any man ever could. Wellers said that such a thing could really fiddle with a fellow’s head, and she laughed … so now the thing is called Fiddlehead for short. Think of it as a code name, if you like that better.”
“Got it. So the Lincolns are … what? Dr. Bardsley’s patrons? Sponsors?”
“Yes. And at the moment, they’re his lifeline.” He passed her a newspaper article, then continued. “Three nights ago, armed men broke into the doctor’s laboratory at the Jefferson Science Center, destroying a great deal of expensive equipment, and doing their best to kill Bardsley in the process.”
She didn’t lift her gaze. “Was the Fiddlehead itself destroyed in the incident?”
“Damaged, yes. Destroyed, no. Apparently the doctor tricked the intruders into vandalizing less interesting equipment.”
She set the newsprint article aside. “So he’s not just a brilliant man, but a clever one, too. Tell me, then: What was this Fiddlehead designed to do? A giant brain, you said, but everyone everywhere has a brain. What makes this one so special? What was it told to think about?”
“The war,” he said simply. “They asked it to analyze the war.”
“And the results were…?”
“Nothing I’m at liberty to discuss right now. You’ll get that information from Lincoln, as well as further details on your assignment. He knows more about the machine than I do, and I’m sure he’d be happy to fill you in.”
“Your certainty on that point exceeds mine, sir. Does he know you’re sending me ?”
“Yes, he knows. And I’ve assured him that you’re a consummate professional who will do the job you’re given, with no qualms, concerns, lingering political loyalties, or complaints. Do I make myself a liar, or do I make myself clear?”
“Abundantly clear, as always. But while I appreciate the vote of confidence—”
“I don’t need your appreciation; I just need your follow-through. Listen, Miss Boyd: Abraham Lincoln might not have been your president, and I understand. However, he is nobody’s president anymore, and right now he is my client.”
“But he’s still active politically, isn’t he? I’ve heard that he’s a vigorous advocate for ending the conflict, presumably with a restored Union,” she replied carefully.
Allan Pinkerton paused, settling back in his chair and peering thoughtfully across the desk at her. “Presumably,” he said at last. “I’ve never asked before, but perhaps this is the time, before I send you jaunting down to D.C. on a delicate mission—”
It was Maria’s turn to interrupt. “You want to know how I feel about the war.” She folded her hands atop the paperwork. She took a moment to organize her thoughts, then she told him. “It’s a hard thing to explain, you know. I earned my fame as a child, Mr. Pinkerton. I thought—and operated—with the fearlessness of a child, accepting what I was told by my nearest elders. I still believe some of it—or, it might be more accurate to say that I still feel some of it. The South was my home, and I do not believe it was fairly treated in the years leading up to Fort Sumter. When war broke out, the whole thing felt like a grand adventure.”
Pinkerton snorted. Maria smiled tightly, unhappily. “Oh, I know. A stupid thing to feel. But, again, I was still in my teens, and the war was young too. It hadn’t taken so much yet.” Her voice trailed off, then recovered. “So I sit here now, two decades and thousands of miles away from my youthful adventures, with tens of thousands of lives lost to a cause I didn’t understand very well and I understand even less now. And you want to know how I feel about the war.”
“Well,” he pointed out, “you still haven’t told me.”
She swallowed. “I still believe in the rights of states to self-govern, and some of the points the Rebels have fallen back on as they’ve lost slavery as a political option. But the older I get and the farther I travel, the less I
“Got it. So the Lincolns are … what? Dr. Bardsley’s patrons? Sponsors?”
“Yes. And at the moment, they’re his lifeline.” He passed her a newspaper article, then continued. “Three nights ago, armed men broke into the doctor’s laboratory at the Jefferson Science Center, destroying a great deal of expensive equipment, and doing their best to kill Bardsley in the process.”
She didn’t lift her gaze. “Was the Fiddlehead itself destroyed in the incident?”
“Damaged, yes. Destroyed, no. Apparently the doctor tricked the intruders into vandalizing less interesting equipment.”
She set the newsprint article aside. “So he’s not just a brilliant man, but a clever one, too. Tell me, then: What was this Fiddlehead designed to do? A giant brain, you said, but everyone everywhere has a brain. What makes this one so special? What was it told to think about?”
“The war,” he said simply. “They asked it to analyze the war.”
“And the results were…?”
“Nothing I’m at liberty to discuss right now. You’ll get that information from Lincoln, as well as further details on your assignment. He knows more about the machine than I do, and I’m sure he’d be happy to fill you in.”
“Your certainty on that point exceeds mine, sir. Does he know you’re sending me ?”
“Yes, he knows. And I’ve assured him that you’re a consummate professional who will do the job you’re given, with no qualms, concerns, lingering political loyalties, or complaints. Do I make myself a liar, or do I make myself clear?”
“Abundantly clear, as always. But while I appreciate the vote of confidence—”
“I don’t need your appreciation; I just need your follow-through. Listen, Miss Boyd: Abraham Lincoln might not have been your president, and I understand. However, he is nobody’s president anymore, and right now he is my client.”
“But he’s still active politically, isn’t he? I’ve heard that he’s a vigorous advocate for ending the conflict, presumably with a restored Union,” she replied carefully.
Allan Pinkerton paused, settling back in his chair and peering thoughtfully across the desk at her. “Presumably,” he said at last. “I’ve never asked before, but perhaps this is the time, before I send you jaunting down to D.C. on a delicate mission—”
It was Maria’s turn to interrupt. “You want to know how I feel about the war.” She folded her hands atop the paperwork. She took a moment to organize her thoughts, then she told him. “It’s a hard thing to explain, you know. I earned my fame as a child, Mr. Pinkerton. I thought—and operated—with the fearlessness of a child, accepting what I was told by my nearest elders. I still believe some of it—or, it might be more accurate to say that I still feel some of it. The South was my home, and I do not believe it was fairly treated in the years leading up to Fort Sumter. When war broke out, the whole thing felt like a grand adventure.”
Pinkerton snorted. Maria smiled tightly, unhappily. “Oh, I know. A stupid thing to feel. But, again, I was still in my teens, and the war was young too. It hadn’t taken so much yet.” Her voice trailed off, then recovered. “So I sit here now, two decades and thousands of miles away from my youthful adventures, with tens of thousands of lives lost to a cause I didn’t understand very well and I understand even less now. And you want to know how I feel about the war.”
“Well,” he pointed out, “you still haven’t told me.”
She swallowed. “I still believe in the rights of states to self-govern, and some of the points the Rebels have fallen back on as they’ve lost slavery as a political option. But the older I get and the farther I travel, the less I
Similar Books
