The First Assassin by John J. Miller Read Free Book Online Page A

He gazed across the street at the War Department and the Navy Department buildings. They were small—perfectly adequate for peacetime, thought Rook. Beyond them, he saw the president’s mansion. There were lights on over there too.
    “Colonel!”
    The call came from across the street. A figure waved to him and approached. When he got closer, Rook recognized John Hay, a personal secretary to the president.
    “Good evening,” said Hay, holding out his hand. Rook grasped it. “How are things with you?”
    Rook had met Hay only a couple of times previously and never at any length. They certainly were not intimates. He was struck by the young man’s familiarity—he behaved as if he and Rook were old friends.
    “I’m well, but a bit tired,” said Rook.
    “Aren’t we all?” laughed Hay, who certainly did not look the way Rook felt.
    Rook didn’t know much about Hay. He had come with Lincoln from Illinois, and he actually lived in the White House so he could be near the president at all times. He was perhaps twenty-two years old.
    “Maybe I’ll get some sleep after my meeting with General Scott,” said Rook. “He wants updates every day on Washington’s military preparedness.”
    “Isn’t it past his bedtime?”
    Rook smiled. Everybody knew Scott’s reputation.
    “The general may not be in the springtime of his career,” said Rook, “but he’s a hard worker who demands a lot from the officers beneath him.”
    “Let’s hope your meetings are more productive than mine. I spent half of my day dealing with government accountants. In the White House budget, there’s only one slot for a secretary to the president. But there are two of us.”
    “Sounds like a headache.”
    “It’s a battle between the president’s will and an administrative won’t,” said Hay. The line seemed well rehearsed. Rook got the feeling that he was not the first person to hear it.
    “Are they trying to make you quit?” asked the colonel.
    “Not at all. They’re giving me a clerk’s position in the pension office and assigning me to the president’s staff.”
    “Isn’t that the same thing as putting you in the White House?”
    “Absolutely. But on paper there will still be just one secretary. It seems that in Washington, the purpose of paperwork is to obscure reality. At least that’s my lesson for today.” Hay rolled his eyes for effect.
    Rook chuckled. He found himself liking the young man.
    “I’ve detained you long enough, Colonel,” said Hay, starting to go back across Seventeenth Street. “If you ever need something, you know where to find me—not in the place where my paperwork says I should be!”
    Rook watched him go. Then he turned and walked into the Winder Building. The gas lighting and marbled wallpaper were rarities in Washington. It was one of the most attractive interiors in the city. Rook immediately smelled dinner. Scott often ate at this hour. From the room outside Scott’s door, Rook inhaled the aroma of roasted chicken. He was one of the few people allowed to walk in on the general unannounced, though it was hardly a surprise for him to show up right now, when he was expected.
    “Hello, Locke,” he said to Scott’s personal secretary, Colonel Samuel Locke, who was sitting at a desk by the entrance to Scott’s room.
    “Good evening, Colonel,” said Locke, who did not look up from the newspaper he was reading.
    “Anything in the news?”
    “The general is waiting for you.”
    Rook did not like Locke. The man was a dandy—the kind of officer who was always looking at a mirror to make sure his buttons were shiny and his hair was just so. Rook could not imagine Locke in the field, doing the rugged work soldiers were meant to do. Yet the modern army needed all kinds, including paper pushers whose place was at a desk rather than in a saddle.
    What really bothered him about Locke was the rudeness. Why was it so difficult for him to engage in small talk for a minute or two? Rook knew the