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few fanatics who won’t back down.”
    â€œAll Southerners are fanatics,” Pinkerton said. Lon distrusted Southerners because his preacher father had raised him to hate slavery. Pinkerton not only hated the institution, he hated those who practiced it, every last one. “I agree with your feeling about a war. But why should that make you resign?”
    â€œMen will be needed for the Army. It’s my duty to go. Of course I’ll stay on the job until it’s time to enlist.”
    â€œYour sentiments are admirable, Alonzo. But they lead to a misguided conclusion.”
    Puzzled, Lon said, “Sir?”
    â€œI had a letter from the Captain last week. If war comes, the Captain expects to be called up, along with other West Point graduates. Some of the secesh from the Academy will turn traitor and go South. The lot of them will be fighting each other soon enough.”
    Pinkerton turned in his swivel chair—always well oiled, never a squeak. He gazed at a framed photograph on the wall above the credenza: Allan Pinkerton standing with the Captain, G. B. McClellan, in the Illinois Central yards on a sunlit day. The men were about the same height, five feet eight, two inches shorter than Lon. McClellan was youthful, in his early thirties; Pinkerton had turned forty a couple of years ago, with lines in his face to show it. McClellan’s expression was pleasant, Pinkerton’s typically dour. Pinkerton wore an undistinguished beard, McClellan a handsome mustache and small Napoleon-style imperial. The photo dated from McClellan’s time as chief engineer of the railroad. He’d hired the agency to protect I.C. real estate and rolling stock. Recently he’d gone to Cincinnati as superintendent of the troubled Ohio & Mississippi. His annual salary was rumored to be an incredible $10,000.
    The close friendship between the two men puzzled everyone in the office. McClellan was urbane, well educated, widely traveled. Before resigning his Army commission, he’d campaigned in Mexico, risen slowly from lieutenant to captain, been honored with a posting overseas to observe the war in the Crimea. Pinkerton, with little schooling, had come out of the slums of Glasgow. Lon had dined with the Captain once; he knew McClellan relished fine food, wine, and cigars. Pinkerton didn’t smoke, drink, or curse. It was an unlikely friendship but for one thing. Both men were driven by ambition and fierce devotion to hard work, long hours, the myriad details of business. Lon guessed that must be their bond.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir, I don’t see what Captain McClellan’s future has to do with us.”
    â€œIntelligence. Military intelligence. The Army general staff has no department to provide it. Each general must shift for himself. The Captain is way ahead of the pack. He wrote to say that when he’s called back, he will hire this agency for special duty.”
    Was it a trick of the sunlight through the spotless window, or did Pinkerton almost smile? Lon couldn’t be sure. The word spy leaped to mind but he didn’t utter it.
    â€œAlonzo, as soon as war comes—and like you I believe it will, it must, to punish those vicious madmen down South—the Captain is sure to become a general, and he is already recruiting us. Any man can die in an infantry charge, but nowhere else in this country, or in the world so far as I know, will you find men who can do what we do. Men ready to be of service in a secret war. Don’t leave the organization when you’re needed most.”
    The blue-gray eyes held a tinge of fire. Lon pondered no more than five seconds. He withdrew his resignation and left the office, convinced he would soon enter a new, unmapped area of his profession. He was excited about it all day, and for days afterward.

3
January 1861
    Fingal’s Crab House overlooked the inner harbor from Pratt Street. The original shop was a waterman’s shack filled with