Precipice

by Thomas Webb

  “The president is a great man,” Montclair said. “Is there anything we can do?”

  For the first time, Mrs. Grant allowed herself more than the hint of a smile. “No. All that can be done for him is being done, although the offer is very sweet of you, Colonel. You know, you’d make a fine politician. Ever considered running for office?”

  Montclair made a face. “Perish the thought, madam.”

  “A shame.” The first lady grew serious again. “This brings me to the other question you both have, which is, ‘why did I call you here in the first place?’”

  The first lady pulled two dossiers from the executive desk and handed one to each of them. Montclair flipped the leather-bound documents open to a daguerreotype of a woman. Like Montclair, she was Creole. Her face seemed vaguely familiar to him, like someone he’d met once long ago and should have been able to place, but couldn’t.

  “Two months ago,” Mrs. Grant began, “DSI agents stationed in the Confederacy began picking up increased diplomatic traffic between the Louisiana Territories and Richmond.”

  A sharp pain shot through Montclair at the mention of the Louisiana Territories. His thoughts turned for an instant to his native New Orleans.

  “The territories are already a part of the Confederacy,” Greg said. “Why would an increase in diplomatic traffic be cause for concern?”

  “Because, Colonel Gregory, the Louisiana Territories have been thinking of seceding again.”

  Greg laughed. “That seems foolish, madam. Why would they think they could do better alone? Especially given all the external threats the Confederacy is facing?”

  There was a map included in the dossier, outlining the borders of the Union and Confederacy. There was a deep black scar across the belly of what had once been the U.S., indicating the wastelands of the Demilitarized Zone. Montclair studied the map, paying particular attention to the areas highlighted as part of the Louisianan Territories.

  A thought occurred to him, and he gave it a voice. “They plan to take the Republic of Texas with them.”

  Mrs. Grant raised an eyebrow. “Not first in your class at West Point for nothing, were you, Colonel Montclair? Those territories are the key to everything, gentleman. Without them, Smythe is significantly weakened. Were he to lose them, we’d bring a swift end to all this ‘stalemate’ nonsense.” The first lady lowered her eyes. She picked up a quill pen and gripped it until the blood drained from her fist. “For Smythe’s plans of conquest to succeed he must have Texas. To have Texas, he must have Louisiana. And to have Louisiana, he must have the city of New Orleans. And that, gentlemen, is exactly what we cannot allow.” She looked up at Montclair. “Colonel, I believe you’re familiar with the Crescent City?”

  Thoughts of home and the way he’d chosen to leave stabbed Montclair like a knife to the gut. Heartache, suppressed for years, came raging back, tearing open a wound Montclair thought had long since healed. “I was familiar with it, ma’am, at one time.”

  “Outstanding. Then this will be an opportunity for you to re-familiarize yourself.” She looked from Montclair to Gregory. “You two made a fine team the last time you worked together. I’ve no doubt you shall do so again.”

  “I understand the gravity of the situation, madam,” Montclair said, “but with all due respect, this sounds like work better suited for DSI.” Montclair looked at Greg, who squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

  The first lady nodded. “Indeed it does, Colonel, and that is precisely why they will be involved in this operation as well.” Her eyes went to Greg. “Thanks to the fine work of the Department, we’ve identified two additional persons of interest.”

  Montclair raised an eyebrow. “Persons of interest?” He held up his dossier. “So the woman in this daguerreotype…”

  Mrs. Grant nodded. “Is the first. Therese Truveaux, a major power in the New Orleans underworld. The only significant power that matters, to hear some tell it. Does her name mean anything to you, Colonel?”

  Montclair shook his head. “No, ma’am,” he said.

  Something about the woman’s face felt so familiar, though. Montclair chalked it up to the culture of New Orleans, where everyone thought they knew everyone else. Probably because, more often than not, they did.

  “And how does this woman Truveaux figure in to all this?” he asked.

  “She’s using her vast criminal and financial resources to back a play that will make her ten times more dangerous than she is now,” Mrs. Grant said. “She’s running for the Senate.”

  Montclair frowned. “That is… troubling, to say the least, but again, this sounds like work for the spymasters. Why us?”

  “DSI is a tool,” Mrs. Grant said, “but even the best tools have their limitations. They first alerted us to this mess with Smythe and New Orleans, but now, I’m afraid their sources of information have run dry.”

  “Truveaux discovered their agent?” Greg asked.

  Mrs. Grant shrugged. “A possibility? We don’t have that information at this time. Or perhaps there’s a problem internally within DSI. Either way, a political alliance between Smythe and this woman Truveaux is too important to ignore, and I need someone I can trust to figure out what’s going on.”

  Montclair raised a brow. “You’re saying you can’t trust DSI?”

  “There have been reports of some… internal strife within the Department. As of now, those are only reports, but I can’t risk bringing in any new agents. As far as I know, this office can trust the ones who are on the job now, but I can’t say the same for anyone who isn’t currently read in. That’s why I’ve called you gentlemen here.”

  Montclair furrowed his brow. Internal strife? Sounded like it could mean trouble later on. He made a mental note to contact Scarlet.

  “And the other targets?” Greg asked.

  "Not yet targets, Colonel,” Mrs. Grant corrected. “Persons of interest. Now, we know Smythe was responsible for the death of Davis last year. We just don’t have the proof.” The first lady looked at Montclair. “We also know that he and the Confederate general you killed were working together.”

  Montclair’s clockwerk hand drifted to the deep scar on his abdomen. He rubbed at the gnarled tissue without thinking, the feel of the cut from Horton’s saber still fresh in his mind.

  “What we’ve learned recently,” the first lady continued, “is that Smythe had two other co-conspirators.”

  Greg stroked the newly smooth surface of his chin. “Makes sense. The scheme to kill Davis and get Smythe elected had to be an intricate affair. There’s no way one person, even a very skilled one, could’ve pull it off alone.”

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Grant said. “As to those two other persons of interest? You two needn’t concern yourselves with them. There are still some resources within DSI that have the trust of the Office of the President. They’ll handle it. Given the work you did in conjunction with the department last year, and, of course, Colonel Gregory’s most recent collaborative efforts, working with the spymasters again shouldn’t be an issue.”

  Montclair watched Greg out of the corner of his eye. The first lady’s mention of Greg’s ‘most recent collaboration’ all but confirmed Montclair’s suspicions. Greg had been working with Strategic Intelligence, but just what in the hell had his friend been up to since he’d last seen him? With DSI in the equation, it could have been any number of unsavory things.

  “This will be a multi-pronged attack,” Mrs. Grant said. “You two will address Smythe’s southern concerns via Senate Candidate Truveaux. Meanwhile, DSI will handle the dismantling of the rest of the Cabal."

  “The Cabal?” Montclair asked.

  The first lady nodded. “That’s how Smythe and his cohorts refer to themselves.”

  Greg snorted. “Sounds like something from a pulp novel.”

  “Indeed,” the first lady replied.

  “Funny names aside,” Greg said, “this isn’t the first time we’ve encountered Smythe, ma’am. He knows what we look like. I’m a
fraid he or some of his people will see us coming. We’re no good to the mission if our cover’s blown.”

  The first lady nodded. “A reasonable concern, Colonel Gregory.” She turned to Montclair. “Care to address Colonel Gregory’s concerns?”

  Montclair knew what the first lady was getting at. “It’s almost time for Masquerade," he said. "It’s an annual tradition in New Orleans, going back to before the United States was even a country. As part of the celebration, the entire city is masked. We’ll have a week of anonymity.”

  Greg frowned. “Still sounds risky.”

  “It is a risk,” the first lady said, “but a calculated one. And besides, this is not a request, gentlemen. Make no mistake, when given the recent issues we’ve seen within the Department, you are the two best-suited assets we have to complete this job. Especially you, Colonel Montclair. No one in our government has more experience in New Orleans than you."

  The first lady stood, signaling an end to the meeting. Montclair and Greg both got to their feet.

  “With Smythe moving to consolidate power, the danger grows by the hour. We know he has designs on the Mexican Empire. And we’ve heard rumors he’s trying to recruit allies in Europe. If he does, I shudder to think what may happen if they enter the fray. Talk of renewed hostilities between North and South is already spreading. Unless we stop Smythe and his allies… we stand upon the precipice of war, gentlemen, a war we must prevent at any cost.”

  5 Washington, D.C. - DSI Headquarters, September 1866

  Scarlet chewed at her bottom lip. A sheen of cold sweat covered her brow. Her stomach felt as if it were tied in knots. Copperhead walked next to her. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d arrived.

  She hadn’t seen Copperhead this anxious since… come to think of it, she’d never seen him this anxious. Her minder maintained control. Always. Even his palsy spells had seemed to slow these last months.

  They took the first of several twists and turns in silence. The labyrinthine layout of the Department’s headquarters was no accident, its purposeful design created to confuse any would-be intruders. For the first time, Scarlet appreciated the extra measure of security. The usual frustration from the delay of getting on with business was now replaced by a strange sense of relief. Lives were going to change in the next few moments, and Scarlet preferred to keep those few moments at bay for as long as she could.

  “You’re certain Senator Huffman and Chairman Cummings were delayed?” Copperhead asked, breaking the tense silence.

  “Yes, sir,” Scarlet replied. It was the third time he’d asked about the two absent Oversight Committee members this morning. “Both are out of harm’s way. Their steam carriage was held up over a mile from here at the last military checkpoint, just as you ordered.”

  Copperhead nodded. “Good. The only blood I want spilled today is McCormick’s.”

  The shared history between Copperhead and McCormick was wrought with hatred and impossible to ignore, so much so that Scarlet feared the animosity clouded her minder’s judgment.

  “We need him alive, sir,” she reminded him, “for questioning.”

  Copperhead grunted. “Of course.”

  Scarlet frowned, unconvinced he would be able to restrain himself this time. There was too much bad blood, too much ill will between him and McCormick.

  Copperhead had been tense of late. Understandable, of course, given all he had on his mind. Planning and executing a coup within a spy organization was no easy task after all. But the multiple repeat questions, the terse replies, and the brooding introspection wasn’t like him at all.

  Christ the Healer, I’ll be glad when this is over, she thought with a sigh.

  Scarlet felt the reassuring weight of the pistols strapped underneath her dress. A phalanx of clockwerks and a platoon of Marines at their backs would have been nice, too, but the pistols were something at least.

  They rounded a corner where two adjoining halls merged into one, forming an intersection and continuing on down a long, single corridor. Dublin, one of Copperhead’s oldest colleagues and a senior agent at the Department, waited for them at the nexus of the intersection. His protégé, Paladin, stood next to him, both waiting. The sight of the old Irish spymaster and his tall, ebony-skinned protégé helped to ease Scarlet’s nerves. As co-conspirators went, they were great ones to have. She’d never seen an operation go sideways when these two were involved. She saw no reason why today should be any different.

  The four agents exchanged pleasantries and continued marching toward the meeting room. As they walked and talked, Scarlet took everything in, paying special attention to the clockwerk soldiers positioned at intervals along the hallway. Layers upon layers of security comprised the defense of DSI headquarters in what was designed to be a series of impenetrable, concentric rings. The high security was meant to keep anyone - or anything - out, but with Dublin’s assistance, they’d burrowed a hole.

  That security would ensure their privacy while they got what they needed from McCormick and commandeered the documents in his office.

  With any luck, Dublin’s efforts would buy them time to prove that McCormick was working for the Confederacy. But first, they had to implement Copperhead’s plan, and the clockwerk soldiers in the hall were an integral part of that plan.

  Two of the automatons flanked the meeting room doors, their bayonet-tipped rifles at right-shoulder-arms. The human guards normally posted there were relieved for the day, per Copperhead’s orders. Clockwerks were replaceable, but Scarlet’s minder wanted as little human collateral damage as possible. The two clockwerks, their mechanisms and plating polished to a mirror-like shine, pulled open the doors and stood aside as the four agents entered.

  Vice Chairman McCormick squatted behind an enormous desk. He looked up from a platter piled high with pastries. At his left sat a pot of steaming coffee and service for five.

  Service for five? Warning claxons sounded in Scarlet’s mind.

  McCormick smiled, his eyes disappearing into the thick folds of flesh on his face. “Copperhead,” he said, “what a pleasant surprise. I’ll have to speak to the technists who programmed the door guards’ punchcards. I left specific orders that I was not to be disturbed during breakfast. But since you’re here…” McCormick shrugged. “And I see you and Dublin have brought along your protégées as well? How excellent. It’s always a delight to see field agents here at headquarters. Do come in, all of you. I’ve actually been meaning to call a meeting.” The Vice Chairman held a powdered pastry — a frycake, from the look of it — in his hand. “May I offer you all coffee? Or a frycake, perhaps?” He gestured to the small mountain of them heaped on the plate in front of him.

  No one spoke as the clockwerks shut the doors behind them. When the agents and the Vice Chairman were alone, Copperhead stepped forward.

  “It’s over, Patrick,” he said heavily.

  McCormick looked stricken. He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a linen cloth. Scarlet noticed he’d missed a spot. A blob of jellied fruit filling adorned one bulbous cheek.

  The Vice Chairman waved his hand and grinned. “There’s no need for such dramatics, Nathaniel.” His forced smile widened. “I admit it. I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You know damned well what I’m talking about,” Copperhead growled. “You’ve been working to undermine DSI ever since you killed Senator Valentine and weaseled your way onto the Oversight Committee, and I suspect you had Confederate help, though I have no proof of it. Yet. Either way, it ends now.” Copperhead drew his Colt and cocked it. “Agent Patrick McCormick, by the rightful power of the Department of Strategic Intelligence, I’m taking you into custody.”

  Scarlet, Dublin, and Paladin drew their pistols as well. A look of horror bloomed on McCormick’s face. They had him, and he knew it. Scarlet hoped McCormick would see reason. He was caught with no good options for getting out. The Vice Chairman’s terrified look gave her hope that this would be bloodless. If he was frigh
tened enough, maybe he would go along quietly.

  Then, slowly, the look of fright on McCormick’s face transformed to one of amusement. McCormick began to chuckle, the chortle morphing into a full, throaty laugh. When it ended, McCormick wiped his eyes with the same linen cloth he’d used to remove the pastry crumbs. He shook his head. “Oh Nathaniel,” he said. “Poor, brave, stupid, incorruptible Nathaniel. I’ve played the game just as long as you have. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?” McCormick looked to Copperhead’s left. “Dublin, if you would, please?"

  Dublin turned and placed his Colt against Copperhead’s temple. "Sorry, old lad," he said.

  Dublin whistled and six Department of Strategic Intelligence clockwerks — the same six who were supposed to help escort McCormick to a holding cell after his arrest — entered the room and surrounded Copperhead, Scarlet, and Paladin.

  Scarlet watched Copperhead’s jaw clench. Her body tensed, muscles coiled spring-tight in anticipation of the fight she was certain was to come.

  “Wouldn’t do it if I were you, lass,” Dublin said as he pulled a second pistol and pointed it at her. The Irish DSI agent grinned. "We’ll have that iron now, girl, and yours too, gents, if you please.”

  Scarlet looked at her mentor. He shook his head in an almost imperceptibly slight left-to-right movement. Most would have missed it, but to Scarlet, the message was crystal clear. Don’t do it.

  Copperhead’s hand shook as he de-cocked the pistol and tossed it away. Scarlet gritted her teeth and held back tears as she did the same.

  “You betrayed us!" Paladin shouted, his chiseled features contorting into a grimace of rage. He gripped his pistol tight.

  Dublin sucked his teeth in disapproval. “Ah, lad, I’d hoped you’d see it different than that.”

  Paladin roared and drew down on his minder.

  “No!” Copperhead screamed. Too late.

  Dublin didn’t blink as he fired a single shot straight into his protégé’s heart.

  Hatred burned through Scarlet’s body like living flame. A scream escaped her lips, the sound full of rage and indignation. She went for Dublin’s throat — only Copperhead’s iron embrace stopped her attack. He grabbed her and hugged her tight, shielding her with his own body from both Dublin’s pistols and the leveled rifles of the clockwerks.