The Inner Circle (53 page)

The longer they let the silence sink in and make this car seem like a cage, the more likely I am to calm down.

It usually works.

But after everything that’s happened—to Orlando… to Dallas… and even to Palmiotti—I don’t care how many hours I sit back here, there’s no damn way I’m just calming down…

Until.

The car makes a sharp right, bouncing and bumping its way to the security shed at the southeast gate. Of the White House.

“Emily…” the driver of our car says, miming a tip of the hat to the female uniformed guard.

“Jim…” the guard replies, nodding back.

It’s nearly ten at night. They know we’re coming.

With a click, the black metal gate swings open, and we ride up the slight incline toward the familiar giant white columns and the perfectly lit Truman Balcony. Just the sight of it unties the knots of my rage and, to my surprise, makes the world float in time, like I’m hovering in my own body.

It’s not the President that does it to me. It’s this place.

Last year, I took my sisters here to see the enormous Christmas tree they always have on the South Lawn. Like every other tourist, we took photos from the street, squeezing the camera through the bars of the metal gate and snapping shots of the world’s most famous white mansion.

Regardless of who lives inside, the White House—and the Presidency—still deserve respect.

Even if Wallace doesn’t.

The car jolts to a stop just under the awning of the South Portico.

I know this entrance. This isn’t the public entrance. Or the staff entrance.

The is the entrance that Nixon walked out when he boarded the helicopter for the last time and popped the double fingers. The entrance where Obama and his daughters played with their dog.

The private entrance.

Wallace’s entrance.

Before I can even reach for the door, two men in suits appear on my right from inside the mansion. As they approach the car, I see their earpieces. More Secret Service.

The car locks thunk. The taller one opens the door.

“He’s ready for you,” he says, motioning for me to walk ahead of them. They both fall in right behind me, making it clear that they’re the ones steering.

We don’t go far.

As we step through an oval room that I recognize as the room where FDR used to give his fireside chats, they motion me to the left, down a long pale-red-carpeted hallway.

There’s another agent on my left, who whispers into his wrist as we pass.

In the White House, every stranger is a threat.

They don’t know the half of it.

“Here you go…” one of them says as we reach the end of the hall, and he points me to the only open door on the hallway.

The sign out front tells me where we are. But even without that, as I step inside—past the unusually small reception area and unusually clean bathroom—there’s an exam table that’s covered by a sterile roll of white paper.

Even in the White House, there’s no mistaking a doctor’s office.

“Please. Have a seat,” he announces, dressed in a sharp pinstriped suit despite the late hour. As he waves me into the private office, his gray eyes look different than the last time I saw him, with the kind of dark puffiness under them that only comes from stress. “I was worried about you, Beecher,” the President of the United States adds, extending a hand. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

115

You look like you have something on your mind, Beecher,” the President offers, sounding almost concerned.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“On your face. I can see it. Say what you’re thinking, son.”

“You don’t wanna hear what I’m thinking,” I shoot back.

“Watch yourself,” one of the Secret Service agents blurts behind me. I didn’t even realize they were still there.

“Victor,” the President says. It’s just one word. He’s not even annoyed as he says it. But in those two syllables, it’s clear what the President wants.
Leave us alone. Get out
.

“Sir, this isn’t—”

“
Victor
.” That’s the end. Argument over.

Without another word, the two agents leave the doctor’s office, shutting the door behind them. But it’s Wallace who rounds the desk, crosses behind me, and locks the office door with a hushed
clunk
.

At first, I thought he brought me here because of what happened to Palmiotti. But I’m now realizing it’s one of the only places in the White House where he can guarantee complete privacy.

With him behind me, I keep my eyes on Palmiotti’s desk, where there’s a small box that looks like a toaster. A little screen lists the following names in green digital letters:

POTUS: Ground Floor Doctor’s Office

FLOTUS: Second Floor Residence

VPOTUS: West Wing

MINNIE: Traveling

Doesn’t take a medical degree to know those’re the current locations of the President, First Lady, Vice President, and Minnie. I’d read that Wallace made the Secret Service take his kids’ names off the search grid. There was no reason for staff to know where they were at any minute. But he clearly left Minnie on. It’s been twenty-six years since the President’s sister tried to kill herself. He’s not taking his eyes off her.

Otherwise, the office is sparse, and the walls—to my surprise—aren’t filled with photos of Palmiotti and the President. Palmiotti had just one, on the desk, in a tasteful silver frame. It’s not from the Oval or Inauguration Day. No, this is a grainy shot from when Palmiotti and Wallace were back in… from the early-eighties hair and the white caps and gowns, it has to be high school graduation.

They can’t be more than eighteen: young Palmiotti on the left; young Wallace on the right. In between, they’ve both got their arms around the real star of the photo: Wallace’s mother, who has her head tilted just slightly toward her son, and is beaming the kind of toothy smile that only a mom at graduation can possibly beam. But as Mom stretches her own arms around their waists, pulling them in close, one thing’s clear: This isn’t a presidential photo. It’s a family one.

With the door now locked, the President moves slowly behind me, heading back toward the desk. He’s silent and unreadable. I know he’s trying to intimidate me. And I know it’s working.

But as he brushes past me, I spot… in his hand… He’s holding one of those black oval bulbs from the end of a blood pressure kit.

As he slides back into his chair, I don’t care how cool he’s trying to play it. This man still lost his oldest—and perhaps
only—
real friend today. He lowers his hands behind the desk and I know he’s squeezing that bulb.

“If it makes you feel better, we’ll find her,” he finally offers.

“Pardon?”

“The girl. The one who took the file…”

“Clementine. But whattya mean we’ll find—?” I stop myself, looking carefully at Wallace. Until just this moment, he had no idea that Clementine was the one who had the file.

His gray eyes lock on me, and I realize, in this depth of the ocean, just how sharp the shark’s teeth can be.

“Is that why you brought me here? To see if I was the one who still had the file?”

“Beecher, you keep thinking I’m trying to fight you. But you need to know—all this time—we thought
you
were the one who was blackmailing
us
.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know that. And that’s the only reason I brought you here, Beecher: to thank you. I appreciate what you did. The way you came through and worked so hard to protect Dallas and Dr. Palmiotti. And even when you found the rest… you could’ve taken advantage and asked for something for yourself. But you never did.”

I stare at the President, who knits his fingers together and gently lowers them in prayer style on the desk. He’s not holding the blood pressure bulb anymore.

“Can I ask you a question, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Is that the same speech you gave to Dallas?”

“What’re you talking about?” the President asks.

“The polite flattery… the moral back-pat… even the subtle hint you dropped about the advantages you can offer and how much you can do for me, without ever directly saying it. Is that the way you made Dallas feel special when you invited him into the Plumbers, and he thought he was joining the Culper Ring?”

The President shifts his weight, his eyes still locked on me. “Be very careful of what you’re accusing me of.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, sir. But it is a fair calculation, isn’t it? Why risk a head-on collision when you can bring me inside? I mean, now that I think about it—is that the real reason you brought me here? To keep me quiet by inviting me to be the newest member of your Plumbers?”

The President’s hands stay frozen in prayer style on the desk. If his voice was any colder, I’d be able to see it in the air. “No. That
isn’t
why I brought you here. At all.”

He takes another breath, all set to hide his emotions just like he does on every other day of his life. But I see his tongue as it rolls inside his mouth. As good as Wallace is, his friend is still dead. You don’t just bury that away.

“I brought you to say thank you,” he insists for the second time. “Without you, we wouldn’t know who killed that security guard.”

“His name’s Orlando,” I interrupt.

Wallace nods with a nearly invisible grin, letting me know he’s well aware of Orlando’s name. He’s anxious to be back in control—and I just gave it back to him. “Though you’ll be happy to hear, Beecher—from what I understand, the D.C. police already have Clementine’s picture up on their website. They were able to link her chemotherapy prescription to the drugs they found in Orlando’s bloodwork.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what’s online. And when you think about it, that young archivist—Beecher whatshisname—who tracked her down, and looped in the President’s doctor, and even followed her all the way out to those caves—that guy’s a hero,” he adds, his eyes growing darker as they tighten on me. “Of course, some say Beecher had a hand in it—that he violated every security protocol and was the one who let Clementine inside that SCIF—and that together they planned all this, and were after the President, and they even went to visit her father, who—can you believe it?—is Nico Hadrian, who may be trying to kill again.”

He pauses a moment, looking over at the office’s only window. It has a perfect view of the South Lawn—except for the iron bars that cover it. I get the point. All he has to do is say the words and that’s my permanent view. His voice is back to the exact strength he started with. “But I don’t want to believe that about him. Beecher’s a good guy. I don’t want to see him lose everything like that.”

It’s an overdramatic speech—especially with the glance at the iron bars—and exactly the one I thought he’d give. “I still know about the two Culper Rings,” I say. “I know about your Plumbers. And for you especially… I know your personal stake in this.”

He knows I mean Minnie.

“Beecher, I think we all have a personal stake in this. Right, son?” he asks, putting all the emphasis on the word
son
.

I know he means my father.

It’s an empty threat. If he wanted to trade, he would’ve already offered it. But he’s done debating.

“Go tell the world, Beecher. And you find me one person who wouldn’t protect their sister in the
exact same way
if they saw her in trouble. If you think my poll numbers are good now, just wait until you turn me into a hero.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Not
maybe
,” he says as if he’s already seen the future. He leans into the desk, his fingers still crossed in prayer. This man takes on entire countries. And wins. “The press’ll dig for a little while into what the doctor was up to, but they’ll move on to the next well—especially when they don’t strike oil.
The President’s doctor
is very different than the
President
.”

“But we all know this isn’t about
the President
. Even for
you
, it’s never been about you. It’s about
her
, isn’t it, sir? Forget the press… the public… forget everyone. We wouldn’t still be talking if you weren’t worried about something. And to me, that only thing you’re worried about is—if I start doing the cable show rounds and say your sister’s accident was actually an attempted suicide out of guilt for what she did to Eightball—”

“Beecher, I will only say this once. Don’t threaten me. You have no idea what happened that night.”

“The barber told me. He told me about the vacuum hose—and the tailpipe of the Honda Civic.”

“You have no idea what happened that night.”

“I know it took you four hours before you found her. I know how it still haunts you that you couldn’t stop it.”

“You’re not hearing me, Beecher,” he says, lowering his voice so that I listen to every syllable. “I was there—I’m the one who found her. You. Have. No. Idea. What. Happened. That. Night.”