Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

The book. Of course. The stupid book. If that was left there for the President, and they thought Orlando took it-

“Beecher, get it out of your head,” Clementine warns. “For anyone to find out he was even in there… no one’s that fast.”

I nod. She’s right. She’s absolutely right.

In fact, besides us, the only person who even knew Orlando was in there was-

“What an effin’ nightmare, eh?” a soft-spoken voice asks.

I stand up straight as a burning sting of vomit springs up my throat. I know that voice. I heard it earlier. Through the intercom. When he buzzed us into the SCIF.

“Venkat Khazei,” says a tall Indian man with low ears and thin black hair that’s pressed in a military-combed side part. He knows I know who he is, and as he puts a cold hand on my shoulder, I notice that he’s got the shiniest manicured fingernails I’ve ever seen. I also notice the equally shiny badge that’s clipped to his waist. Deputy Chief of Security-National Archives .

And the only person who I’m absolutely sure knew that Orlando was in that SCIF and near that book.

“Beecher, right?” he asks, his sparkling fingers still on my shoulder. “You got a half moment to chat?”

What a horror-and especially with you two being so close, eh?” Khazei asks, his accent polished, like a Yale professor. Across from us, a firewoman covers Orlando’s face by pulling up the thin bedsheet that’s neither crisp nor white. The sheet’s been beaten and washed so many times, it’s faded to the color of fog. Worst of all, it’s not big enough to really cover him, so as he lies there on the stretcher, as the paramedics confer with the firefighters, Orlando’s black work boots stick out from the bottom like he’s in a magician’s trick, about to float and levitate.

But there’s no trick.

“Pardon?” I ask.

“I saw you run in with the paramedics… the concern you were wearing.” Khazei stands calmly next to me, shoulder to shoulder, like any other person in the crowd. He’s careful to keep his voice low, but he never steps back, never tries to draw me out or get me to talk somewhere private. I’m hoping that’s good. Whatever he’s fishing for, he still doesn’t know exactly where he’s supposed to be fishing. But that doesn’t mean he’s not hiding a hook.

“We’re both from Wisconsin-he was always nice to me,” I admit, never taking my eyes off the body, which sits right in front of Orlando’s open cubicle. On the floor, there’s a small pile of scattered papers and books fanned out at the foot of Orlando’s desk. They could easily be the papers Orlando knocked over when he toppled from his chair. But to me, even as Khazei takes his manicured fingers off my shoulder, they can just as easily be the aftermath of someone doing a quick search through his belongings. But what would they be looking-?

Wait.

The video.

In the SCIF. Orlando grabbed that video so no one would know we were there. So no one would know what we grabbed. We. Including me. But if someone sees that video… If someone finds out I was in that room… Maybe that’s why Orlando was-

No, you don’t know that , I tell myself. I again try to believe it. But I’m not believing anything until I get some details. And until I’m sure that videotape is in my own hands.

“Do we even know what happened? Anyone see anything?” I ask.

Khazei pauses. He doesn’t want to answer. Still, he knows he’s not getting info until he gives some.

“Our receptionist said Orlando was being his usual self,” he explains, “said he was humming ‘Eye of the Tiger’ when he walked in- which is sadly typical- then he headed back to his cube and then…” Khazei falls silent as we both study the covered body. It’s the first time I notice that, across the room, mixed in with the still growing crowd, are two familiar faces-one with a crappy beard, the other with her green reading glasses and triple-knotted shoes.

Dallas and Rina.

Clementine coughs loudly from behind. I don’t turn around. So far, Khazei hasn’t even looked at her. He has no idea we’re together. Considering who we just found out her dad is, that’s probably for the better.

“Y’know he had sleep apnea, right? Always bitching about going to bed wearing one of those masks,” Khazei explains.

I’m still studying Dallas and Rina, my fellow archivists. Unlike everyone else, who’s pretty much standing behind us, the two of them are deep on the other side of the room, facing us from behind the cubicles. Like they’ve been here for a bit. Or are looking for something.

I continue to check each desk, searching for the videotape.

“One of the firefighters even said that if the stress gets high enough, you can trigger a seizure, but-” Khazei shakes his head. “When you spoke to Orlando earlier, he seem bothered or upset about anything?”

“No, he was-” I stop and look up at Khazei. He’s not wearing a grin, but I feel it. Until this moment, I’d never mentioned that I’d spoken to Orlando earlier.

Dammit.

I’m smarter than that. I need to be smarter than that. But the longer I stand here, the more I keep thinking that there’s only one possible reason Orlando died. And right now, that reason is wrapped in my lab coat and clutched by my now soaking armpit.

“I’m just trying to talk with you, Beecher. Just be honest with me. Please.”

He adds the Please to sound nice. But I’m done being suckered. Of the forty people rubbernecking around the office, I’m the one he’s decided to chat with. That alone means one of two things: Either he’s a hell of a good guesser, or he’s got something else he’s not saying.

I replay the past half hour in my head, scouring for details. But the only one I keep coming back to is Orlando’s Roman Numeral Two: If this book does belong to the President, and the President finds out we have it, he’s going to declare war on…

On us . That’s how Orlando put it.

But there is no us . Not anymore.

Orlando’s dead. And that means that whatever’s really happening here-whether it’s the President or Khazei or someone else that’s playing puppetmaster-the only one left to declare war on…

Is me.

A single bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck.

Across the way, Dallas and Rina continue to stand there, still facing us from the far end of the room. Dallas grips the top of a nearby cubicle. Rina’s right behind him. Sure, they saw us in the hallway-just outside the elevator-but that doesn’t tell them I was in the SCIF, or, more important, that I’m the one who actually has the book. In fact, the more I think about it, there’s only one way anyone could’ve known we were in there.

My brain again flips back to the video.

“Beecher, you understand what I’m saying?” Khazei asks.

When Orlando grabbed that videotape, he told us it was the best way to keep us safe-that as long as no one knew we were in there, we could still be Mark Felt. But if that tape is out there… if someone already has their hands on it… they’d have proof we were in the room and found the book, which means they’d already be aiming their missiles at-

“Were you with him all afternoon?” Khazei asks. “What time did you leave him?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just reacting to your words, Beecher. You said you were with Orlando. But if you want, take a look at your calendar… at your datebook… whatever you keep it in. My only concern is getting an accurate timeline.”

I nod at his swell of helpfulness. “Yeah… no… I’ll look at my calendar.”

“I appreciate that. Especially because…” He pauses a moment, making sure I see his smile. “… well, you know how people get.”