The Inner Circle (31 page)

“He absolutely is. But that doesn’t mean he—or one of his group—is allowed to murder anyone they think is an accidental witness.”

Orlando. Of course he’s talking about Orlando. But for him to use that word.
Murder.

“It wasn’t a heart attack, was it?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

Once again, Dallas stays quiet. But unlike last time, he doesn’t look away.

“Dallas, if you can confirm it, I need you to tell me,” I demand. “I know the autopsy was today. If you have the results…”

“You don’t need me to tell you anything,” Dallas says with an emptiness in his voice that echoes like a battering ram against my chest. “They’ll release the first round of tox reports in the next day or so, but you know what those results are. Just like you know nothing at this level is ever just an accident.”

As the full weight of the battering ram hits, I nearly fall backward.

“Just remember, Beecher, when Nixon’s Plumbers first started, they were on the side of the angels too, helping the White House protect classified documents.” Like a woodpecker, Dallas taps his finger against the small window in the photo of the White House. “Absolute power doesn’t corrupt absolutely—but it will make you do what you swore you’d never do, especially when you’re trying to hold on to it.”

I nod to myself, knowing he’s right, but…“That still doesn’t explain why you need me.”

“You’re joking, right? Haven’t you seen the schedule?”

“What schedule?”

“Tomorrow. He’s coming back for another reading visit.” Eyeing the confusion on my face, Dallas explains, “The White House asked for you personally. You’re his man, Beecher. When President Wallace comes back to the Archives tomorrow—when he’s standing there inside that SCIF—they want you to be the one staffing him.”

55

It was only six seconds.

Six seconds of film.

Six seconds on YouTube.

But for Clementine, who was still curled on her futon, still clutching her cat for strength, and whose tired eyes still stared at the laptop screen, they were the most important six seconds of the entire video.

At this point, she knew just where to put her mouse on the progress bar so the little gray circle would hop back to 1:05 of the video. At 1:02, Nico first raised his gun, which you actually see before you see him. At 1:03, as he took a half-step out from the crowd of NASCAR drivers, you could make out just the arm of his jumpsuit—the bright sun ricocheting off a wide patch of yellow. At 1:04, the full yellow jumpsuit was visible. He was moving now. But it wasn’t until 1:05 that you got the first clear view of Nico’s full face.

The view lasted six seconds.

Six seconds where Nico’s head was turned right at the camera.

Six seconds where Nico was calm; he was actually smiling.

Six quiet seconds—before the shooting and the screaming and the mayhem—where Clementine’s father didn’t look like a monster. He looked confident. At ease. He looked happy. And no question—even she could see it as his lips parted to reveal his grin—their expression was exactly the same. It was the only lie Beecher had told her. But she knew the truth. She looked just like her father.

Pop, pop, pop
, the gunshots hiccupped at 1:12.

But by then, Clementine had already clicked her mouse, sending the little gray circle back to before the chaos began.

She’d been at it for a while now, over and over, the same six seconds. She knew it wasn’t healthy.

Hoping to switch gears, she reached for her phone and dialed Beecher’s number. Even with the long trek back, he should be home by now.

But as she held the receiver to her ear, she heard a few rings, then voicemail. She dialed again. Voicemail again.

She didn’t think much of it. Instead, to her own surprise, she found herself thinking about their kiss.

She knew Beecher had it in him.

But as she was learning, Beecher was still full of surprises.

He’s probably just asleep,
she thought as she clicked back, and the video started again, and she watched again to see just how much she wasn’t like her father.

“I know—I promise,” she told her cat. “This’ll be the last one.”

56

You should put the ice on your chin,” Dallas says.

“I don’t need ice,” I say, even though I know I do. My chin’s on fire. But it’s nothing compared to what’s coming. As I nudge the curtain open, I stare outside at a homeless man who’s not a homeless man, from a residential townhouse that’s not really a townhouse, and refuse to face my officemate, who I now understand is far more than just an officemate.

“Beecher, for Wallace to request you—it’s a good thing.”

“Yeah, that makes complete sense. In fact, it’s absolutely obvious why locking me in an impenetrable bulletproof box with the most powerful man in the world—with no witnesses or anything to protect me—is just a perfect peach of an idea.”

“We think he’s going to make you an offer,” he finally says.

“Who is? The President?”

“Why else would he ask for you, Beecher? You have something that was intended for him. So despite Orlando’s death, and the FBI and Secret Service sniffing around the room, Wallace is coming right back to the scene of the crime, and he’s asked for you to personally be there. Alone. In his SCIF. If we’re lucky, when that door slams shut and those magnetic locks click, he’ll start talking.”

“Yeah, or he’ll leave me just like Orlando.”

Dallas shakes his head. “Be real. Presidents don’t get dirt under their nails like that. They just give the orders. And sometimes, they don’t even do that.”

There’s something in the way he says the words. “You don’t think Wallace had a hand in this?” I ask.

“No, I think he
very much
had a hand in this, but what you keep forgetting is that what you found in that chair isn’t just a book. It’s a communication—and communications take two people.”

“From the President to one of his Plumbers.”

“But not just one of his Plumbers,” Dallas corrects. “One of his Plumbers
who works in our building
. That’s the key, Beecher. Whoever did this to Orlando… to be able to hide the book in that chair… to have access to the SCIF… it has to be someone on staff—or at the very least, someone with access to that room.”

“To be honest, I thought it was
you.
”

“
Me?
” Dallas asks. “Why would it possibly be me?”

“I don’t know. When I saw you in the hallway… when you were with Rina. Then when Gyrich came back to the building, you were the last person in Finding Aids.”

“First, I wasn’t
with Rina
. We got off the elevator at the same time. Second, I stopped in Finding Aids for two minutes—and only because I was trying to find you.”

I see the way Dallas is looking at me. “You have someone else in mind.”

“I do,” he says. “But I need you to be honest with yourself, Beecher. Just how well do you really know Tot?”

57

Nope. No. No way,” I insist. “Tot would never do that.”

“You say that, but you’re still ignoring the hard questions,” Dallas says.

“What hard questions?
Is Tot a killer?
He’s not.”

“Then why’s he always around? Why’s he helping you so much? Why’s he suddenly giving you his car, and dropping everything he’s working on, and treating this…”

“… like it’s a matter of life or death? Because
it is
a matter of life or death! My life! My death! Isn’t that how a friend is supposed to react?”

“Be careful here. You sure he
is
your friend?”

“He
is
my friend!”

“Then how come—if he’s the supposed master of all the Archives—he hasn’t accepted a single promotion in nearly fifty years? You don’t think that smells a little? Everyone else at his level goes up to bigger and better things, but Tot, for some unknown reason, stays tucked away in his little kingdom in the stacks.”

“But isn’t that why Tot
wouldn’t
be in Wallace’s Plumbers? You said Wallace’s group is all new. Tot’s been here forever.”

“Which is why it’s such a perfect cover to be there for Wallace—just another face in the crowd.”

“And why’s that any different than what
you’re
doing with the Culper Ring?”

“What
I’m
doing, Beecher, is reacting to an emergency by coming directly to you and telling you what’s really going on. What Tot—”

“You don’t know it’s Tot. And even if it was, it doesn’t make sense. If he’s really out for my blood, why’s he helping me so much?”

“Maybe to gain your trust… maybe to bring you closer so he has a better fall guy. I have no idea. But what I do know is that he
is
gaining your trust, and he
is
bringing you closer, and he was also the very last person to call Orlando before he died. So when someone like that loans you his car, you have to admit: That’s a pretty good explanation for why you’re suddenly being followed by a taxi.”

I’m tempted to argue, or even to ask him how he knew that Tot called Orlando, but my brain’s too busy replaying “Islands in the Stream.” Tot’s cell phone—and, just like Clemmi said, the call that sent us racing up to Finding Aids at the exact same moment that Dustin Gyrich snuck out of the building.

“You need to start asking the hard questions, Beecher—of Tot or anyone else. If they work in our building, you shouldn’t be whispering to them.”

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.