doctor when he’s hunched over them.
“He’s awake!” the white doctor called out to someone outside the room.
“Albert, can you squeeze my fingers?” the black doctor with the Tennessee accent repeated. He had a thin but kind face with two snaggly bottom teeth. As he leaned down, a set of dog tags swayed from his neck like a tire swing. This was a military hospital. “Albert, are you—?”
“Alby… My name’s Alby,” he sputtered, his throat feeling tight. As he squeezed the doctor’s fingers, his right leg pulsed in pain. Two of his fingers were taped together in a metal finger splint.
The fall. He remembered jumping, falling from the plane. And the smell. That bitter black smoke. Like a human barbeque.
“ He’s awake! ” the white doctor shouted for the second time.
Yet as Alby lay there motionless, sinking down into the hospital bed, the one memory he couldn’t shake was of the elderly couple—the woman with the ice blue eyes begging for help—that he’d turned his back on.
“You know what a miracle it is that you got out of there!?” the white doctor asked.
“Not just a miracle,” the black doctor said. “The quick thinking…his reflexes…” He shook Alby’s hand, pumping it like a politician. “That was impressive, son. And I can tell you right now, it didn’t go unnoticed.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Alby offered.
“You will, son. I promise: Men like you are exactly who we’re looking for.”
18
Today
Washington, D.C.
W hite eyelashes? What is he, a supervillain?” she asks through my phone.
“You asked for distinctive features,” I tell her, keeping my voice down as I weave through the lunchtime crowds and local food trucks on 7th Street.
“No, Beecher, I asked for a name. A department. Even whether he was uniform or suit-and-tie,” a mechanical robot voice says in my ear. She uses it as a disguise, but I know who she is. Immaculate Deception. Also known as Mac. Also known as the Culper Ring’s resident hacker.
“So you couldn’t find anything?”
“It’s the Secret Service, Beecher. I can ask around, but there’s a reason the word Secret ’s in the title. This isn’t like looking for twenty-four-hour locksmiths in the yellow pages.”
She shows her age with that one. In reality, Mac’ s a seventy-two-year-old former navy officer named Grace Bentham. During her time at Harvard, Amazing Grace invented the term debugging when she found a moth in a Harvard Mark II computer. Since then, she and Tot have been the heart of the present-day Culper Ring. And its fiercest protectors. Decades ago, when the Black Hawk helicopters went down in Mogadishu, Mac was one of the first ones notified—and helped find spare local copters and jeeps to send in for the bloody rescue.
“By the way,” she adds, “as long as we’re on the topic of missing people who’re pissing me off, where’d your boy Marshall race off to?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s the second time. Three minutes after he left you at the Archives, his cell phone went poof .”
“Poof?”
“No signal. Untrackable.”
“Wait, are you—? You’re spying on him?”
“I spy on you too. It’s my job, Beecher. You told me Marshall was helping us. I always look out for those who help us,” Mac says. “But when someone’s cell signal goes dead, y’know what that means?”
“He shut his phone off.”
“No. Shut phones still bleed a traceable signal. If I needed to, I could track a shut phone on a plane. But if the signal goes black like Marshall’s, it means he took out his battery or placed it in one of those lined bags that block all transmissions. Wherever he’s going, he doesn’t want to be seen.”
“Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be seen by you . Don’t forget, with the job he has, people aren’t supposed to see him coming.”
“That’s exactly my fear,” she says, her mechanized voice slowing down. “That you’re not gonna see him
“He’s awake!” the white doctor called out to someone outside the room.
“Albert, can you squeeze my fingers?” the black doctor with the Tennessee accent repeated. He had a thin but kind face with two snaggly bottom teeth. As he leaned down, a set of dog tags swayed from his neck like a tire swing. This was a military hospital. “Albert, are you—?”
“Alby… My name’s Alby,” he sputtered, his throat feeling tight. As he squeezed the doctor’s fingers, his right leg pulsed in pain. Two of his fingers were taped together in a metal finger splint.
The fall. He remembered jumping, falling from the plane. And the smell. That bitter black smoke. Like a human barbeque.
“ He’s awake! ” the white doctor shouted for the second time.
Yet as Alby lay there motionless, sinking down into the hospital bed, the one memory he couldn’t shake was of the elderly couple—the woman with the ice blue eyes begging for help—that he’d turned his back on.
“You know what a miracle it is that you got out of there!?” the white doctor asked.
“Not just a miracle,” the black doctor said. “The quick thinking…his reflexes…” He shook Alby’s hand, pumping it like a politician. “That was impressive, son. And I can tell you right now, it didn’t go unnoticed.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Alby offered.
“You will, son. I promise: Men like you are exactly who we’re looking for.”
18
Today
Washington, D.C.
W hite eyelashes? What is he, a supervillain?” she asks through my phone.
“You asked for distinctive features,” I tell her, keeping my voice down as I weave through the lunchtime crowds and local food trucks on 7th Street.
“No, Beecher, I asked for a name. A department. Even whether he was uniform or suit-and-tie,” a mechanical robot voice says in my ear. She uses it as a disguise, but I know who she is. Immaculate Deception. Also known as Mac. Also known as the Culper Ring’s resident hacker.
“So you couldn’t find anything?”
“It’s the Secret Service, Beecher. I can ask around, but there’s a reason the word Secret ’s in the title. This isn’t like looking for twenty-four-hour locksmiths in the yellow pages.”
She shows her age with that one. In reality, Mac’ s a seventy-two-year-old former navy officer named Grace Bentham. During her time at Harvard, Amazing Grace invented the term debugging when she found a moth in a Harvard Mark II computer. Since then, she and Tot have been the heart of the present-day Culper Ring. And its fiercest protectors. Decades ago, when the Black Hawk helicopters went down in Mogadishu, Mac was one of the first ones notified—and helped find spare local copters and jeeps to send in for the bloody rescue.
“By the way,” she adds, “as long as we’re on the topic of missing people who’re pissing me off, where’d your boy Marshall race off to?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s the second time. Three minutes after he left you at the Archives, his cell phone went poof .”
“Poof?”
“No signal. Untrackable.”
“Wait, are you—? You’re spying on him?”
“I spy on you too. It’s my job, Beecher. You told me Marshall was helping us. I always look out for those who help us,” Mac says. “But when someone’s cell signal goes dead, y’know what that means?”
“He shut his phone off.”
“No. Shut phones still bleed a traceable signal. If I needed to, I could track a shut phone on a plane. But if the signal goes black like Marshall’s, it means he took out his battery or placed it in one of those lined bags that block all transmissions. Wherever he’s going, he doesn’t want to be seen.”
“Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be seen by you . Don’t forget, with the job he has, people aren’t supposed to see him coming.”
“That’s exactly my fear,” she says, her mechanized voice slowing down. “That you’re not gonna see him
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