by Brad Meltzer
I don’t argue. Over A.J.’s shoulder, the TV clicks to four new camera angles. To my surprise, someone’s staring back. I stay locked on A.J., pretending not to see it. Onscreen, outside the elevator to the Private Residence, First Lady Shona Wallace has her hands on her hips, her smoker’s lips pursed as she glares into the camera.
It happens in an eyeblink. The First Lady is unreadable. She can’t see us, but she knows who’s watching. Message sent, though the more I think about it, there’s only one person that message can be for.
My eyes slide toward Francy, whose quick glance at the screen reminds me that when it comes to her placement in the White House, Francy doesn’t work for the President. She works for the First Lady.
In a blink, the TV clicks to four new camera angles. Shona Wallace is gone.
“Beecher, we’re not accusing you of anything,” Francy says as if the President’s wife were never there. “We’re just hoping that if Nico or Clementine reach out to you, you’ll let us know.”
My eyebrow starts to twitch. I want to like Francy. She reminds me of that tough high school teacher you don’t appreciate until years after graduation. There’s nothing fake about her. But to see that look from the First Lady, to see Francy be on my side this quickly, there’s something else she’s chasing. “Here’s what I don’t understand,” I say. “If that was all you wanted to tell me, why’s the leader of the free world personally eavesdropping?”
Francy doesn’t answer. She’s focused back on her earpiece. “But sir—” she says. “Sir, I can handle this.”
Her shoulders fall. Overruled.
Back by the TV screens, A.J. touches his pointer-finger to his ear. Something’s coming through his Secret Service earpiece.
There’s a quiet click behind me. I spin at the sound.
The door swings open, revealing the most famous gray eyes in the world. No matter how much I hate him, there’s still nothing like seeing him.
“Funny, I was just talking about you, Beecher,” the President of the United States says as he steps toward me and the door shuts behind him. “Have I got an opportunity for you.”
11
Lemon square? You a fan of lemon squares?” President Orson Wallace asks, entering the underground laundry room and holding a plate of fine bone china. At the center of the plate, there’s one pale yellow treat left. “Even the French admit…our dessert chef is a marvel.”
I watch him carefully, knowing his tricks. Like any politician, he always leads with charm.
“I mean it, Beecher. If a dessert could change your life, this is the one.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Your loss,” he says, snatching up the treat and eating it himself. He licks his lips, then sucks the tip of each of his manicured fingers, one by one, as if it’s his first victory. Still, I see the gaps of receding hair pushing back his side part, plus the way the nail on his pinkie is bitten down to the cuticle. He hides it from the public. He’s been chewing on it recently.
“If it weren’t for the stress of the job, I’d weigh an extra twenty pounds by now,” he adds, flashing a grin.
Francy makes a face. She’s heard the joke before. Even better, unlike A.J.—unlike just about everyone—she doesn’t take a half-step back as Wallace gets closer. Francy stays right where she is. She’s growing on me more and more.
The President’s still holding the china plate, which has the Great Seal of the United States on it. But what I’m focused on is the file folder he rests it on top of. The one with the Plankholders penny. From my father’s unit. The President knows how bad I want it. But he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want something just as much.
“Relax, son. I told you, I’m here with an opportunity. A good one.”
“Define good. Because last time I saw you, you pounded your big desk and swore you’d stomp out the Culper Ring and me along with it.”
His smile spreads even wider as he approaches the table. I’m on one side; Francy and A.J. are still on the other. Wallace steps to the head. “I heard today’s your birthday. Happy birthday.”
“I appreciate that. Now in the hopes of getting me back to the shredded-paper confetti that they’re going to surprise me with in my office, why don’t you tell me what you’re really after?”
He knots his fingers together prayer-style. His smile’s still perfectly in place. “Beecher, you know what your defining characteristic is? You always do what’s right. The moment you see someone being hurt, or some sort of injustice, even when it puts you at risk, you can’t turn your back to it. You have to help. That’s a beautiful trait,” the President says, sounding genuine. “As for me, you know what my defining characteristic is? I know what people are good at. My defining trait is that I can find that defining trait. It’s not as beautiful a trait as yours, but it most certainly comes in handy,” he points out. “Which brings us to our little gardening problem. I thought you might be interested in helping us clean it up.”
I stare straight back at him. “So you want my help?”
“Is that so unreasonable?” the President counters. “Whatever’s left of the Culper Ring, you’re the one who leads them now. Isn’t that why Tot—”
“Don’t mention Tot. I appreciate you calling the hospital so he can stay in the ICU instead of transferring him, but that doesn’t mean we owe you anything.”
“I agree. You owe me nothing. But isn’t that the purpose of the Ring: protecting the President?”
“We protect the Presidency,” I clarify. “Besides, don’t you have hundreds of Secret Service agents already investigating all this?”
The President and Francy both go silent. A.J. turns back to the TV, which clicks, as if on cue, to four new camera angles. I glance around the laundry room, with its foldable card tables and hastily assembled computer stations. We’re two stories below the White House. A tiny windowless room that few people know about. “You think the Service had a hand in this?”
“It’s too early to point fingers,” the President says. “But to bury someone’s arm in the Rose Garden…to get that far without being seen… You don’t just hop the fence and make a mad dash. To pull off a trick like that…”
“You need help,” I say with a nod. Only way to bury that arm is with an inside job. “You think it was someone on staff?”
“Maybe it’s staff; maybe it’s the Service,” Francy says as I again picture that angry look on the First Lady’s face. For the first time, I start wondering if maybe this isn’t just about the President. “The point is, however they pulled it off, it was nearly flawless.”
“Nearly?”
The President gives a nod to Francy, who flips to a new photo in the file folder. Unlike the sterile close-up of the flattened penny, this is an outdoor shot of dozens of people on the South Lawn of the White House.
“Looks like a party,” I say, studying the smiling crowd, which is being entertained by the Marine Band, all decked out in their scarlet coats with white shoulder knots and three rows of brass buttons. A time stamp in the corner tells me it was two days ago. 4:27 p.m.
“It’s our annual St. Patrick’s Day event,” the President explains. “We invite the Irish ambassador, plus every Irish reporter and congressional staffer in town, plus the Marine Band, which leaves everyone in tears with a heartrending version of ‘My Wild Irish Rose.’ They moved it outside since the weather had finally turned.” He flips to a new photo, where the Marine Band members are mingling with the crowd, their instruments and musical sheets tucked under their arms.
“Recognize him?” the President asks, pointing to the bottom right of the photo, where one of the band members, a trumpet player, cradles his instrument like a football. We see him only in profile, frozen midstep as he exits the right side of the photo. He’s a red blur as he heads past a group of suit-and-tie staffers and the head of AmeriCorps enjoying their green beer. The First Lady is there too with her usual perma-smile. In the far background of the photo, two other trumpet players are talking
to fellow band members holding French horns, trombones, flutes, and piccolos.
“There were forty Marine Band members at the White House that day,” A.J. explains, turning away from his TV with the surveillance feeds. “Twelve clarinets, two oboes, four saxophones, and naturally, since there’s that nice trumpet duet in ‘My Wild Irish Rose,’ two trumpets. Same in the band photos: two trumpets.”
The President points back at the profile shot of the trumpet player rushing to the far right. Then he points to the two other trumpet players in back. One, two…three trumpets. It’s one trumpet too many.
“So that’s how he snuck in? As a Marine Band member?”
“We can’t tell if he came in uniform, or changed once he was here. All we know is, according to this photo—and it’s the only one where he’s caught on film—there was suddenly a third trumpet player roaming the grounds of the White House.”
“I don’t understand. For him to get inside the gates, doesn’t he still have to sign in and go through security?” I ask.
“Of course,” A.J. says. “But when there’s a big event like St. Patrick’s Day, since security’s dealing with so many check-ins, we’ll bring the band’s bus straight to the Southeast gate, then march them up the lawn with a less rigorous check-in. Whoever our trumpet player is, he knows our playbook.”
I look down at the photo. Even if he weren’t in profile, his white Marine Corps hat obscures his face. “So no ID, no prints, no nameplate on his chest?”
“Marine Band members don’t wear nameplates. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t get the name he wanted us to see,” A.J. adds. “Look at his music folder.”
Without a word, Francy flips to the final photo in the file. It’s a close-up of the music folder our mystery man is cradling. In thick black magic marker, he made it easy to read:
A. Hidell.
My face goes cold.
“You recognize the name?” the President of the United States asks.
I nod, finally understanding what they’re really worried about. This isn’t about me. Or the Culper Ring.
“On the day John F. Kennedy was shot, Alek Hidell was the name on the fake ID carried by Lee Harvey Oswald. It’s the name Oswald ordered the gun with.”
12
Two weeks ago
Ashford, Virginia
She was bleeding. Again.
She tasted it in her mouth—the salty metallic taste of her own blood—as she plowed through the lobby of the office building, keeping her head down to avoid the lone security camera in the corner. She knew the risk in coming here. The Secret Service had her picture all over the news. For two weeks, the Washington Post had put it on its home page in place of the Editor’s Pick. But at this point, she had no choice.
Readjusting her brown bobbed wig and giving one last glance outside, she checked the building’s directory and slowly, carefully, picked up speed. She never ran. If she ran, her teeth would literally rattle and shake in her mouth. Then the blood would really come.
Having cancer was bad. This was worse. Worse than losing her hair. Worse than the smell of her own burnt skin during radiation.
It’d started with a simple toothache. The pain was tough, but she could deal with pain. The old white mess of scars on her elbow was proof of that. Plus, going to a doctor meant questions, insurance, and the risk of being seen.
It wasn’t until two weeks ago, eating microwave popcorn in her motel, that she reached for a kernel stuck in her teeth and instead pulled out a hunk of…something. Grayish and smoky in color. It was a piece of her gums. Underneath, she could see her exposed, dead jawbone.
In medical terms, it’s called osteonecrosis of the jaw, a byproduct of her oral chemo. The blood supply to her jaw was blocked, so the bone in her jaw was dying.
Soon, her gums were bleeding at every meal. When she ate, it was like chewing on her own teeth. She still didn’t go to the doctor. Her first solution was lots of yogurt. Once, she even ate baby food. Her second was to stop chewing on the left side of her mouth. But ten days ago, when an infection took hold and got so bad she could smell her own rotting flesh, that was the end. Replacing her blond wig with an outdated brunette bob, she’d practically crawled into the emergency room.
The surgeon who saw her gave her antibiotics to stop the infection. To make sure it didn’t get worse, he also wanted to cut out a big piece of her jaw.
“Will I look like Roger Ebert?” she’d asked.
The doctor wouldn’t face her. “We’ll do our best.”
He turned to make a note on his clipboard; she swiped his prescription pad and disappeared. As a cancer patient, she knew that pain can cause you to make decisions you wouldn’t otherwise make. She wasn’t letting it take her face.
Today, both the pad and the infection were gone. But as she headed through the lobby, the real disaster was just getting started.
“Need me to hold it?” a man called out from the building’s sole elevator.
Shaking her head and avoiding eye contact, she darted for the less crowded stairs. Anything to stay out of sight. For two weeks now, that was her new routine. Every few days a new office building, a new set of stairs, a new set of strangers.
“Anybody home?” she called out, tapping the translucent glass in the magazine-covered waiting room. It was a few minutes before two. Just as lunch was ending. The best time to cut the line and drop in for an emergency appointment.
“I’m surprised it took you this long,” a voice announced behind her.
She spun at the sound, finding a short, bald, muscular man in a messy-prep polo shirt. Collar popped, which already made her hate him. He was young and looked wealthy, his slitted eyes burning with the cockiness that comes from being in your late twenties. Even his black herringbone overcoat had an expensive-looking polish. His hand was tucked into the front. Like Napoleon.
“In the flesh. The real Clementine,” he said.
“You have the wrong person,” she said, trying to duck around him.
He stepped to the side, blocking her path. “I’m not Secret Service. I’m here to help,” he promised. “Though you need to be smarter. Once you start jumping from dentist to dentist, you’re easy to track. That’s how I found Beecher: when he was in the hospital, visiting Tot.”
Inside her cheek, her four lower left teeth wiggled like a row of loose children’s teeth, twisting and floating on her dead jawbone.
“You look like you’re in pain,” he added. He was standing so close, she noticed his stark white eyelashes.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Clementine challenged.
“Ezra,” he said, taking another small step closer. “We need to talk to you. About history.”
“Ah. Creepy, stalky, and obsessed with the past. You must be looking for my father.”
“Nico. We have a proposition for him.”
“You keep saying we. Who’s we?”
“Who else?” Ezra said, smiling through his slitted eyes. “The Knights of the Golden Circle.”
13
Today
Washington, D.C.
If someone’s copycatting Oswald—” I say.
“We don’t think it’s a copycat,” A.J. interrupts. “Whoever our trumpet player is, this wasn’t an attack. He knew we’d see this. He wanted us to see this…just like he wanted Mrs. Wallace to find that arm with the penny in it.” As A.J. says the words, Wallace’s shoulders pitch in anger. I don’t care how strong Presidents have to be. No one likes having his family threatened.
“So you think whoever did this—”
“I think Nico did this—and I think Clementine’s helping,” A.J. interrupts.
“I’m not arguing with you,” I say as I pick up the photo of the trumpet player. “All I’m asking is, based on Nico’s last victim, do you think they’re after the First Lady?”
A.J. looks to Francy, who looks to Wallace, who again offers a silent nod. There’s no question of the hierarchy.
“We’re not sure. We tr
ied moving Mrs. Wallace out of the eighteen acres first thing yesterday morning,” A.J. finally says, using the Service’s slang for the White House. “She wanted to wait for the President; they’ll both be going off-site today. In fact, we were in the midst of that when we got the call that you were suddenly at the front gate.”
“What about the medical examiner? Can they get DNA from the arm, maybe tell us who it is?”
“Beecher, if we call in the D.C. police, they work for the mayor, not us. If we call in the FBI, they’ll bring it to the press and we’ll lose control of the entire investigation.”
“You’re telling me the President can’t have his own secret—?”
“Are you paying attention?” A.J. asks. “Right now, the Rose Garden is covered with a blue tarp and a sign that says Broken Sprinkler Heads. It’ll let us preserve the integrity of our crime scene without every reporter in the country sticking their nose in the dirt while playing Woodward and Bernstein. Then, two hours from now, the Usher’s Office will announce that up on the third floor of the White House, the wallpaper in the billiard room is starting to peel, and therefore the room needs a paint-and-carpet renovation. Bringing in those workers gives us the perfect excuse to move the President and First Lady out of the White House and to a safe location until the work is complete.”
“And the press won’t think that’s suspicious?”
“The press’ll do what it does with every White House renovation: They’ll say we’re building a new secret underground bunker. But trust me, President Obama renovated the Treaty Room; Bush renovated the Briefing Room; Clinton gave us a new Music Room. You won’t believe what we’ve investigated here under the guise of ‘home improvements.’”
“What he’s trying to say,” the President adds as A.J. turns back to his surveillance cameras, “is that this is what the Culper Ring was designed for. It’s a small circle we’re standing in, Beecher. I’d like to keep it that way.”