“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.”