The Inner Circle

by Brad Meltzer

  He’s right. He’s definitely right. There’s only one problem.

  “That doesn’t mean Tot was the one in the taxi,” I tell him. “It could’ve been anyone. It could’ve been Rina.”

  “I don’t think it was Rina.”

  “How can you—?”

  “It’s just my thought, okay? You don’t think it’s Tot. I don’t think it’s Rina,” he insists, barely raising his voice but definitely raising his voice.

  As he scratches the side of his starter beard, I make a mental note of the sore spot. “What about Khazei?” I ask.

  “From Security?”

  “He’s the one who buzzed Orlando into the SCIF. And right now, he’s also the one spending far too much of his time lurking wherever I seem to be.”

  Dallas thinks on this a moment. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” I shoot back. “You’ve got a two-hundred-year-old spy network talking in your ear, and that’s the best they come up with? Maybe?”

  Before he can respond, there’s a loud backfire. Through the curtain, a puff of black smoke shows me the source: a city bus that’s now pulling away from the bus stop across the street. But what gnaws at me is Dallas’s reaction to it. His face is white. He squints into the darkness. And I quickly remember that buses in D.C. don’t run after midnight. It’s well past 1 a.m.

  “Beecher, I think we need to go.”

  “Wait. Am I…? Who’d you see in that bus?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Tell me what’s with the bus, Dallas. You think someone’s spying from that bus?”

  He closes the shades, then checks again to make sure they stay closed. It’s the first time I’ve seen him scared. “We’d also like to see the book.”

  “Wha?” I ask.

  “The book. The dictionary,” Dallas says. His tone is insistent. Like his life depends on it. “We need to know what was written in the dictionary.”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder, motioning me to the door.

  I don’t move. “Don’t do that,” I warn.

  “Do what?”

  “Rush me along, hoping I’ll give it out of fear.”

  “You think I’d screw you like that?”

  “No offense, but weren’t you the one who just gave me that lecture about how every person in our building was already screwing me?”

  He searches for calm, but I see him glance at the closed curtain. Time’s running out. “What if I gave you a reason to trust us?”

  “Depends how good the reason is.”

  “Is that okay?” he adds, though I realize he’s no longer talking to me. He nods, reacting to what they’re saying in his earpiece. Wasting no time, he heads for the closet and pulls something from his laptop bag, which was tucked just out of sight.

  With a flick of his wrist, he whips it like a Frisbee straight at me.

  I catch it as the plastic shell nicks my chest.

  A videotape.

  The orange sticker on the top reads:12E1.

  That’s the room… the SCIF… Is this…? This is the videotape that Orlando grabbed when we—

  “How’d you get this?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “That’s your get-out-of-jail-free card, Beecher. You know what would’ve happened if Wallace or one of his Plumbers had seen you on that tape?”

  He doesn’t have to say the words. I still hear Orlando: If the President finds that videotape, he’s going to declare war… on us. The war’s clearly started. Time to fight back.

  From my back pocket, I pull out a folded sheet of paper and hand it to Dallas. He unfolds it, scanning the writing.

  “This is a photocopy,” he says. “Where’s the original? Where’s the book?”

  This time, I’m the one shaking my head.

  “You hid it in the Archives, didn’t you?” he adds.

  I still don’t answer.

  “Good. Well done. You’re finally using your head,” he says as he rereads the revealed note we found in the dictionary:

  FEBRUARY 16

  26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET

  WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427

  “You know those aren’t—”

  “We know they’re not call numbers,” I agree. “But beyond that, we’re stuck.”

  He stares at it for a few seconds more. “Unreal,” he whispers to himself. “And the ink was green when you found it?”

  “Bright green—new as can be,” I tell him. “Whoever these Plumbers are, they like your formula.”

  He nods, definitely annoyed that there’s someone else using their Culper Ring magic tricks. “How’d you know to look for the invisible ink?” Dallas asks. “Was that Tot?”

  “It was someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Are you taking me to your leader?” I ask, pointing to his earpiece. “Then I’m not taking you to mine,” I add, once again realizing just how valuable Nico’s advice has been—and how I wouldn’t even know about the invisible ink without him.

  “So what do I do now?” I ask as he slides the photocopy into his briefcase. “How do I tell you what happens with the President? Do I just find you at work, or is there some secret number I should call?”

  “Secret number?”

  “Y’know, like if something goes wrong.”

  “This isn’t Fight Club,” Dallas says. From his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet, opens it up, and hands me a Band-Aid.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a Band-Aid.”

  “I can see it’s a Band-Aid. But what is it? A transmitter? A microphone?”

  “It’s a Band-Aid,” he repeats. “And if there’s an emergency—if you need help—you take that Band-Aid and you tape it to the back of your chair at work. Don’t come running or calling… don’t send emails… nothing that people can intercept. You tape that Band-Aid up, and you head for the restroom at the end of our hallway. I swear to you, you’ll have help.”

  “But what you said before… about my life already being over.”

  “Beecher, you know history isn’t written until it’s written, so—”

  “Can you please stop insulting me, Dallas. I know what happens when people take on sitting Presidents. Even if I survive this, I’m not surviving this, am I?”

  He studies me, once again combing his beard with his teeth. “Beecher, remember that mad scientist convention the government had last year?”

  “You’re insulting me again. I hate locker room speeches.”

  “It’s not a locker room speech. It’s a fact. Last year, the army had a ‘mad scientist’ conference, bringing together the wildest thinkers to predict what the most dangerous threats will be in the year 2030. And y’know what they decided the number one threat was? The destructive and disruptive capability of a small group. That’s what they’re worried about most—not another country with a nuke—they’re terrified of a small group with a committed goal. That’s what we are, Beecher. That’s what the Culper Ring has always been. Now I know you’re worried about who you’re going up against. But the Presidency will always be bigger than a single President. Do you hear that? Patriots founded this country, and patriots still protect it. So let me promise you one thing: I don’t care if sixty-eight million people voted for him. Orson Wallace has never seen anything like us.”

  Dallas stands at the door, his hand on the top lock. He’s not opening it until he’s sure I get the point.

  “That was actually a good locker room speech,” I say.

  “This is our business, Beecher. A fireman trains for the fire. This is our fire,” he says, giving a sharp twist to the first of the three locks. “You help us find the Plumbers and we’ll all find out who did this to Orlando.”

  “Can I ask one last question?”

  “You already asked fifty questions—all you should be worrying about now is getting a good night’s sleep and readying your best game face. You’ve got breakfast with the President of the United States.”

  As the door swin
gs open, and we take a carpeted staircase down toward the back entrance of the building, I know he’s only partly right. Before my breakfast date with the President, I’ve got one thing I need to do first.

  58

  Pulling into his parking lot, I give a double tap to the car horn and brace for the worst. It’s nearly seven o’clock the next morning. Being late is the least of my problems.

  As the door to his townhouse opens, even Tot’s Merlin beard doesn’t move. His herringbone overcoat is completely buttoned. He wants me to know he’s been waiting. Uncomfortably.

  “Get outta my car,” he growls, limping angrily around the last few snow pucks on his front path.

  “I’m sorry—I know I should’ve done that,” I say as I scootch from the driver’s to the passenger seat.

  “No. Out,” he says, pulling the driver’s door open and thumbing me into the parking lot.

  He won’t even look at me as I climb past him.

  “Tell me you didn’t sleep with her,” he says as he slides behind the wheel.

  “I didn’t.” I take a breath. “Not that it’s your business.”

  He looks up. His eyes are red. Like mine. He’s been up late.

  “Beecher…”

  “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t’ve snapped—”

  “Stop talking, Beecher.”

  I do.

  “Now listen to what I’m saying,” Tot adds, holding the steering wheel like he’s strangling it. “Girls like Clementine… they look nice—but they can also be as manipulative as a James Taylor song. Sure, they’re calming and bring you to a good place—but at their core, the whole goal of the damn thing is to undo you.”

  “That’s a horrible analogy.”

  His glance tightens.

  “What happened to your face—to your chin?” he asks.

  “Brick steps. Clementine has brick steps. I slipped and fell. On my face.”

  He watches me silently. “That’s a tough neighborhood you were in. Y’sure nothing else—?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The neighborhood. How’d you know it was tough?”

  “I looked it up,” he says without a moment’s hesitation. “What else was I supposed to do when I was sitting in my office, waiting for you?”

  A gust of cold air sends a whirlwind of remnant snow swirling in front of Tot’s car. I ignore it, my gaze locked on Tot.

  “Thank you for at least filling up the car with gas,” he adds.

  I nod even though it wasn’t me. I forgot about the gas. The Culper Ring clearly didn’t. I’m still not sure I trust them, but if I’m keeping score, including the videotape, that’s at least two I owe them. And regardless of what they expect in return—regardless of what was really hidden in that dictionary—one thing is clear: Getting to the bottom of the Culper Ring and their enemies—these so-called Plumbers—is the only way I’m getting to the bottom of Orlando and saving my own behind.

  “You getting in the car, Beecher, or what?” Tot asks.

  As I circle around to the passenger side, I notice a redheaded woman walking a little brown dachshund. The thing is, it looks like the exact same dog that man with the plaid scarf was walking outside of my house yesterday. Still… that can’t be the same dog.

  “C’mon, we’re late enough as it is.”

  As I plop into the passenger seat, Tot punches the pedal and blows past them without a second glance.

  I watch them in my rearview until they fade from view.

  With a flick of the dial, Tot turns the radio to his favorite country music station. If Dallas is right, and Tot’s in with the Plumbers—though I’m absolutely unconvinced he’s in with the Plumbers—this is the moment he’ll try to gain trust by offering me another bit of helpful advice.

  “So guess what else I found last night while I was waiting for you?” Tot asks as we join the morning traffic on Rockville Pike.

  From his pocket, he takes out his own photocopy of the message that was in the dictionary:

  FEBRUARY 16

  26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET

  WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427

  “Get ready to thank me, Beecher. I think I know what happened on February 16th.”

  59

  You know who’s the greeter this morning, right?” asked the President’s young aide, a twenty-seven-year-old kid with a strict part in his brown hair.

  In the backseat of the armored limousine, President Wallace didn’t bother to answer.

  Outside, there was a loud crunk, like a prison cell being unlocked. Through the Cadillac’s green bulletproof glass, the President watched as one of the suit-and-tie Secret Service agents pressed a small security button underneath the door handle, allowing them to open the steel-reinforced door from the outside.

  As Wallace knew, at any event, the first face he saw was always a super-VIP—someone with enough tug to wrangle the job of greeter. But in this case, as the door cracked open and revealed a heavyset woman in a navy blue dress, he knew this greeter was a familiar one.

  “You’re late,” his sister Minnie barked.

  “I’m always late. That’s how I make an entrance,” Wallace shot back, quickly remembering why he should’ve canceled this appearance.

  Minnie flashed the largest half-smile that her stroke allowed, and then, like the nuns at their old school, rapped her flamingo-headed cane against her brother’s polished shoes. “C’mon, I got people waiting.”

  With his big strides, it took no time for the President to make his way past the throngs of agents to the loading dock that led into the back entrance of the Capital Hilton. Barely a few steps down the sparse concrete hallway, Wallace heard the click-clack of Minnie’s cane as she fought to speed-limp behind him. It’d been a while since they walked together. He slowed down—but he knew his sister too well. Even without the limp, she was forever trying to keep up.

  “They tell you to thank Thomas Griffiths?” Minnie asked her brother.

  “He knows about Thomas,” the young aide called out, barely half a step behind them.

  “What about Ross? You need to make a big deal. He’s the one I answer to. Ross the Boss.”

  “He knows Ross too,” the aide challenged as the smell of fresh croissants wafted through the air. Passing through a set of swinging doors, they followed the agents to their usual shortcut. Presidents don’t arrive through front doors. They arrive through hotel kitchens.

  “Just please… make him feel important,” Minnie begged.

  “Minnie, take my word on this one,” the President said, nodding polite nods and waving polite waves to all the kitchen staff who stopped everything to turn and stare. “I know how to make people feel important.”

  “This way, sir,” a short agent announced, pointing them to the left, through a final set of swinging doors. From the dark blue pipe-and-drape that created faux-curtains around the doorway, Wallace knew this was it. But instead of being in the main ballroom, he found himself in a smaller reception room filled with a rope line of at least two dozen people, all of them now clapping as he entered. Truth be told, he still loved the applause. What Wallace didn’t love were the two private photographers at the front of the reception line.

  “A photo line?” the aide hissed at Minnie.

  “These are our top scientists—you have no idea how much they’ve done for brain injuries,” Minnie pleaded.

  “You said one photo… with just the executive director,” the aide told her.

  “I didn’t agree to any photos,” the President growled. Palmiotti was right. When it came to Minnie, he was a sucker.

  “Sir, I apologize,” the aide began.

  With a cock of his head, the President flashed the aide a final look—the kind of angry, split-second daggers-in-the-eye that spouses share when they’re entering a party but still want to say that this won’t be forgotten later.

  But as Wallace approached the crowd and waved the first guest into position, he
couldn’t help but notice how quickly Minnie stepped aside, leaving him alone in the spotlight. He’d seen it before—Minnie never liked cameras. All her life, she’d been self-conscious about her masculine looks that she got from the Turner syndrome. He knew that’s why she didn’t like the campaign trail, and why she never took a yearbook photo. But right now, as her colleagues gathered around her, there was a brand-new half-smile on her face. A real smile.

  “Minnie, thank you so much for doing this,” one of them said.

  “—no idea what this means,” another gushed.

  A flashbulb popped in front of Wallace, but as the next person headed his way, he couldn’t take his eyes off the… it was pride… real pride on his sister’s face. And not just pride from being related to a President—or even from being an instant bigshot. This was pride in her work—for what she had done for this organization that had helped her so much all these years.

  “Sir, you remember Ross Levin,” the President’s aide said as he introduced a bookish but handsome man with rectangular glasses.

  “Of course, Ross,” Wallace said, taking the cue and offering the full two-fisted handshake. “Can you give me one second, though, Ross? I want to get the real hero for these pictures. Hey, Minnie!” the President of the United States called out. “I’m feeling a little stage fright here without my sis near me.”

  There was a collective awww from Minnie’s colleagues. But none of it meant as much as the bent half-smile that swelled across Minnie’s face as her brother wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tugged her into the rest of the photos.

  “On three, everyone say Minnie!” the President announced, hugging her even closer as the flashbulbs continued to explode.

  Sure, Wallace knew he needed to get out of here. He knew he needed to deal with Beecher—just like they’d dealt with Eightball all those years ago. But after everything his sister had been through—from the teasing when she was younger, to the days right after the stroke, to the public hammering by Perez Hilton—would an extra ten minutes really matter?