Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

" Entick’s Dictionary ?” Tot says, reading the embossed gold letters on the cover of the book as we weave through the morning traffic on Rockville Pike.

“Ever hear of it?” I ask, lowering the radio, which is pumping with his usual playlist-old country music by Willie Nelson, Buck Owens, and at this particular moment, Kenny Rogers.

“Don’t you touch The Gambler ,” he threatens, slapping my hand away. He quickly turns back to the book. “Looks like it’s… or at least what’s left of it is…” He’s blind in his right eye, so he has to turn his head completely toward me to see the book’s torn-away spine and the missing interior pages. It’s the same when he drives (which, legally, he can)-always with his head turned a quarter-way toward the passenger seat so he can get a better view of the road.

Most people think Tot looks like Merlin-complete with the scary white beard and the frizzy white hair that he brushes back-but he’s far more of a Colonel Sanders, especially with the gray checked jacket and the bolo tie that he wears every day. He thinks the bolo tie makes him look modern. It does. If you’re in Scottsdale, Arizona, and it’s 1992.

“… I’m guessing pre-nineteenth-century-let’s say about…” Tot rolls his tongue in his cheek, already loving the puzzle. Even his blind eye is twinkling. The only thing that gets him more excited is flirting with the sixty-year-old woman who runs the salad bar in the cafeteria. But at seventy-two years old, Aristotle “Tot” Westman could have worse weaknesses. “I’d say 1774.”

“Close-1775,” I tell him. “You’re losing your touch.”

“Sure I am. That means you guessed… what?… Civil War?”

I sit there, silent.

“Look at the threading,” he says, running his finger down the exposed spine and the mess of exposed thread. “By the nineteenth century, it was all case binding-all machine production-two boards and a spine, then glued to the pages. What you have here is… this is art. Hand-stitched. Or was hand-stitched before someone gutted it. Is it one of ours?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“You haven’t looked it up? Seen if it’s in the system?”

“I need to. I will. It’s just-Yesterday was-” I take a breath. “Yesterday sucked.”

“Not just for you. You see the paper this morning?” he asks as he pulls a folded-up copy of the Washington Times from where it’s wedged next to his seat along with a copy of the Washington Post and the Baltimore Sun . “Apparently one of our guards had a seizure or something.”

He tosses the paper in my lap. I quickly scan the story. It’s small. Buried on page two of the Metro section. Doesn’t mention me. Doesn’t mention foul play. Doesn’t even mention Orlando by name (“The victim’s name is being withheld until family can be notified”).

“This wasn’t in the Post ,” I say.

“Of course it wasn’t in the Post . You read only one paper and you’re only getting half the actual news-whatever biased side you happen to subscribe to. Can you imagine, though?” Tot asks, his voice perfectly steady. “Guy drops dead right in our building-right as President Wallace is about to arrive-and right as you’re walking around the building with the daughter of Nico Hadrian, the very guy who tried to assassinate Wallace’s predecessor.”

I sit up straight as the traffic slows and a swarm of red brake lights flash their ruby smile our way. The only person who knew about Nico was the woman I called in our St. Louis records center. Carrie-

“Don’t even feign the faux-shock, Beecher. You really think Carrie could find enlistment records-from Nowhere, Wisconsin- from over twenty years ago without calling for help?”

I shouldn’t be surprised. When John Kerry ran for President and they needed to prove that he earned those Purple Hearts, they came to Tot. It was the same when they were searching for George W. Bush’s National Guard records. And the same with John McCain’s military file. On my first day of work, a coworker asked Tot if he knew where to find the unit records for a particular company in the Spanish-American War. Tot gave them the record group, stack, row, compartment, and shelf number. From memory. On the anniversary of his fortieth year here, they asked him the secret of his longevity. He said, “When I first arrived, I started to open these boxes to see what’s inside. I’ve been fascinated ever since.”

“Honestly, though, Beecher-why didn’t you just call me in the first place?” Tot asks. “If you need help…”

“I need help, Tot,” I insist. “Major help. I need the kind of help that comes with a side order of help.”

His face still cocked toward me, he holds the steering wheel of the old Mustang with two crooked fingers. The car was his dream car when he was young, his midlife crisis car when he turned fifty, and his supposed retirement present when he finally hit sixty-five. But it was always out of reach, always for another day-until three years ago when his wife of fifty-one years died from a ruptured brain aneurism. It was the same week I started at the Archives. He had nothing back then. But he somehow found me-and I found… When I used to work at the bookshop, Mr. Farris told me we’re all raised by many fathers in our lives. Right now, I pray he’s right.

“Tell me the story, Beecher. The real story.”

It takes me the rest of the ride to do just that, and as we follow rush-hour traffic to his usual shortcut through Rock Creek Park, I give him everything from showing Clementine around the building, to Orlando offering to let us in the SCIF, to spilling the coffee and finding the book hidden below the chair.

He never interrupts. Forever an archivist, he knows the value of collecting information first. By the time we turn onto Constitution Avenue, I hit the big finale with the parts about Orlando’s death, the suddenly missing videotape, and every other detail I can think of, from Dallas’s lurking, to Khazei’s passive-aggressive threat to make me look like the murderer. But as the powder blue Mustang growls and claws through D.C.’s slushy streets, Tot’s only reaction is:

“You shouldn’t’ve told me any of this.”

“What?”

“You need to be smart, Beecher. And you’re not being smart.”

“What’re you talking about? I am being smart. I’m getting help.”

“That’s fine. But look at the full picture you’re now in the middle of: Of everything that’s happened, there’s only one detail-just one-that can’t be argued with.”

“Besides that I’m screwed?”

“The book, Beecher. Where’d you find that book?” he asks, pointing to the dictionary.

“In the chair.”

“Yes! It was hidden in the chair. Y’understand what I’m saying? You may not know if it was hidden by the President, or for the President, or by or for his Secret Service agents or some other party we don’t even know of-but the act of hiding and finding something, that’s a two-party agreement. One hider and one finder. So to hide the book in that SCIF… to even get in that room…”

“You think it’s someone from our staff,” I say.

“Maybe from our staff… maybe from Security… but it’s gotta be someone in our building,” Tot says as we stop at a red light. “I mean, if you’re hiding something, would you ever pick a room unless you had the key?”

Up ahead, the Washington Monument is on my right. But I’m far more focused on my left, at the wide green lawn that leads back, back, back to the beautiful mansion with the wide, curved balcony. The White House. From here, it looks miniature, but you can already see the specks of tourists lingering and snapping photos at the black metal gates.