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From John Wilkes Booth to Lee Harvey Oswald, there have been more than two dozen assassination attempts on the President of the United States.
Four have been successful.
But now, Beecher White--the hero of the #1 New York Times bestseller The Inner Circle--discovers a killer in Washington, D.C., who's meticulously re-creating the crimes of these four men. Historians have branded them as four lone wolves. But what if they were wrong?
Beecher is about to discover the truth: that during the course of a hundred years, all four assassins were secretly working together. What was their purpose? For whom do they really work? And why are they planning to kill the current President?
Beecher's about to find out. And most terrifyingly, he's about to come face-to-face with the fifth assassin.
About the Author
Brad Meltzer is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Inner Circle, The Book of Fate, and seven other bestselling thrillers. In addition to his fiction, Brad is one of the only authors to ever have books on the bestseller list for nonfiction (History Decoded), advice (Heroes for My Son and Heroes for My Daughter), children's books (I Am Amelia Earhart and I Am Abraham Lincoln) and even graphic books (Justice League of America). He is also the host of Brad Meltzer's Decoded on the History Channel, and Brad Meltzer's Lost History on H2. He currently lives in Florida. You can find much more about him at BradMeltzer.com. You can also see what he's doing right now at Facebook.com/BradMeltzer and on Twitter @bradmeltzer.
Date of Birth:1970
Place of Birth:New York, New York
Education:B.A., University of Michigan; J.D., Columbia University
Read an Excerpt
The Fifth Assassin
By Brad Meltzer
Grand Central PublishingCopyright © 2013 Brad Meltzer
All rights reserved.
The Knight knew his history. And his destiny. In fact, no one studied those more carefully than the Knight.
Rolling a butterscotch candy around his tongue, he pulled the trigger at exactly 10:11 p.m.
The gun—an antique pistol—let out a puff of blue-gray smoke, sending a spray of meat and blood across the wooden pews of St. John's Church, the historic building that sat directly across the street from the White House.
"Y-You shot me ..." the rector cried, clutching the back of his shoulder—his collarbone felt shattered—as he reeled sideways and stumbled down the main aisle.
The blood wouldn't stop. But the Knight's gun hadn't delivered a killshot. At the last minute, the rector, who'd been in charge of St. John's for nearly a decade, had moved.
The Knight just stood there, waiting for him to fall. The stark white plaster mask he wore ensured that his victim couldn't get a good look at his face. But the rector still had his strength.
Sliding his gun back in his pocket, the Knight moved calmly, almost serenely down the aisle, toward the ornate altar.
"Help! Someone ... please! Someone help me!" the rector, a sixty-year-old man with rosy cheeks, gasped as he ran, looking back at the frozen white mask, like a death mask, that followed him.
There was a reason the Knight had picked a church, especially this church, dubbed "the Church of the Presidents" because every President since James Madison had worshiped here.
It was the same with the homemade tattoo on the web of skin between his own thumb and pointer-finger. The Knight had finished the tattoo last night, using white ink since it was invisible to the naked eye. It took five needles, which he bundled together and dipped in ink, and four hours in total, puncturing his skin over and over, wiping away the blood.
The only break he took was right after he had finished the first part—the initials. Then, from his pocket, he had pulled out a yellowed deck of playing cards, thumbing past the hearts, clubs, and diamonds, stopping on ... Spades.
In the dictionary, spades were defined as shovels. But when the four suits of cards were introduced centuries ago, each one had its own cryptic meaning. The spade wasn't a tool to dig with. It was the point of a lance.
The weapon of a knight.
"I need help! Please ... anyone!" the rector screamed, scrambling frantically and making a sharp right through the double doors and down the long hallway that led out of the sanctuary.
The Knight's pace was perfectly steady as he followed the curved hallway back toward the church offices. His breath puffed evenly against the white plaster mask.
Up ahead, from around the corner, he heard a faint beep-beep-boop of a cell phone. The rector was trying to call 911.
But like his hero, who had done this so long ago, the Knight left nothing to chance. The plastic gray device in his pocket was the size of a cell phone, and could kill any cell signal in a fifty-yard radius. Cell jammers were illegal in the United States. But they cost less than $200 on a UK website.
Around the corner, where the main church offices began, there was a dull thud of a shoulder hitting wood: the rector realizing that the doorknob had been removed from the front door. Then the loud thunderclap of an office door slamming shut. The rector was hiding now, in one of the offices.
In the distance, the faint sound of police sirens was getting louder. No way was the rector able to call 911, but even if he was, the maze had nothing but dead ends left.
Looking right, then left, the Knight checked the antique parlor rooms that the church now used for AA meetings and for the "Date Night" services they held for local singles. This side of the building, known as the Parish House, was nearly as old as the church itself, but not nearly as well kept up. Throughout the main floor, every one of the tall cherry office doors was open. Except one.
With a sharp twist of the oval brass doorknob, the Knight shoved the large door open. The sirens were definitely getting louder. In the far left corner, by the bookcase, the rector was crying, still trying to pry open the room's only window, which the Knight had nailed shut hours earlier.
Moving closer, the Knight glided past a glass case, never glancing at its beautiful collection of fifty antique crosses mounted on red velvet.
"You can't do this! God will never forgive you!" the rector pleaded.
The Knight stepped toward him, taking hold of the rector's shattered shoulder. Under the mask, he rolled a butterscotch candy around his tongue. From his belt, he pulled out a knife.
One side of his blade had the words "Land of the Free/Home of the Brave," etched in acid, while the other side was etched with "Liberty/Independence." Just like the one his hero had over a century ago.
Taking a final breath that gave him a sense of weightlessness, he clenched his butterscotch candy in the vise of his back teeth.
"W-Why're you doing this?" the rector pleaded as the sirens grew deafening.
"Isn't it obvious?" The Knight raised his knife and plunged it straight into the rector's throat. The butterscotch candy cracked in half. "I'm getting ready for the President of the United States."CHAPTER 2
There are stories no one knows. Hidden stories.
I love those stories. And since I work in the National Archives, I find those stories for a living. But at 7:30 in the morning, as the elevator doors slide open and I scan the quiet fourth-floor hallway, I'm starting to realize that some of those stories are even more hidden than I thought.
"Nothing?" Tot asks, waiting for me outside our office. The way he's rolling his finger into his overgrown beard, he knows the answer.
"Less than nothing," I confirm, holding a file folder in my gloved open palms and double-checking to make sure we're alone.
Aristotle "Tot" Westman is my mentor here at the Archives, and the one who taught me that the best archivists are the ones who never stop searching. At seventy-two years old, he's had plenty of practice.
He's also the one who invited me into the Culper Ring.
The Ring was started by George Washington.
I know. I had the same reaction. But yes, that George Washington.
Two hundred years ago, back during the Revolutionary War, Washington built his own private spy ring. Not only did it help him win the war, but it helped protect the Presidency. The Ring still exists today, and now I'm a part of it.
"Beecher, you knew he wasn't gonna make it easy."
"I'm not asking for easy; I'm looking for possible. It's like there's nothing to find."
"There's always something to find. I promise."
"Yeah, you've been making that promise for two months now," I say, referring to how long it's been since Tot and I started coming in at 7 a.m.—before any of the other archivists show up—privately digging through every presidential file we can find.
"What'd you expect? That you can look under P and find everything you need for Evil President?" Tot challenges.
"Actually, Evil President would be filed under E."
"Not if it's his first name. Though it does depend on the record group," Tot clarifies, hoping the bad joke will lighten the mood. It doesn't. "The point is, Beecher, we know the hard part: We know what Wallace and Palmiotti did; we know how they did it; and when they were done with their baseball bat and razor-sharp car keys, we even know they put a young man into a permanent coma and left him to die. Now all we have to do is prove it. I'm thinking we should start picking up the pace."
As Tot says the words, he runs his fingertips down the metal strands of his bolo tie, which he doesn't realize is as socially extinct as the Scottsdale boutique where he bought it back in 1994. The thing is, I know Tot. And I know that tone.
"Why'd you just say we need to pick up the pace?" I ask.
At first, Tot stays quiet, rechecking the hallway.
"Tot, if you know something ..."
"One of our guys," he begins, using that phrase he saves for when he's talking about other members of the Culper Ring. "One of them spoke to someone in the Secret Service, asking what they knew about you. And y'know what the guy in the Service said? Nothing. Not a sound. You know what that means, Beecher?"
"It means they're worried about me."
"No. It means the President already knows how this ends. All he's doing now is working on his cover story."
Letting the words sink in, Tot again rechecks the hallway. I tell myself the proof is still in the Archives ... somewhere ... in some file. It's no small haystack.
The National Archives is the storehouse for the most important items in the U.S. government, from the original Declaration of Independence to Jackie Kennedy's bloody pink dress ... from Reagan's original "Evil Empire" speech to the tracking maps we used to catch and kill bin Laden. Over ten billion pages strong, we house and catalog every vital file, record, and report that's produced by the government.
As I always say, that means we're a building full of secrets—especially for sitting Presidents, since we store everything from their grade school report cards, to their yearbooks, to, the theory goes, old forgotten medical records that might prove what President Wallace really did that night twenty-six years ago.
"Have you thought about ordering his marathon files?" Tot asks.
"Already did. That's what came this morning."
For two months now, we've sifted through every puzzle piece of President Wallace's medical history, from back in college when he was in ROTC, to the physical exam he took when his daughter was born and he bought his first insurance policy, to the X-rays that were taken back when he was just a governor and he ran the Marine Marathon despite having a hairline fracture in his foot. That fracture brought Wallace national attention as a politician who never quits. We were hoping it'd bring us something even better. Yet like every medical document related to the President, everything comes back empty, empty, empty.
"He can't hide it all, Beecher."
"Tell that to FDR's medical records," I reply. Tot doesn't argue. Back in 1945, forty-eight hours after Franklin Delano Roosevelt died, his medical records were stolen and destroyed. No one's found them since.
"So if Wallace's marathon X-rays were a bust, what's that?" Tot asks, pointing to the file folder that I'm still holding in my open palm.
"Just something I pulled from our Civil War records. A letter from Abraham Lincoln's son talking about his years in the White House." Tot knows that when I'm nervous, I like to read old history. But he also knows that nothing makes me more nervous than the most complex history of all: family history.
"Your mom called while you were down there, didn't she?" Tot asks.
I nod. After my mom's heart surgery, I asked her to call me every morning to let me know she was okay. My father died when I was three. Mom is all I've got left. But as always, it wasn't my mom who called. It was my sister Sharon, who lives with and takes care of her. Every two weeks, I send part of my check home, but it's Sharon who does the real work.
"Mom okay?" Tot asks.
"Same as always."
"Then it's time to focus on the problem you can actually deal with," Tot says, motioning toward the main door to our office and reminding me that whatever President Wallace is planning, that's where the real damage will be done. But as we step inside and I spot two men in suits standing outside my cubicle, I'm starting to think that the President's even further along than we thought.
"Beecher White?" the taller of the two asks, though the way his dark eyes lock on me, he has the answer. He's got a narrow face; his partner has a wide one that he tries to offset with a neatly trimmed goatee. Neither looks happy. Or friendly.
"That's me; I'm Beecher. And you are ...?" I ask, though neither of them answers. As Tot limps and ducks into his own cubicle, I see that both my visitors are wearing gold lapel pins with a familiar five-pointed star. Secret Service.
I glance over at Tot, who smells the same rat I do.
"You mind answering a few questions?" the agent with the narrow face asks as he flashes his badge, which says Edward Harris. Before I can answer, he adds, "You always at work this early, Mr. White?"
I have no idea where the bear trap is, but I already feel its springs tightening. Last time I saw President Wallace, I told him I'd do everything in my power to find the evidence to prove what he and his dead friend Palmiotti did. In return, the most powerful man in the world leaned forward on his big mahogany desk in the West Wing and told me, as if it were an absolute fact, that he would personally erase me from existence. So when two Secret Service agents are asking me questions before eight in the morning, I know that whatever they want, I'm in for some pain.
"I like getting in at seven," I tell the agent, though from the look on his face it isn't news to him. I make a quick mental note of every staffer and guard downstairs who saw me hunting through presidential records and might've tipped them off. "I didn't realize coming to work early was a problem."
"No problem," Agent Harris says evenly. "And what time do you usually get home? Specifically, what time did you get home last night?"
"Just past eight," I say. "If you don't believe me, ask Tot. He drove me home and dropped me off." Still standing by the door with the priceless Robert Todd Lincoln letter in my hands, I motion to Tot's cubicle.
"I appreciate that. Tot dropped you off. That means he doesn't know where you were between eight last night and about six this morning, correct?" the agent with the goatee asks, though it no longer sounds like a question.
It's the first time I notice that neither of these guys has the hand mics or ear buds that you see on the Secret Service agents around the President. These two don't do protection. They're investigators. Still, the Service's mission is to protect the President. In the Culper Ring, we protect the Presidency. It's not a small distinction.
"Were you with anyone else last night, Beecher?" Agent Harris jumps in.
From his cubicle, Tot shoots me a look. The bear trap is about to snap shut.
"Do you always wear gloves at work?" Agent Harris adds, motioning to the white cotton gloves.
"Only when I'm handling old documents," I say as I open the file folder and show them the mottled brown Robert Todd Lincoln letter that's still in my open palms. "If you don't mind ..."
They step away from my cubicle, but not by much.
As I squeeze inside and carefully place the Lincoln letter on my desk, I notice the odd slant of my keyboard and how one of my piles of paper is slightly askew. They've already gone through my stuff.
"And do you take those gloves home with you?" Agent Harris asks.
"I'm sorry," I say, "but are you accusing me of something?"
They exchange glances.
"Beecher, do you know someone named Ozzie Andrews?" Agent Harris finally asks.
"Just tell me if you know him. Ozzie Andrews."
"With a name as silly as Ozzie, I'd remember if I knew him."
"So you never met him? Never heard the name?"
"What're you really asking?"
"They found a body," Agent Harris says. "A pastor in a church downtown was found murdered last night around 10 p.m. Throat slit."
"It is. Fortunately for us, just as the D.C. Police got there, they nabbed a suspect. Named Ozzie. He was strolling out the back of the church right after the murder. And when they went through Ozzie's pockets, this killer had your name and phone number in his wallet."
"What? That's ridiculous."
"So you don't know anything about this murder?"
"Of course not!"
There's a long pause.
"Beecher, how would you describe your opinion of President Orson Wallace?" Agent Harris interrupts.
"We're not asking your political views. It's just, with St. John's Church being so close to the White House ... you understand. We need to ask."
I turn to Tot, who doesn't just smell the rat anymore; now we see it. Two months ago, as the President buried his best friend, he swore he'd also bury me. I thought it'd come in the middle of the night with a ski mask. But I forgot who I'm dealing with. Tot said the President already had the bull's-eye on my forehead, then suddenly two Secret Service guys show up? This is Wallace's real revenge: Tie me to a murder, send in the Service, and keep your manicured hands clean as they snap my mugshot.
"Where is this Ozzie guy now?" I ask. "I'd like to know who he is."
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize suspects get to make their own demands."
"So now I'm a suspect? Fine, then let me face my accuser. Is he still in jail?"
For the first time, both agents go silent.
Excerpted from The Fifth Assassin by Brad Meltzer. Copyright © 2013 Brad Meltzer. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
What People are Saying About This
"All of Brad's books are a fascinating read. He is a great storyteller who keeps all of us on the edge of our seats.
[Meltzer] is an architect. His structures are towering , intricate, elegant, and surprising but always grounded in humanity and logic.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I love the book! I can almost hear brad meltzers voice as i read it. I enjoyed learning the factual parts. I feel like there is more to be told on the story. Enjoyed the breecher and i feel like he still has more to do. Left me hanging on the end hoping that this story keeps going. Well written with facts. Lookx like mr. Meltzer. I cant wait to read morel i have read all his books i now have a new favorite book this one and the inner circle. Still i loved the zero game.
Great Meltzer'ish Read! Every time I read a Brad Meltzer book I am reminded of how much I love his books. More than being ‘just’ an author, he is a gifted storyteller. Over and over, I am swept away into a world of political mystery and intrigue. I was introduced to him years ago by a friend of mine who swore I would love his books and she was dead-on. His books are always fast-paced and punctuated by short chapters that lead to the “fly through the book” effect and I am always left wanting more. The Fifth Assassin is no different. Bringing back his character, Beecher, The Inner Circle, this book focuses on a killer who is copying the last four presidential assassinations in a lead-up to the assassination of the current president. I won’t give away any more than that, but this might one ranks up there with my favorite Meltzer book, The Book of Fate. One of my favorite things about Meltzer is that he writes historical fiction without being labeled an historical fiction writer. He’s not lumped into that genre, and yet his books are always heavily entrenched in truths and theories that exist in present day. For example, in this book, he draws on the history of playing cards, the origins of their symbols, and the real-life storage of body parts at a Washington, DC museum (where I would love to visit….). This makes sense because his show, Brad Meltzer Decoded, is hugely popular and delves into the backstories of various codes and symbols, so he knows his stuff. In sum, this is a must-read for anyone who likes fast-paced, action-packed books that tell a real story. It’s also great for people (like me) who are interested in history because I was left Googling a lot of the nuggets of information that were dropped so surreptitiously into the novel (did they really put maps on the inside of playing cards during WWII?!).
I think that the Fifth Assassin is an excellent partner to the Inner Circle. I urge anyone who enjoys a great read to pick up Meltzer's latest book. You will not be disappointed and you might even learn something in the process. Five stars for this book!
My problem with this book as well as the "24" story line of a Nixonian President is believeability. In this age of internet, texting, blogging, I find it difficult to accept that a criminal could be elected President. Corrupt like Agnew, but not criminal. Otherwise a fair read.
The author did a good job of assimilating the four assassinations of the US presidents into the story line. There were many twists and turns in the plot. I did not care for last chapter ending. Too many characters were left hanging. Are we suppose to wait now for the next novel?
The first Brad Meltzer book I have not enjoyed. I thought it jumped around too much -- from today to another century and back and forth.
Don't bother. The plot is confusing and gets boring. I had a hard time reading to the end, but I hate to not finish a book.
The book is difficult to read.The plot line has no contoinuity J J Vax
Honestly, by the time I finished this book, I barely knew what was going on. I think Brad Meltzer missed the mark with this one.
I did not care for The Fifth Assassin. I read a lot of Vince Flynn and other similar authors,but this was just not holding my interest. it was not one of those you cannot put down.
The jumping back and forth between decades was distracting and did not add much too the overall story. Hopefully this is not the trend of future books as this was a disappointing read.
I read everything including the back of cereal boxes. I have been reading for over 60 years. This was one of if not the worst book I have read. I want my money back and all the timei wasted reading this swamp.
I struggled thru the first 60 pages or so before i decided to continue. It got interesting for a bit then fizzled. Storyline is good but the organization delivered the story in too many chopped up bits.
Very Disappointing. Story line was jumbled and almost unreadable with a horrible ending.
I am sorry I wasted my money this is a boring book, drags on and makes no sense
Well done, Brad, well done! Kept me on the edge of my seat and looking around every corner. But how did Marshmallow get his burns....did I miss something?
This is my second Brad Meltzer book . I enjoyed it and would recommend it . There is plenty of action and suspense without the language getting too rough .
I enjoyed Brad Meltzer's first installment, The Inner Circle, but this book takes conspiracies, plots, murderers, and motivations to an unbelievable level. The plot twists are too contrived, the threads are too unrealistic, and the conclusion is disappointing. For serious historical, thriller, and mystery readers, you can skip this one.
Terrible-no stars---convoluted tale that is not worth the time or effort to get through and it is a battle to get through.
This book has a good premise and showed a lot of promise. However, it was difficult to follow, jumping forward and backward in time constantly. That made it very difficult to follow, especially if you set the book down and pick it up again later. I enjoy Brad Meltzer's TV show but I was disappointed in this book.
Like reading on a pogostick Jumps around with ahalf dozen narrators back and forth over 20+ years with no conrinuity Despite an intriguing storyline wasnt able to read through to the end
Stinks. Many unconnected story lines that no amount of torturous contrivances could adequately glue together. The characters are beyond strange; their associations are not plausible. I only read to the end to see if Metzger (or his editors) found a way to make the nonsense plausible. They did not.
not one of the most enjoyable books that I have read....staggered through to the end, which was left open for a sequel
A great read! I really like all the hisrltory that is covered. And then to find out there's a hidden code in The Inner Circle, even more intriguing! Can't wait for the next one in this series.
Could not get past the first 60 pages! Within those pages the story jumps from one the current time into multiple time periods to the point that I gave up trying to stay on track with who did what when. I cannot believe one of my favorite authors would purposly confuse readers to the point of throwing in the towel. One can`t possibly keep track of a mutltitude of characters in current time, one hundred year old murders, and mini chapters starting years ago, three hours ago, today, along with ancestores jumping back in time, etc. You need an outline and character listing along with who is related to whom guide for this one. I reread the first 65 pages 3 times prior to giving it up as hopeless.