at Lincoln’s head. Yet Rook knew that if he exploded in anger here, he would make a bad situation even worse. He resolved not to lose his temper.

“Tell me,” said Scott in a calmer voice, “what do you think you have learned from your surveillance of Grenier?”

Rook wondered if the general was giving him an opening. He described what he had learned: the discovery and pursuit of Davis and Stephens, the monitoring of Grenier, and the observation of her guests as they came and went from her home and moved around Washington. Scott listened to the report without interjecting.

When Rook was done, the general shook his head. “So you’re spending your time following people into bookstores?”

“The way to uncover a conspiracy is to track down every lead, even the ones that seem trivial.”

Scott shook his head and let out a deep sigh. “I ought to fire you for insubordination. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you must stop the surveillance immediately. Take the rest of the day off. Get some sleep and come back in the morning. If I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you keep your job.”

Clark opened his eyes when he heard the voices. They did not belong to Rook or Springfield, which meant that for the first time since he had started guarding the prisoners in the basement of the Treasury, someone else was approaching-many people, judging from the number of footsteps.

“They must be this way,” said one of the men he could not yet see. They were getting closer. This sounded bad.

Clark jumped out of the small cot in the hallway. There was not much to do on duty, so he had spent a lot of time napping. He was awake instantly, aware that he was posted to this place for a moment precisely like this one. The main threat did not come from the prisoners, who were safely locked up. It came from their discovery by others. Clark needed to prevent it.

“Over here,” said an officer as he turned into a corridor and spotted Clark, who saw that the officer was a colonel. Five soldiers followed behind him. “What are you doing down here, Corporal?”

His confident tone suggested that he already knew the answer to his own question. Clark nevertheless pointed to a pile of boxes in the hallway. “Trying to find some old records,” he said. “There’s supposed to be some information about the construction of the Treasury. It’s wanted for defensive information.”

“Is that so? Don’t you think this is a strange place to store such valuable documents?”

“I just do what I’m told, sir. They haven’t been found elsewhere.”

“Who sent you down here?”

“Colonel Rook.”

“Ah, yes. Well, Corporal, my name is Colonel Locke, and I’m down here in this godforsaken place to find something too. Do you know what I might be looking for?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure about that? I would hate for you to be in a position that requires you to lie to an officer. You may be interested to know that Colonel Rook is in an enormous amount of trouble.”

Clark swallowed hard.

“Why don’t you just tell me where they are?”

Clark realized that it was useless to maintain the ruse. “Come this way, sir,” he said, resigned to defeat. He led Locke and the other soldiers through a door that led to a short passage lined by several other doors. “They’re in here,” he said.

Locke pointed to a door. “Open it,” he said.

Clark removed a key from his pocket. Inside the small room, Davis sat in a corner.

Locke entered the room. “It’s your lucky day,” he said. “You’re free to go.”

After crossing the bridge into Maryland, Mazorca turned south on a dirt road that followed the course of the Potomac River as it flowed toward the Chesapeake Bay. He passed Fort Washington around the middle of the day. Just as Fort Sumter was supposed to protect Charleston from attack, Fort Washington was supposed to defend the capital city from enemy warships that sailed upriver. The entrance gate was closed, and there did not appear to be anybody inside the fort’s walls. The fort was not ready to defend anything.

A little to the south, a path broke off from the main road and tunneled through trees and bushes to the river. Mazorca stopped his horse and looked over his shoulder. He saw nobody. For a long minute he sat motionless, listening for the sound of anyone who approached. He heard nothing. Satisfied that he was alone, Mazorca followed the trail as it sloped down to a muddy shoreline. A small rowboat was pulled out of the brown water and tied to a tree.

Mazorca smiled. He had planned to spend the afternoon searching the riverside for a boat, and here was one in the first place he had looked. He dismounted his horse and examined the boat. Except for a couple of oars, it was empty. The boat was weather-beaten, but it looked seaworthy. It would suit his purposes well enough.

He scanned the river and saw a single ship about a mile downriver, headed away from him. There was no way anybody on board could spot him. Across the river sat a columned house. Even from a distance, Mazorca could see that its white paint was peeling. The roof needed shingling. A lawn in front was ragged and unkempt. Mazorca realized that this must be Mount Vernon. Its famous owner had been dead since 1799. It appeared as though nobody had taken care of the home in decades. Mazorca was not surprised to see it in a state of disrepair. In the city, Washington’s monument was incomplete. In the country, his old home was falling apart. This was how America honored its heroes. No wonder the young nation was coming undone.

Mazorca fixed his horse to a tree. Then he removed a saddlebag and placed it in the boat. Next he untied the rope that secured the small craft to the shore. He shoved the boat into the water and hopped inside. The oars slipped easily into their locks. Mazorca began rowing north, against the Potomac’s slow current. He stayed close to the shore-so close that a few low-hanging tree branches brushed his hat. After rowing for several hundred feet, Mazorca found a small break in the foliage.

Maneuvering toward it, he heard the boat scrape its bottom. Mazorca got out and pulled the boat from the water, dragging it onto the land until it was a dozen feet from the Potomac. Behind the trunk of a large tree, he turned the boat upside down and covered it with branches and leaves. Then he walked back to the shoreline and studied his work. It was just barely possible to make out the contours of the rowboat, but only because he knew it was there. A casual observer almost certainly would not see it.

Mazorca figured that if the boat’s owner bothered to hunt for his missing craft, he would assume either that it was stolen and long gone or that it had broken loose and drifted downriver. The possibility of it being both nearby and hauled onshore just a bit upriver probably would not occur to him. Yet it was now positioned perfectly for Mazorca, who wanted to make sure he could have free access to water in reasonably short order.

Mazorca removed his shoes, rolled up his pant legs, and tossed the saddlebag over his shoulder. Then he splashed into the river and waded back to his horse. He was pleased to think that he was well ahead of schedule. There was one more thing he wanted to do before leaving Maryland.

A block from Tabard’s, Rook told Springfield about the drubbing he had just received from Scott. “I’d like to know how Grenier came to write to Scott about me and those men from the canal. We’ve been watching her, but it seems like she’s been watching us.”

“Am I supposed to quit monitoring this fellow?” asked the sergeant, gesturing in the direction of the boardinghouse.

“He ordered me to stop the surveillance of Grenier. That’s all.”

Springfield smirked. “I suspect you’re living by the letter of the law, rather than its spirit.”

“At the moment, the spirit is moving me to learn more about Grenier’s friend,” said Rook. “Tell me what you know.”

After his meeting with Rook, Springfield had walked over to Tabard’s boardinghouse. He observed it for a little while. He concluded that the tenants were at work and that Mrs. Tabard was alone.

“So I knocked on the door,” he said. “When she answered, I introduced myself as Mr. Jones and inquired about a room. She said that she had one available on the third floor and offered to show it to me. Once we had looked it over, we sat in her dining room and chatted for several minutes. I made some gentle inquiries about her boarders. Thankfully, she’s a talker. I’m convinced that our man goes by Mr. Mays-he’s a new lodger, with a room on the second floor. It’s right at the top of the steps. She was reluctant to say much about him, but I could tell that she actually craved the conversation. She allowed that Mays is quite private and keeps strange hours. Sometimes she’s not even sure whether he’s in or out.”

“Do we know where he is right now?”

“He’s definitely out. She saw him leave this morning.”

“Does she know where he went?”

“No. As I said, his movements are a mystery to her.”

“The more we learn about this man, the more he intrigues me. It’s too bad we can’t take a look at his room.”

“Colonel, you’re much too pessimistic.”

“What do you mean?”

Springfield grinned. “Well, I got her to start talking about her son, who is in the navy.”

A puzzled expression crossed Rook’s face. The sergeant continued. “She wanted to show me a picture of him. So she retrieved it from another room.” Springfield paused and smiled even wider.

“Yes?” asked Rook.

“She was gone for a minute or two. I know it doesn’t sound like a long time, but when you think about it, a minute or two can seem like quite a while.”

Rook only let a few seconds go by before he prompted Springfield. “Please go on.”

“You can get a lot done in a minute or two.”

“That’s certainly the implication. So what did you get done?”

Springfield reached into his pocket. He jingled its contents. When he took his hand out, it held a key. His smile grew wider.

Portia woke to the sound of Nat snoring in a rocking chair. She sat up, stretched her arms, and yawned. Lying in bed all day had seemed to rejuvenate her.

The room was full of shadows, cast by the dim light coming from a window. She saw Nat stir, in the last stages of sleep. He had told her that he worked nights. When he left, she would be alone again, in the dark.

Perhaps this would be a good time to make her getaway. By giving her protection and food, Nat had done plenty for her. He did it at some risk to himself, too. Portia had not told him in so many words that she was a runaway, but what else could she be? Nat had to know. Leaving now would remove a danger from his midst. The problem was that she still had to find the White House. She had no idea where to go or even what it looked like.

Nat shifted around in his chair again. Maybe he could tell her. Then Portia could leave.

She yawned again and slipped her hand into her shirt to check on the photo. She had become so accustomed to its presence that she was only half aware that she was doing it. This time, however, her hand felt nothing. The failure to touch it startled her. In an instant, she was fully awake, patting down her clothes and searching through her blankets in a panic. She looked all over the bed, under it, and on the floor nearby. The picture was missing. Her mad scramble to find it had turned up nothing.

But it did wake Nat.

“Lookin’ for somethin’?” he asked. She did not care for his tone of voice. It sounded as if he already knew the answer to his question.

“I had somethin’ here, but it ain’t here now,” she said.

Without a word, Nat reached to a table beside him and lifted the photo for Portia to see.

“Gimme that!” shouted Portia, leaping to her feet. She tried to grab the picture, but Nat pulled it away. He held it with both hands from the top, ready to rip it in half if she took a step toward him. Portia froze in place.

“Just tell me what this is,” he said.

“I can’t believe you took that from me.”

“I didn’t take nothin’ from you. All I did was pick it up from where it fell.”

“Well, it’s mine, and I want it back.” Portia held out her hand.

“Put your hand down,” snapped Nat. He spoke with an authority that reminded her of an overseer. She obeyed. “Now sit back down,” said Nat in a lower voice. She obeyed that order too.

“I brought you here knowin’ the risks,” he said. “That was my choice. I’ll also help you get on your way to wherever it is you need to go. The worst thing for me would be for you to get caught two minutes after leavin’ because you didn’t know what you were doin’. I’ll give you help, but there can’t be no secrets. You’ve been hidin’ this photograph ever since you come here. Maybe you think it ain’t my business, but when I brought you here, fed you, and let you sleep, you made it my business.”

Portia’s voice held a note of desperation. “That picture’s the whole reason I’m here. You’ve helped me this much, Nat. You gotta give it back.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Let me ask you somethin’ first.”

“Okay.”

“What do you think of the president?”

“Abe Lincoln? He’s causin’ a lot of fuss around here. Right now, nobody seems to know if there’s a war comin’ or not. I sort of wish things were back to normal.”

“Are you for him or against him?”

“I’ve never thought of it that way. Nobody has asked me. I don’t get to vote, you know.”

“Where I’m from, everybody’s against him. All the white people are, anyway. They say he’s gonna free the slaves. That makes me for him.”

“I ain’t no slave, Portia. I don’t wanna see nothing happen that’s gonna make me one. Abe Lincoln’s givin’ people worries, and I’m not sure I’ll be better off when it’s over.”

“Does that mean you’re against him?”

“No, it don’t mean that. It would be good if Lincoln freed the slaves. But it’s not somethin’ he can just do. It’s more complicated than that. He’d have to fight a war, and that ain’t in my interests. If an army from Virginia were to come marchin’ into Washington, things wouldn’t look so good for me or my kind.”

“Don’t you want to see him succeed?”

“I don’t want him to mess up.”

Portia didn’t reply immediately. Could she trust him with the information he wanted?

“What does any of this gotta do with the picture?” asked Nat, looking again at the photo.

Portia decided she had no choice but to trust him. “Nobody’s supposed to see it except the person I’m bringin’ it to.”

“And who’s that?”

“Abe Lincoln.”

“You’re tryin’ to get this picture to Abe Lincoln?” Nat was incredulous. He looked at the photo again. “Why?”

“It’s just somethin’ I gotta do. I made a promise.”

“Why would Abe Lincoln want to see this?”

“I can’t say. I just gotta find him. Can you tell me where he’s at?”

“There ain’t no way you’re gonna get near him. He’s the president of the United States, and you’re just a runaway.”

“The whole purpose of my bein’ here is to find Abe Lincoln and give him the picture. If you just tell me where he is, I’ll go. You won’t have to worry about me no more.”

“All right, I’ll walk you there tonight before I gotta start work. But once I point to his house, I’m gone and you’re on your own.”

Ten minutes. That was how long Springfield said he could detain Tabard. From across the street, Rook watched the sergeant enter the boardinghouse. He could hear him greet her. The plan was to tell Tabard that he wanted to look over the unwanted room a second time. On the third floor, he would run through a series of questions about everything from the price to the condition of the floorboards. Meanwhile, Rook would enter the building and quietly examine the second-story room belonging to Mays.

Rook’s gaze locked on the upper-story window. Soon, he saw Springfield standing just inside of it. That was his signal to move. He crossed the street, opened the door, and walked in. Then he passed through the foyer and carefully climbed the steps. At the top was a door. He pushed the key into its lock and turned. It opened easily. Rook slipped into the room and closed the door.

The curtains were only partly drawn. An envelope rested at his feet. He noted its position on the floor and picked it up. It was addressed to “Mr. Mays, 604 H St.” Rook tried to lift the flap, but it was sealed shut. A corner was loose, however, and Rook slid a finger into the gap and gently ran it along the edge of the flap. The seal began to give. Rook thought he could open the envelope without damaging it. Suddenly the flap ripped in half. Rook cursed under his breath. It would be obvious that someone had tampered with the envelope.

The damage having been done, he figured there was no harm in ripping open the envelope all the way. He pulled out a piece of stationery, made from the same creamy stock that Grenier had used in her note to Scott. Rook read the note: “I have reason to believe Rook is watching me. You may be in danger as well. Proceed with extreme caution.”

Rook folded the note and stuck it in his pocket. Given its condition, he figured that it was best for the note to vanish entirely.

Much of the rest of the room was plain, with a bed positioned lengthwise along a wall and a trunk beneath the window. A pile of thick books attracted Rook’s attention. They were stacked on the floor and in various states of disrepair. Bindings were slit and pages were removed. Paper shavings sprinkled the floor. Rook noticed the titles: these were the books purchased from French amp; Richstein’s. Behind them, Rook found scissors, knives, a ruler, glue, and a few spools of colored ribbon. These would have come from the bookbinder. He had no idea what it all meant.

The bed was bare, except for a blanket and pillow. Nothing was hidden beneath it. The only thing left to investigate was the trunk. Rook raised its lid and peered inside. He saw shirts, pants, and socks, all neatly folded. Kneeling down, he pulled out a few items and sorted through the rest to see what they covered. At the bottom of the trunk, he found a rifle-a Sharps New Model 1859 breechloader. This was a preferred weapon for marksmen. A proficient shooter could hit a target at fifteen hundred feet. Rook pulled it out. The gun was clean and well maintained. It was also loaded.

The fact that a man would keep a gun in a trunk did not startle Rook in the least. Yet he was still concerned that Mays owned a sniper’s weapon. Mays was connected to Grenier, who was connected to those canal conspirators. Perhaps Scott could dismiss this mass of circumstantial evidence. Rook remained convinced that something lay beneath it all.

His ten minutes had just about expired. Rook put the gun back in the trunk and then returned the clothes, arranging them as he had found them. He took one more look around the room. Nothing else jumped out at him. Upstairs, he imagined Springfield quizzing his hostess about what kind of ceiling paint she preferred. He knew it was time to go.

A moment later, the lid to the trunk was shut, the door to the room was locked, the key to the room was dangling from the hook in the kitchen, from where Springfield had plucked it-and Rook was walking down H Street, away from the boardinghouse. Scott had told him to take the rest of the day off. Rook would put the time to good use, going over his options and thinking about going over the general’s head.

The sun was sinking below a stand of trees when Mazorca finally turned his horse onto a short lane that led to a small cabin. He had observed the house for two hours when the light was still good and decided that its single occupant, an elderly man, lived alone. Perhaps he had once shared his home with a wife and children, but there was no evidence of them now. In all likelihood, the wife had passed on and the children had grown up. Several acres of farmland sat behind the house, but the man probably rented them to a younger neighbor. It looked like he scratched out a modest existence from combining this income with whatever he raised in a nearby pigpen.

Yet this was all guesswork. What mattered to Mazorca was the apparent fact that the man was in the house by himself and that nobody else lived nearby. Riding up and down the dirt road, Mazorca had discovered that the nearest house was about a mile away. Further on there was a crossroads tavern that catered to travelers moving between Washington and southern Maryland. But the cabin in front of him was about as isolated as anything he had seen in the region that day. Mazorca dismounted. He would perform the test here.

The smell of a warm dinner drifted through an open window. The old man must have heard Mazorca because he appeared at the door. Until now Mazorca had seen him only from a distance. This was his first close look. He was of average height, on the skinny side, and stooped at the shoulder. Much of his hair was gone, and what remained of it had turned gray. He had not shaved for several days. Mazorca figured him for at least sixty years old, maybe seventy.

“Hello,” said the man in a tone more suspicious than welcoming.

“Good evening,” said Mazorca, removing his hat and trying to reassure the man with a smile. “I’m sorry to arrive unannounced, so late in the day. It wasn’t my intention to interrupt your dinner. May I trouble you for a minute?”

“If you’re looking for the inn, there’s one just up the way,” he said, pointing in the general direction of the crossroads tavern.

“Thank you, but that’s not why I’m here,” said Mazorca, resting his hat on the horn of his saddle. “I have a simple question for you.” He opened his saddlebag and pulled out a book. Its exterior was black, with gold letters on its front and spine. A pair of yellow and red ribbons dangled from the bottom. Mazorca approached the doorway and raised the book, displaying its cover. “Do you know what this is?”

The old man squinted for a moment, and then recognition filled his eyes. “Look, mister,” he said. “I don’t have time for your preaching. If you’ll please excuse me…”

Mazorca laughed. “I’m not a preacher, and I’m not going to preach. It’s the furthest thing from my mind, really. I was just hoping you could identify this book.” He continued to hold it up, a few feet away from the old man.

“Well, it sure looks like the Holy Bible.”

“Yes, it does look like a Bible,” said Mazorca in a patronizing voice that a teacher might use to encourage a slow student. He now began rotating the book in his hands, so that the old man could view it from several angles. “But are you certain it’s a Holy Bible?”

“Is this some kind of trick?”

“I prefer to think of it as a challenge.”

“Mister, I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but I’m in no mood for this.”

“Very sorry!” said Mazorca, laughing again. “I see that I’m trying your patience. Let me make this simple. Please permit me to ask a direct question: you think this looks like a Holy Bible, such as a preacher might carry around?”

“Yes,” said the old man, warily.

“Excellent. That’s all I wanted to know. Thank you very much.”

Rather than turning to leave, Mazorca now just stood in front of the doorway and stared at the old man. He held the book by the spine, in his left hand. No part of him moved, except for the thumb and index finger of his right hand, which gently massaged the red ribbon hanging from the book. His friendly look had vanished from his face.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the old man.

“The exam is over,” said Mazorca, taking a step forward so that he was an arm’s length away from the doorway.

“Excuse me?”

“The book passed. You failed.” Mazorca yanked on the yellow ribbon. Inside the book, something clicked. Then Mazorca pulled the red one. The book banged. The old man crashed backward through the doorway, clutching his neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Still standing outside, Mazorca examined the top of the book. A wisp of smoke rose from a small puncture that was newly visible in the pages between the two covers. He chuckled to himself. “It was a Holy Bible, and now it’s a Bible with a hole in it.”

He tucked the book under his arm and sniffed the air. The smell of the gunshot was strong, but not enough to mask the aroma coming from inside the house. Mazorca moved through the doorway, stepping over the corpse that lay on its back in a widening pool of blood. A pot of soup boiled on a stove in the fireplace. It was time for dinner.

In the White House, Rook watched John Hay descend a staircase. He was glad to see that Lincoln’s personal secretary still wore a bow tie. It indicated that the young man had not yet gone to bed, even though it was approaching midnight. He had not seen Hay for several weeks and was not entirely sure how he would be received at this odd hour. Given the events of the afternoon, he did not know where else to turn.

“Good evening, Colonel,” said Hay before he had even reached the bottom step. “This is a pleasant surprise.” He sounded like he actually meant it. The two men shook hands.

“I’m sorry to bother you, especially so late.”

“No trouble at all,” said Hay. “I was helping the president with correspondence until just a little bit ago.”

“Has the president retired?” asked Rook. A part of him was relieved to learn that Lincoln had made it through another day without encountering a mysterious rifleman.

“About half an hour ago, and not a minute too soon,” said Hay. “The man needs rest-he has spent too much time convinced that a secessionist army is about to plunder our city. If he slept more, he might worry less.”

Hay described how the president’s day had been full of routine business-writing letters to public officials, listening to job seekers beg for federal appointments-and how his mind kept drifting off to the subject of the Seventh Regiment. Where was the army that was supposed to defend the capital? With the telegraphs to Maryland severed, nobody knew. Washington remained cut off from news except from the South. At a meeting with troops who had arrived in advance of the missing soldiers, Lincoln was downright gloomy. “I don’t believe there is any North. The Seventh Regiment is a myth,” he had said. “You are the only Northern realities.” Hay added that he was glad there had been no cabinet meeting that afternoon, because the president clearly needed a break.

“I hope he gets a long night of sound sleep,” said Hay. “He could use it.”

“It sounds as though the only real cure will be for the Seventh Regiment to arrive,” said Rook.

“That’s probably true. But I’ve rambled on for too long. You came to see me. What can I do for you?”

Before Rook could respond, the two men heard a loud commotion down the hall in the direction of the front door. Half a dozen members of the Frontier Guard burst in. Two of them held a black boy by the arms. The captive struggled to break free from their grasp. The other guardsmen gripped pistols and rifles. All of them hollered curses and threats, but Rook could not make out what anyone was saying. At the other end of the hall, several of their comrades emerged from the East Room, brandishing their own weapons. The ruckus sounded like a gigantic barroom brawl.

Rook sprinted down the hall, hoping he could quiet the little mob before somebody actually pulled a trigger inside the White House. “Stop!” he yelled, trying to raise his voice above all the others. The Frontier Guards were rowdy mavericks, but they also recognized the authority of Rook’s blue uniform and fell silent as the colonel reached them. Their captive, however, continued to thrash around and scream, “Lemme go! Get your hands off me!”

The voice did not belong to a boy, but a small woman. With a violent kick, she planted her foot in the groin of one captor. He bent over in pain and released his hold on the woman. Three more guards jumped to replace him. Each grabbed a limb, and a moment later the woman was suspended above the ground, looking as if she were about to be drawn and quartered. Even in this state of helplessness, she still squirmed and howled.

“Set her down!” roared Rook, pushing his way to the woman. “And you,” he said, pointing his finger in her face, “shut your mouth!”

His aggressive behavior had the desired effect. The guards released the woman’s legs. She stood up straight between a pair of large men who continued to clutch her arms. All eyes turned to the colonel.

Rook’s own gaze settled on one of the guards who seemed older than the others. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

The man said that he and several guardsmen had spent the day patrolling along the river, looking across the water for signs of military activity on the Virginia side. They quit at the end of the day but went downtown for dinner instead of returning to the White House. Rook could smell alcohol on the man’s breath and figured the group must have spent several hours drinking. That probably would account for their boisterousness. He let the man continue his story.

“When we came back here, Tommy”-he nodded his head in the direction of a young man who was having some difficulty standing at attention-“went to one of the bushes by the gate.” The man now paused to reflect upon whether a late-night visit to the bushes needed further explanation. He decided it did not. “When Tommy got there, he found this woman hiding behind them. She tried to run, but Tommy tackled her before she could get away. The rest of us apprehended her, sir, because suspicious activity on the grounds of the White House cannot be tolerated.” Proud to have made this report, the guard arched his back and puffed out his chest. He tried to suppress a hiccup and failed.

Rook turned to the woman. She was slim and not much more than five feet tall. She certainly seemed to have a lot of energy, but she did not appear to pose a threat to anybody.

“Who are you?” asked Rook.

“My name is Portia.”

“Were you on the grounds of the White House?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you hiding behind a bush?”

“Yeah.”

The way she had resisted the guards proved that she was feisty. But now Rook noticed her tremble. She was afraid.

“Why were you hiding?”

“I gotta see President Abe Lincoln.”

By now, nearly two dozen members of the Frontier Guard had emerged from the East Room. When Portia announced her desire to see the president, they exploded in laughter. “Do you have an appointment?” mocked one, prompting louder guffaws. Several of the guards swore loud oaths that she would never lay eyes on him. “Did you think you were going to find the president behind a bush?” demanded one of them. The others hooted their approval.

“Silence!” shouted Rook. “Let the woman speak.”

“I got a message for President Abe Lincoln,” said Portia in a tone of despair. “I was goin’ up to the house when I heard these loud men comin’ up, singin’ their songs. They frightened me. So I ran behind a bush. It was the first thing I could find.”

“And when you were found out, you tried to run away?”

“Yeah. I ain’t here to talk to them. I come for President Abe Lincoln.”

The guards continued their chortling but hushed at the sound of a tinny voice from down the hall.

“Who wants to speak to the president?”

The guards parted to make way for the tall, bearded speaker, who wore a robe over a nightshirt. He halted before Portia and Rook. John Hay stood just behind him.

“Sir,” said Rook, “perhaps you should let us handle this matter-”

“So that I can go back to sleep?” said Lincoln. “Ha! Nobody can sleep through this racket. Now, who wants to speak to the president?”

Hay shrugged. “You had better just tell him, Colonel,” he said.

“This woman, sir,” said Rook. “Her name is Portia. We don’t know anything about her except that she was found in the bushes outside.”

“I see,” said Lincoln. “Tell me, Portia, what is it you would like to discuss with the president of the United States of America.”

Portia narrowed her eyes. “You’re President Abe Lincoln?”

“I’ve been called much worse.”

Portia did not say anything immediately. Lincoln smiled, trying to put her at ease.

“I’ve come a long way to give you somethin’,” she said, reaching into her pocket.

As she made this move, one of the Frontier Guardsmen raised a pistol and pointed it at Portia. “No tricks,” he warned, moving the gun closer to her than was probably necessary. He looked as though he would enjoy shooting her. Portia froze in place, her hand hidden beneath her clothes.

“Calm down,” said Rook sharply.

“She’s just a stupid slave girl,” sneered the man. “She doesn’t even deserve to be in this house.”

Everyone tensed. Rook thought about pulling out his own pistol to protect Portia, but he hesitated just long enough for Lincoln to speak up. “Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally.”

The Frontier Guards broke into laughter. Their trigger-happy comrade looked embarrassed. “Why don’t you lower that gun,” said the president. The man obeyed. Rook was amazed at the effect.

“Now, Portia, what do you have for me?” asked Lincoln.

Portia looked around nervously. From her pocket, she removed a small piece of paper and turned it face up. The light in the hallway was weak, but Rook could see that it was a photograph. Portia held it out.

Lincoln took the picture and raised it close to his face, squinting at the image. He stared at it for what seemed like quite a while.

“I’ve seen this man before,” he said, still looking at the picture. “He came to me for a job recently. I don’t immediately recall his name. He was good with riddles.” He handed the photograph to Hay. “Do you remember seeing him?”

Hay studied the image. “Yes. I recognize the ear, or rather the lack of one. I let him into your office. I’d have to look at the records to get his name.”

“I know his name,” said Portia. “It’s Mazorca.”

“An unusual name,” said Lincoln. “I don’t think that’s what he called himself with me. Why are you showing me his picture?”

“The man in that picture is gonna try to kill you,” said Portia. A murmur of voices rumbled through the hallway.

“Mr. President,” said Rook, “we need to talk.”