Read Online The Fifth Assassin by Brad Meltzer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brad Meltzer
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doctor. From your skin alone… I’m guessing oral chemo, yes? I know what it does to you. I’m sorry for that.”
Across the booth, Clementine studied him, her eyes narrowing. “Did you bring what I asked for or not?”
“Of course I did.” From underneath his coat on the bench, Palmiotti pulled out a thick manila envelope.
From the back of her pants, Clementine took out a similar envelope that looked slightly thinner, with a water stain on it.
“And this is everything you found?” Palmiotti asked, lifting the flap, where he saw a familiar name typed on the file folder that was tucked inside.
Wallace, Orson.
True to her word, this was everything: the complete file that, two months ago, Beecher had tracked down in the Archives. As far as they knew, this was the only proof of what he and the future President did all those years ago, when they attacked and eventually took the life of that man with the eight-ball tattoo.
“How do we know you won’t say anything, or that you didn’t make copies for yourself?” Palmiotti asked.
“You don’t,” Clementine said as she reached for the envelope that Palmiotti had brought in return. Undoing the figure-eight loop, she added, “How do I know this is his real military file?”
She waited for an answer. Palmiotti didn’t give her one. But he didn’t deny it was.
Back by the counter, one of the hot dogs sizzled and popped, spitting a fleck of grease against the protective glass. Clementine smiled. With enough pressure, everything pops. Even a President.
Freeing the brown accordion file from its envelope, she read the name that was typed on the peeling blue-and-white sticker in the corner.
Hadrian, Nicholas.
Her father.
“You know Beecher’s been looking for you,” Palmiotti warned as she started flipping through the file.
Clementine nodded, licking her finger and flicking to a new page. She’d waited too long not to take a peek. But what caught her eye was the logo at the top of the page: an eagle gripping a metal anchor. The logo of the U.S. Navy. It made no sense. Nico wasn’t in the navy.
“Beecher’s not searching alone,” Palmiotti added. “He’s got help.”
“Who? Tot?”
“And some others,” Palmiotti said, resealing his envelope.
Across from him, Clementine was flipping faster than ever, skimming through the pages—letters of recommendation… physical profile… record of induction—glancing through details of her father’s lost life. But as she read the date of Nico’s induction into the military, three years before she was born, Palmiotti saw the way her hands started shaking.
For so long now, Clementine had waited for this moment: to have details… documentation… the proof of what they did to him, and by extension, to her. Whatever they put in Nico’s body, it was the only way to explain the unknown cancer that she had today. Her doctors said they’d never seen anything like it. That her type of cancer… that it didn’t exist… it was a new mutation. But asClementine thumbed to the pages labeled
Psychological & Medical Records
, she felt a swell of tears that surprised even her.
“You okay?” Palmiotti asked.
Clementine looked up, caught off guard by the question. He already had what he wanted.
“What does he have on you?” she blurted.
“Excuse me?” Palmiotti asked.
“I meant it before. I read your obituary. To do what you did, to let the world think you’re dead… You had to leave your wife—”
“Ex-wife.”
“—and two kids—”
“My kids haven’t spoken to me in years.”
“But your
life
,” Clementine said, her eyes back down on the file. “You left your entire life behind, and for what? For a President? For one man? What the hell does Wallace have over you?”
“You’re questioning
me
? What about your own life? You’re hiding in Michigan. You have no home. And for what, Clementine? To get Nico’s files?”
“He’s my
father
.”
“Don’t play the wounded child. We all know
Across the booth, Clementine studied him, her eyes narrowing. “Did you bring what I asked for or not?”
“Of course I did.” From underneath his coat on the bench, Palmiotti pulled out a thick manila envelope.
From the back of her pants, Clementine took out a similar envelope that looked slightly thinner, with a water stain on it.
“And this is everything you found?” Palmiotti asked, lifting the flap, where he saw a familiar name typed on the file folder that was tucked inside.
Wallace, Orson.
True to her word, this was everything: the complete file that, two months ago, Beecher had tracked down in the Archives. As far as they knew, this was the only proof of what he and the future President did all those years ago, when they attacked and eventually took the life of that man with the eight-ball tattoo.
“How do we know you won’t say anything, or that you didn’t make copies for yourself?” Palmiotti asked.
“You don’t,” Clementine said as she reached for the envelope that Palmiotti had brought in return. Undoing the figure-eight loop, she added, “How do I know this is his real military file?”
She waited for an answer. Palmiotti didn’t give her one. But he didn’t deny it was.
Back by the counter, one of the hot dogs sizzled and popped, spitting a fleck of grease against the protective glass. Clementine smiled. With enough pressure, everything pops. Even a President.
Freeing the brown accordion file from its envelope, she read the name that was typed on the peeling blue-and-white sticker in the corner.
Hadrian, Nicholas.
Her father.
“You know Beecher’s been looking for you,” Palmiotti warned as she started flipping through the file.
Clementine nodded, licking her finger and flicking to a new page. She’d waited too long not to take a peek. But what caught her eye was the logo at the top of the page: an eagle gripping a metal anchor. The logo of the U.S. Navy. It made no sense. Nico wasn’t in the navy.
“Beecher’s not searching alone,” Palmiotti added. “He’s got help.”
“Who? Tot?”
“And some others,” Palmiotti said, resealing his envelope.
Across from him, Clementine was flipping faster than ever, skimming through the pages—letters of recommendation… physical profile… record of induction—glancing through details of her father’s lost life. But as she read the date of Nico’s induction into the military, three years before she was born, Palmiotti saw the way her hands started shaking.
For so long now, Clementine had waited for this moment: to have details… documentation… the proof of what they did to him, and by extension, to her. Whatever they put in Nico’s body, it was the only way to explain the unknown cancer that she had today. Her doctors said they’d never seen anything like it. That her type of cancer… that it didn’t exist… it was a new mutation. But asClementine thumbed to the pages labeled
Psychological & Medical Records
, she felt a swell of tears that surprised even her.
“You okay?” Palmiotti asked.
Clementine looked up, caught off guard by the question. He already had what he wanted.
“What does he have on you?” she blurted.
“Excuse me?” Palmiotti asked.
“I meant it before. I read your obituary. To do what you did, to let the world think you’re dead… You had to leave your wife—”
“Ex-wife.”
“—and two kids—”
“My kids haven’t spoken to me in years.”
“But your
life
,” Clementine said, her eyes back down on the file. “You left your entire life behind, and for what? For a President? For one man? What the hell does Wallace have over you?”
“You’re questioning
me
? What about your own life? You’re hiding in Michigan. You have no home. And for what, Clementine? To get Nico’s files?”
“He’s my
father
.”
“Don’t play the wounded child. We all know
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