“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 Generaclass="underline"
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.