The Fifth Assassin by Brad Meltzer Read Free Book Online Page A

can—”
    A.J. wanted to scream at him. But in these past few months, he knew what Palmiotti had been through, and what he’d sacrificed to keep their secret safe. With the fake funeral, Palmiotti now had a second chance. That’s how he saw it. This was his chance to make it all right.
    That didn’t mean it was easy. The physical recovery took longer than expected; Clementine had shot him straight through the neck. Plus, there was that incident when he asked if he could contact Lydia—his girlfriend—to say a more proper goodbye. But A.J. knew how Palmiotti was when it came to President Wallace. Palmiotti didn’t just
love
Wallace. He
needed
him. That was the right word.
Need.
And the President needed him back.
    “We can definitely use your help. He needs your help,” A.J. said, leaning hard on the word
He
.
    “And he’ll have it. I can fix it,” Palmiotti promised.
    “That’s what you said a week ago.”
    Palmiotti stopped at that. “So the church—Is it really that bad?”
    “Bad enough that
he
called
me
.”
    “He called
you
?”
    “Look around, Doc,” A.J. said, standing at the southern end of Lafayette Park and turning from the tall marble columns of the White House, back toward the double-tiered bell tower of St. John’s Church. “Do you have any idea what you’ve unleashed?”

9
    F orget it, Beecher. He’s long gone,” Tot says, slowly making his way down the brick steps to join me outside. Up the block, there’s nothing but passing cars along H Street.
    “You think he’s our killer?”
    Tot shakes his head. “Sneaking back into his own crime scene with cops in the building? Even crazy people aren’t that crazy.”
    “So he’s police?”
    “He’s a fed. Or something worse. Look,” he says, tossing me the two pieces of the microphone pen. “Motion-activated so it doesn’t need a battery. Hairline mic that amplifies through the pen chamber. You don’t buy that at the local spy shop.”
    “Fed money,” a mechanical voice says through Tot’s speakerphone. I didn’t realize his phone was even on, much less that Immaculate Deception was listening in. “Ask Santa. I bet he can tell us where it’s from.”
    Two weeks back, I heard them mention
Santa
. At first, I thought Tot was being facetious. But I’m thinking I just found another Culper Ring member: Santa, the guy who brings them the best high-tech toys.
    “Mac,” I call out, “how many Thin Mints will it cost me to have you look up details on my old friend Marshall?”
    “I’ve been looking since you found that John Wilkes Booth peephole. You’re a bigger nerd than I thought, by the way. Nice job, though,” Mac replies. “Marshall’s got no credit cards… no phone records… and he files his tax return through a P.O. box. Guy definitely likes his privacy.”
    “What about his cell phone?” Tot asks.
    “Already tried. He’s using a Trustchip.”
    “What’s a Trustchip?” I ask.
    “Encrypted. Expensive. Usually for big companies or government contractors,” Mac explains. “Whoever he is, he’s not playing around. I can’t see calls or messages in or out.”
    “Can’t you just turn on the phone’s speaker and we’ll listen in?” Tot asks.
    “Checked that too. Headphone in.”
    It was the first trick Mac taught me when they brought me into the Culper Ring: In any smartphone, it’s easy for someone to remotely turn on your speakerphone. But if you want to thwart it, you plug something into the headphone jack since speakers get disabled when headphones are enabled.
    “What about a home address?” I ask.
    “Apartment in Crystal City, Virginia.”
    “Then there we go,” I say. “Next stop: Crystal City.”
    “And that’s your big idea? Just walk up to Marshall and ask him if he’s the murderer?” Tot asks.
    I shake my head. I haven’t seen Marshall in over a decade. I have no idea if he’s working with Clementine, or the President, or even if he’s the one imitating John Wilkes Booth. But right