Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

“How people get about what ?”

“About things they don’t really know about that they think they know about,” he says, his voice as kind as ever. “So if I were wearing your shoes, Beecher, the last thing I’d want is to suddenly be known as the last person to be alone with the security guard who mysteriously just dropped dead. I mean, unless of course it was just a heart attack.”

On the back of my neck, my single drop of sweat swells into a tidal wave as I start to see the new reality I’m now sitting in. Until this moment, I thought the worst thing that could come from that videotape was that it made me look like a book thief. But the way the picture’s suddenly been repainted, that’s nothing compared to making me look like a murderer.

“Make way, people! Coming through!” the paramedics call out, shoving the stretcher and slowly rolling Orlando’s body back toward the reception desk.

The crowd does the full Red Sea part, clearing a path.

But as we all squeeze together, I once again eye Orlando’s cubicle, searching his messy desk, scanning the papers fanned across the floor, and scouring the office for-

There.

I didn’t look for it before-didn’t know it was that important-back in the corner, just outside his cubicle. Right where Dallas and Rina were first standing.

There’s a black rolling cart, like you see in every A/V department, with a small TV on top. But I’m far more interested in what’s underneath.

I push forward, trying to fight through the crowd as it squeezes back, bleeding into other cubicles to make way for the stretcher.

“ Easy! ” a middle-aged woman in full security uniform snaps, shoving me back with a shoulder.

It’s just the shove I need. On the lower shelf of the A/V cart sits an ancient bulky VCR. Like the one upstairs, it’s a top-loader. Unlike the one upstairs, the basket that holds the tape is standing at full attention, already ejected.

And empty.

No. It can’t be empty! If someone has it… I bite down hard, swallowing the thought. Don’t assume the worst. Maybe Orlando hid it. Maybe it’s still-

I feel another shove from in front of me. It nearly knocks me on my ass.

“ Move, people! Show some respect! ” one of the paramedics shouts.

With a final swell, the crowd packs extra-tight, then exhales and loosens its grip, dissipating as the stretcher leaves the room. Within seconds, there are coworkers everywhere, whispering, talking, the gossip already starting to spread.

Fighting for calm, I search for Dallas and Rina. They’re gone. I turn around, looking for Khazei. He’s gone too.

But I hear him loud and clear.

Of all the people in this room, he came straight to me. And while I still don’t know if Khazei’s threatening me for the book, or just investigating the loss of an employee, based on the intensity of his questions, one thing is clear: The book… the video… the President… even Orlando… There are multiple rings on this bull’seye-and right now, every one of those rings is tightening around my neck.

It was late when Dr. Stewart Palmiotti’s phone began to ring. It was late, and he was comfortable. And as he lay there, toasty under his overpriced down comforter and protected from the December cold, he was perfectly happy to feel himself slowly swallowed by his current dream, a piano dream involving old childhood Italian songs and the pretty girl with the bad teeth who he always sees at the supermarket deli counter.

But the phone was ringing.

“Don’t pick it up.” That’s what his ex would’ve said.

That’s why she was his ex.

This wasn’t just some random call. From the ring-high-pitched, double chirp-this was the drop phone. The phone that could go secure with the flip of a switch. The phone with the gold presidential seal on the receiver. The phone that was installed in his house two years ago. By the White House Communications Agency. And the Secret Service.

The drop phone was about to ring again, but as Palmiotti knew, only a schmuck lets the drop phone ring twice.

“Dr. Palmiotti,” he answered, sitting up in bed and looking out at the late-night snow that had already blanketed his street in Bethesda, Maryland.

“Please hold for the President,” the White House operator said.

“Of course,” he replied, feeling that familiar tightening in his chest.

“Everything okay?” whispered Palmiotti’s… girlfriend? Girlfriend wasn’t the right word. Girlfriend made them sound like they were teenagers.

Palmiotti wasn’t a teenager. He was forty-eight. Lydia was forty-seven. Lost her husband to… she called it cancer of the soul. Meaning he was screwing the overweight girl from the dry cleaners.

It took Lydia two years before she would date. She was happy now. So was Palmiotti. He was happy and warm and ready to dream.

And then his phone rang.

Palmiotti didn’t like being on call. He had given it up years ago. But that’s part of the job of being personal physician-and one of the oldest friends-of the most powerful man in the world.

“Stewie, that you?” President Orson Wallace asked.

By the time they entered their freshman year at the University of Michigan, Palmiotti and Wallace had called each other by first names, last lames, nicknames, and most every good curse word they could find. But it wasn’t until Inauguration three years ago that Palmiotti started calling his friend sir .

“Right here, sir,” Palmiotti replied. “You okay? What’s wrong?”

The President doesn’t have to choose his physician. Most simply go to the White House Medical Unit. But a few, like George H. W. Bush, who appointed a dear family friend, understand that sometimes the best medicine is simply having someone to talk to. Especially someone who knows you well.

“I’m fine,” Wallace replied.

“If you’re fine, don’t wake me up in the middle of the night.”

“Wait. You got Lydia sleeping there, don’t you?”

At that, Palmiotti paused.

“Don’t lie to me, Stewie.” The President laughed. “I got satellites. I can see you right now. Look out your window and-”

“Orson, this a doctor call or a friend call?”

This time, Wallace was the one who was silent. “I just… I think I did something to my back. It’s bothering the hell outta me.”

Palmiotti nodded. His predecessors had warned him as much. Most calls from the Oval would be stress-related. “You want me to come over and take a look?”

“Nah. No. That’s silly. It can wait till tomorrow.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah-absolutely,” the President of the United States said. “Tomorrow’s just fine.”

The archivist was patient.

Of course he was patient.

Impatient people would never stand for this-would never take a job where half your day was spent alone with ancient government paperwork, poring through memos and speeches and long-forgotten handwritten letters, treasure-hunting for that one minute detail that a researcher was so desperately looking for.

No, impatient people didn’t become archivists.

And without question, this archivist-with the scratched black reading glasses-was plenty patient.

Patient enough to stay quiet all day.

Patient enough to let the ambulances fade and the EMTs and the firefighters and the Secret Service leave.

Patient enough to go about his job, helping a few tourists in the second-floor research room, then answering a few letters and emails that came in through the Archives website.

And even patient enough to drive home, cook his spaghetti with turkey meat sauce, and spend the last hour before bed noodling with a double acrostic word puzzle in Games magazine. Just like any other night.