The President's Shadow

by Brad Meltzer

  His whole life, Alby thought he knew when he was going to die. He thought it’d be when he was young. But as always, just because you know something’s coming, doesn’t mean you’re prepared for it.

  “I know you hear me, Colonel! You can— You can—” A high-pitched hum filled the air. The mosquitoes were gone. So was the knot in his neck. For Alby White, the worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the speed with which the realization hit. Life takes time. Death, however, reveals itself in an instant.

  As his skin melted to the stone floor, Alby was done yelling, done making predictions. In the end, all he had left were apologies.

  I’m sorry, he thought, picturing his wife…his girls…and his little newborn, his only son. I’m sorry I failed you, Beecher.

  97

  Today

  My whole life, I thought this would be the part where I felt good.

  “That’s a bullshit story,” Marshall says with a cough.

  “Think what you want,” Nico says, his voice flat as ever. “It’s what happened.”

  I stand there, the heartbeat in my leg pumping over and over, as I try to digest it. The wide dungeon feels smaller, like it’s shrinking around me. I didn’t even see Mina enter the room, but I feel her behind me, her hands on my shoulders. I pull away and glance around, trying to imagine where the metal bars used to be, where my father’s cell was. But all I see are the Rorschach-shaped scorch marks that haunt every wall. They look like shadows screaming.

  “Beecher, go outside. You need fresh air,” Marshall tells me.

  I stay where I am. I’ve spent my life away from my father. But now, to have him this close… My soul feels like it’s been shoveled out of my chest. My body tells me to cry, but the tears won’t come. “I-I always thought he died a hero. I wanted him to die a hero,” I say. “Instead, he died uselessly.”

  “He died because he was tricked,” Nico says. “I was there. He died because of their tests. Their lies. Their manipulations.”

  I know that’s right. I understand how it happened, but all these years, the one consequence of not knowing my father was simply that…he could be anyone. The CFO of a start-up…a scientist who studies the therapeutic use of plants. When we were little, my sisters said he was a teddy bear repairman, whatever that was, while I pictured him as a water slide and rollercoaster designer, making them extra twisty just for me. Whatever dream I had, no matter how absurdly big, it was easily projected onto him. But now, instead of seeing my father’s potential, all I see is his limits.

  “Why’d you tell me that?” I ask Nico.

  He blinks, confused by my sudden anger. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “That’s not why you told me, though! You knew it would hurt me! You could’ve told me something good about my father…you could’ve given me a moment I could treasure! Instead you—!”

  “I told you the truth, Benjamin.”

  “No, you took that truth and used it like a blade! You knew that when I heard about his suffering— You did it on purpose, knowing all the pain it would bring! You— You should’ve died instead of him, you selfish ass!” I race forward, fist cocked.

  Pulling me back, Mina steps in front of me, trying to block my way.

  Doesn’t matter how big she is, I practically plow over her. I don’t see Marshall move, but he’s on me too, grabbing my chest and shoulders, both of them tugging me back. “You should be the dead one!” I explode at Nico. “Not him! They should’ve killed you!”

  I pull out of Mina’s grip, nearly knocking her over. Marshall’s injured. He can’t hold on much longer. Nico sways just slightly. He won’t fight back. He wants me to do it.

  “Enough,” Marshall growls. He presses his fingers into my armpit. My right arm goes numb as well as my thigh. Like a puppet with cut strings, I tumble from the momentum, nearly falling on my face. Marshall falls with me. That’s all he has left.

  When I was in twelfth grade, our anatomy class dissected a dead cat. I refused since we had a cat of our own.

  “Just pretend it’s a dead frog,” my teacher told me.

  “I like frogs,” I told him.

  “Then pick an animal you don’t like. Pretend it’s a snake. Or a worm. Everyone hates worms. Or take the F for all I care.”

  I pretended it was a rat. But today, as I crash on my knees, palms shredded by the rough stone, all my rage gives way to one inescapable fact: That’s what they did to my father. For their tests…for their experiments…for everything that caused his death… They saw him as a rat, a worm.

  My tears push out from behind my eyes and rain from my nose. My body shatters, fragmenting along the floor. My fingers, my hands, I can’t stop them from shaking. I’m in shock. I kneel down on all fours. How could they—? How could anyone—? “Oh, God, Dad!” I cry, still picturing his final terrified moments as the burn marks sear into my brain. “They did this! They took him apart!” I shout, not even sure who I’m yelling at.

  Marshall collapses on the floor. Mina kneels next to me, pulling me close. “It’s your father,” she says. “He deserves to be mourned.”

  For me, that’s all it takes. At just her embrace, something cracks inside me. I break into uncontrollable sobs. For two minutes, she stays there, keeping me close and rubbing my back. Snot pours from my nose, all over her shirt.

  “You owe me a shirt,” she teases.

  I laugh and cry in the same huffy breath. It takes another full minute for my breathing to settle. As I wipe my eyes, she knows there’s nothing to say.

  “You shouldn’t have told me,” I finally whisper, looking up at Nico. “I wish you wouldn’t have told me.”

  Nico continues to sway, standing above me. “My daughter is dead, Benjamin. She’s gone. So don’t complain to me how much your past hurts. Don’t you see? You got what you asked for. And so did I.” He starts to say something else, but as our eyes lock, his body…he’s shaking too. I keep treating him like he’s made of armor, but it’s clear…he was a rat. Just like my dad.

  “Nico, listen… I’m sorry for— Clementine was— She was—” I stop myself, pulling away from Mina and finally admitting the other thing I secretly hoped to find as I searched for these files. A cure for Clemmi. “I loved her too.”

  Marshall looks over as he hears the words. So does Mina. And Nico.

  Outside, there’s a familiar whine in the distance. An approaching seaplane.

  Wiping my eyes, I climb to my feet and head outside to meet it. Nico grips me by my shoulder. “With your father, I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Benjamin.”

  “I know. And again, I’m sorry for—”

  “Stop talking,” he insists. As usual, he takes an extra step too close, invading my personal space. “There was a reason I came here. To this room. The First Lady…the…the woman I speak to…” He takes a breath. “She told me your father wanted you to have this…”

  Nico sticks his hand out, palm-up, his fist squeezed tight. I almost forgot, when I first found him here…with that shovel…he was pulling something from the wall. With no fanfare, he opens his hand. In his palm is something round and metal. It’s so rusted and corroded, at first, it looks like an old bottle cap. But as he tips his palm and dumps it in my hand…

  I pull it close to get a better look. It’s a pin. At the center of it, underneath the orange rust flecks, there’s a black-and-white picture. It almost looks like—

  “Charlie Chaplin?” I ask. I look up at Nico. “I don’t get it.”

  “When we were on this island, your father carried that pin with him everywhere we went.”

  Right there, the rusted old pin feels heavier in my hand. “He—? This belonged to my dad?”

  “I don’t know what made it such a treasure. Maybe it was just his way of proving he was here. But in those hours before he died, I saw him hide it. I was watching him back then. He didn’t know I was there. He must’ve spent days digging the mortar out. And whatever the meaning was, this was what he chose to hide. He chose this to pr
otect. I thought you’d want it back.”

  I tilt the old pin. Through the rust, my reflection bends and warps off a dent in it, like a fun house mirror. Even at a convention of Charlie Chaplin superfans, I couldn’t sell this thing for more than a nickel. But it reminds me of what someone once told me during one of my very first days in the Archives. We were hunting through the stacks, surrounded by literally millions of useless old pages. Pulling a single yellowed file off the shelf, he said the words that I now share with Nico as I stare down at my dad’s old metal button. The ultimate archivist mantra: “Everything’s worth something. To the right person.”

  Nico stares at me, fighting to prop up a crooked smile that keeps trembling and splintering. His rush of emotion catches me off guard. “I think that’s how Clementine saw me,” he says, his own tears pooling in the bottoms of his eyes. “I was important just to her. Loved by…loved by one.”

  “Nico, hands up!” a deep voice yells behind us. “No movements!”

  As we turn, two massive coast guard officers point guns at Nico’s face. Racing into the room, they slam Nico to the ground, cuffing his hands behind his back. Another two race to Mina. She points them to Marshall, who’s unconscious.

  Nico doesn’t fight back, doesn’t say a word. I try to mouth him a quiet thank-you, but he doesn’t see it. His eyes never leave the charred remains of his daughter.

  One body, with many versions in it.

  As they drag Nico from the room, I limp behind them and say my final goodbye to my dad, my fist clenching Charlie Chaplin’s rusted face.

  98

  One week later

  The White House

  This time, they bring me in the front door.

  “You’re in luck. Hear that clinking?” the square-faced middle-aged woman asks, sounding far too excited. She’s the secretary for the most powerful man on the planet. She doesn’t get excited much. “The valet just delivered fresh lemonade,” she adds. “He’s in a good mood. Get it? Lemons into lemonade?”

  “I get it,” I say, shifting uncomfortably in the wingback chair across from her desk.

  Throughout the history of our relationship, President Wallace has met with me in a private office of the Residence, an underground bunker below Camp David, and, just last week, a laundry room in one of the White House’s subbasements.

  On each of those visits, he was worried that the Culper Ring had proof of what he did all those years ago back in college. It’s the only thing that scares him, if such a thing is possible. For that reason, they brought me through a back entrance, so no one saw me coming. Today, they told me to come to the northwest gate, a public entrance. The most public entrance, since it’s right by the press office. Whatever Wallace is up to, he’s done hiding me, and hiding from me.

  Still, I saw how the marine guard was staring my way as I came up the front walk. Same with the suit-and-tie agents who brought me through the West Wing. White House security isn’t made to be welcoming. They’re even less welcoming when they see someone doing their job.

  “He’s just finishing up a call,” the most powerful secretary in the world adds.

  On my left, through the curved door to the Oval, I see President Orson Wallace in profile, sitting at his desk. He’s not on the phone. He’s reading from a file.

  On the wall behind the secretary, there’s a framed, enlarged photograph of the President pitching a Wiffle ball to his eight-year-old son. It’s a candid shot out on the lawn, though Wallace is in a full suit. For some who get this close to the commander in chief, it’s an unsubtle message about the President’s priorities. To others, it’s a reminder that since they’re not family, they need to be careful what they ask for. Yet for me, while of course it reminds me of my own dad and the maudlin father-son catch we’ll never have, the real meaning of the photo is far more simple: When you come to the Oval, you’re not playing Wiffle ball anymore. This is a big league game.

  “He’s waiting for you,” the secretary announces, making me feel like I’m suddenly late.

  I hop from my chair. Stepping though the curved door and into the Oval, I work hard to hide my limp from where Ezra shot me. My leg’s still healing, though the President doesn’t need to know that.

  “Still can’t walk, huh?” Wallace asks, sounding truly sincere. He’s already headed my way, towering over me. I always forget how tall he is.

  “If you need one of our doctors, say the word. We have the best,” he offers, his gray eyes widening and making me feel like he’d evacuate an entire medical center for me. “Come. Sit. We can’t have you hurting yourself.”

  He points me to one of the dark brown velvet sofas at the center of the Oval. But he doesn’t head back to his desk or to the matching sofa that’s opposite mine. Instead, he joins me on my sofa, right next to me, both of us facing the antique grandfather clock that I know has been in the Oval Office with every President since Gerald Ford.

  I’ve seen this trick before. Men communicate side by side, shoulder to shoulder, which is why they like walking and talking, or sitting together in a car or at a sporting event. Women prefer face-to-face communications, which men tend to use only when there’s a conflict or a need to show rank. Wallace usually sits behind his big desk. Right now, he wants me to know we’re on the same team.

  “You gotta try this lemonade—they put a hint of cranberry in it,” the President of the United States tells me, pointing to the crystal pitcher on the nearby coffee table.

  “I don’t like cranberries. Too sweet,” I say.

  He fakes a grin at that, leaning forward and pouring himself a glass. The ice pings in a high pitch off the fine crystal. As he sits back on the couch, the only sound in the room is a soft wrrr from the grandfather clock.

  “I didn’t bring you here for a fight, Beecher. This was a big win. For all of us.”

  “Not all of us.”

  He nods and stays silent, letting the air come out of that one. Eventually, he offers: “I’m sorry about Clementine. I know she—”

  “Please don’t turn this into a pep talk where you pretend to find good in her life. You brought me here for a reason. Just tell me what it is.”

  He lets the air come out of that one too. The wrrr of the clock seems to grind even louder. “I made a promise to you, Beecher. I intend to keep it.”

  I glance to my left, directly at him. The most powerful man in the world is swirling his pink-tinted lemonade, creating a tiny whirlpool in his glass. What a President does more than anything else is seduce.

  “I’m not sure I follow,” I say.

  “You stopped Ezra. You helped us bring in Nico. That’s why Tot picked you. You did the Ring proud.” He turns to his own left, and it’s the first time I notice the thick accordion file folder that’s still sitting at the center of his meticulous desk.

  “Both the FBI and the Service combed through Ezra’s apartment,” he explains. “For the past week, we’ve been scrubbing his computer and phone records. From what we can tell, he paid off one of the delivery men in the White House flower shop. That’s how he got inside. Otherwise, he was working alone. No contact with Riestra or anyone in the Service. And though Ezra was definitely hoping to rebuild the Knights, he hadn’t gotten anywhere yet. Thanks to you.”

  “What about his body? Did the coast guard…?”

  “They’ve been picking up pieces all week. They found his arm five days ago. They said some of the other parts were probably eaten by sharks. That far out from the mainland, no way anyone survives.” He takes a sip of the lemonade, his eyes closed as he drinks it.

  “Can I ask you one last question?” I stay locked on him, watching his reaction. “You knew Ezra’s real mission, didn’t you?” I ask. “From the very start, you knew he wasn’t going after you. You knew his real target was Nico.”

  Wallace continues to sip his lemonade, eyes still shut.

  “So when Ezra buried those arms…” I continue. “He really was just trying to make a point. He wasn’t trying to kill yo
u—he was showing you the flaws in your security.”

  Lowering his glass, the President never turns my way. He stares straight at the grandfather clock. “When Ezra first got inside the White House, he said he wanted to make me an offer. He wanted my help rebuilding the Knights. His first mission would be hunting and killing Nico—to make the country safe.”

  “So the buried arms…”

  “The arms—and the penny and codes inside—were never about your father. They were Ezra’s way of showing just how many holes Nico could sneak through. Naturally, our real fear was: Who else was helping him?”

  I think on that, replaying our very first conversation in the underground laundry room. “I knew you weren’t telling the full story.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t have helped if I was,” the President challenges.

  Now we’re both staring at the grandfather clock.

  “We both did what we had to, Beecher. I just need you to look at it from our perspective. At that point, we didn’t know who Ezra was working with: you…Nico…Riestra and the Service. We didn’t know who was with whom,” Wallace explains. “But when it was clear that the Ring might be the best solution, and we saw that penny in there, well…Francy said you wouldn’t jump in without some personal incentive.” He looks back at the file on his desk. “I’m sorry we had to mislead you. I truly am. But I meant what I said about keeping my promise.”

  I follow his glance back toward the accordion folder. There’s almost nothing else on his desk. Even the phone is stored in a drawer. On the right of the desk is a wooden box that holds the red buzzer for the President to call his aides. On the front corners, there’re silver picture frames with photos of Wallace’s family, a childhood one of him and his mom, and one of him with the previous four Presidents. Every frame is faced out, which means he can’t see them when he’s sitting at the desk. It’s the same with the two tall flags that sit behind his chair and therefore show up in every photo. Everything in the Oval is meant to be seen by someone else.