Circle of Spies by Roseanna M. White Page A

from touching. His gaze followed the blades up to the men holding them, dressed in chain mail and armor, feather-crested helmets obscuring their faces.
    A glance to his side proved that the book on which he had sworn was indeed the Bible. Comforting, and yet the irony of it pierced where the swords stopped short. How could these men put their hand upon the Good Book and swear to uphold their brotherhood above its statutes?
    â€œRise.”
    He rose, once the swords all returned to their sheaths, and accepted the shirt someone handed him, and then his frock coat. His gaze fixed upon the central Knight as he lifted his visor.
    Hughes. He nodded and made a motion to the men who had led Slade in.
    Surratt stepped forward and indicated a door to the left. “Through here for the meeting. It’ll start as soon as the officers take off their armor.”
    Slade finished buttoning the shirt. Hopefully they hadn’t ruined his waistcoat—Ross had only commissioned him that one for evening wear. The warmth of the frock coat was as welcome as sunshine. He followed Surratt through the door and then into a chamber with dozens of men jammed within and papers tacked to the walls. A defaced poster of Lincoln drew his eye.
    â€œHere.” Surratt held out a mug.
    He had no idea what was in it, but it steamed, so he took it. “Thanks.” He sipped—coffee—and noted the men milling about.
    That dread in his stomach churned. Too many were familiar. Cabinet members. Congressmen. Judges. Actors and editors and…
    â€œOsborne, isn’t it?” Surratt drank from his own mug, his gaze darting about the room before landing on Slade again. “We were all surprised to hear Hughes was bringing someone in. He hasn’t nominated anyone since the start of the war. Something about too much rabble who are not dedicated to the Cause.”
    Slade merely took another drink.
    Surratt—a shrewd-looking fellow, with a beard only upon his chinthat gave him a rather pointed face—shifted from one foot to the other. “He must know you very well.”
    Another man sidled toward them with a grin. He looked familiar…an actor, wasn’t he? Name started with a B. Or was it a P?
    â€œAh, Booth.” Surratt greeted him with a smile just warm enough to speak of friendship and just small enough to speak of one too familiar to need formality. “Come to meet our newest brother?”
    Booth, right. John something-or-another Booth. He held out a hand, spurring Slade to switch his mug to his left hand and hold out his right.
    The actor pumped it. “Is it true? You were a member of Pinkerton’s security for King Abraham?”
    Surratt froze with his mug halfway to his lips.
    Slade reclaimed his fingers. They wouldn’t say such things if they actually knew the man. If they saw his daily struggles, the way he sorrowed at the divide in the nation he loved.
    But they saw only their own side. A side he must convince them was now his. “I was.”
    â€œThen you know his routine. You know the weak spots in his security. You know—”
    â€œI know what they were three months ago, before I left.” Slade took another drink and another glance around the room. According to the information Pinkerton had put together, most of the men were already suspected Southern sympathizers. But a few had fooled them.
    Surratt and Booth exchanged a glance, dark hope in both sets of eyes. “Well,” Surratt said, “I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that Hughes recommended you. What convinced you to join us?”
    He knew what he had to say. Still, the words tasted like bile.
    Ross’s words. Ross’s sympathies. Ross’s betrayal.
    â€œWhen one is that close to the tyrant for that long, it’s hard to ignore his failings.” Sorry, Mr. President.
    Surratt smiled. “Well, we welcome you eagerly to the ranks. Are you staying here in Baltimore or going back to