Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

“Beecher, don’t think what you’re thinking.”

I stay silent, eyes still on the home of Orson Wallace.

“That’s not who you’re fighting, Beecher. This isn’t you against the President of the United States.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Sure I do. If it were, the paramedics would be carrying you under the sheet by now.”

I shake my head. “That’s only because they don’t know I have their book.”

For the first time, Tot’s silent.

As we turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue, as he pulls past our building-a huge neoclassical granite archives that fills over two city blocks on our right-I ignore the fifty-foot-high columns and instead stare at the two smaller limestone statues that flank the front doors. There are four statues in total, representing the Future, the Past, Heritage, and Guardianship. Tot knows better than I do which is which, but there’s no mistaking the carved old man holding a scroll and a closed book on the right. Engraved at the base it says, “Study the Past.”

I open the Washington dictionary and again read the words. Exitus acta probat.

“Think about it, Tot, of all the people in the building yesterday, I can account for everyone being where they were-Orlando… Dallas… Rina… even Khazei-everyone except for President Wallace, who just happened to pick the exact day, at the exact time of death, to stop by for his visit.”

“Actually, he’s not the only one.”

“What’re you talking about?”

He looks my way, turning far enough that I can see his good eye. “Tell me about the girl.”

“Who?”

“The girl. The high school crush you’re all gushy about.”

“Clemmi?”

“ Clemmi? No, no, no, don’t do pet names. You barely know this girl two days.”

“I’ve known her since seventh grade,” I say as I reach to change the radio station.

“What’re you doing?” Tot challenges.

“Huh?”

“Don’t change my station. What’d I tell you about messing with The Gambler?”

“I know, and you know I love The Gambler, but-Can’t we just…?” I twist the dial, searching for music. “I just want to hear something new-like maybe-do you know which stations play rap or even… Joan Jett?”

He pumps the brakes, nearly putting me through the windshield. “Beecher, don’t you dare hit menopause in my car.”

“What’re you talking about?”

He raises his voice, trying to sound like me. “I need something new. Where do they keep the rap music?” Returning to normal, he adds, “This girl’s been back in your life barely forty-eight hours, and what-suddenly you don’t want to eat your raisin bran, or listen to the same boring old music anymore? Don’t be such a cliche, Beecher. You have a good life. You moved past Iris… you were in a real groove.”

“I was in a groove. But that’s the problem with a groove-if you don’t change it up, it quickly becomes a hole.”

“Yeah, except for the fact you’re already in a hole-one that can swallow you. You gotta admit it’s odd, Beecher. The daughter of Lee Harvey Oswald walks back into your life-”

“Her dad’s not Oswald.”

“No, he’s Nico Hadrian, who tried to assassinate a U.S. President. And she walks back into your life on the same day that another President just happens to be visiting our offices? Girl’s got a pretty uncanny sense of timing, no?”

“Tot, she didn’t even know who her dad was until we told her! How could she possibly be plotting against me?”

With a sharp right onto 7th Street, Tot makes another quick right toward the underground side entrance of the building, which is blocked by a bright yellow metal antiram barrier that rises from the concrete. Tot rides the brakes, giving the barrier time to lower. When it doesn’t, the car bucks to a halt.

On our left, I finally see why Tot’s so quiet. An armed security guard steps out of the nearby guardhouse, his puffed black winter coat hiding everything but his face and his unusually white front teeth. Ever since 9/11, when we became obsessed with terrorists stealing the Declaration of Independence, our building has limited the underground parking spots to a grand total of seven. Seven. Our boss-the Archivist of the United States-gets one. His deputy gets another. Two are for deliveries of new records. Two are for VIPs. And one is for Tot, a favor from a friend in Security who used to control such things during the Bush era.

As the guard with the white teeth approaches, Tot nods hello, which is always enough to get us in. But instead of waving us through and lowering the barrier…

The guard raises his hand, palm straight at us. We’re not going anywhere.

"Morning, morning,” the duty nurse sang as Dr. Palmiotti stepped into the cramped reception area of the White House Medical Unit. As usual, her dyed black hair was pulled back in a tight military braid that was starting to fray from her bad night’s sleep. Behind her, in the area between the bathroom and treatment room, she’d already tucked away the fold-down bed. The White House doctor arrived first thing in the morning, but the duty nurse had been there all night.

“Good night’s sleep?” Palmiotti asked, amused to notice how the morning small talk sounded like a one-night stand.

“I tell my mom I sleep less than a hundred feet from the President. Vertically,” duty nurse Kayre Morrison replied, pointing up at the ceiling.

Palmiotti didn’t even hear the joke. He was peeking over his shoulder, back into the hallway. The red light above the elevator was still off. Still no sign of President Wallace.

“By the way, Minnie wants to see you,” the nurse said. “She’s waiting for you now. In your office.”

“Are you-? Kayre, you’re killing me. I mean it. You’re striking me dead.”

“She’s the President’s sister,” the nurse whisper-hissed. “I can’t kick her out.”

Palmiotti shook his head as he trudged to his private office in the back of the suite. Typical duty nurse. And typical Minnie.

“Heeey!” he called out, painting on a big smile as he threw the door open. “How’s my favorite girl?”

Across from his desk, sitting on the tan leather sofa, was a stumpy forty-two-year-old woman with a thick block of a body. She was dressed in her usual unconstructed dress, this one navy blue, plus her mother’s long dangly silver earrings from the early eighties, which was about the time Palmiotti first got to know Jessamine “Minnie” Wallace.

“Okay, Minnie, what’s it this time?”

Minnie lifted her chin, revealing a stout, squatty neck and a grin that-ever since her stroke-rose on only one side.

“Can’t I just be here to say hello?” she asked with the slight lisp (another lingering side effect from the stroke) that made the word just sound like juss.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing physical therapy right now?”

“Already did it,” Minnie promised.

Palmiotti stood there, studying her on the sofa as her thumb tapped against the bright pink cane that she still needed to walk. The handle of the cane was shaped and painted like the head of a flamingo. That was the problem with being the sister of the President-you wind up spending your life finding other ways to stand out. “You didn’t do your therapy again, did you?”

“Sure I did.”

“Minnie… Show me your hands,” Palmiotti challenged.

Minnie half-smiled, pretending not to hear him. “I meant to ask, you still seeing Gabriel for lunch today?” she said, referring to the President’s scheduler.

“Please don’t do that,” he begged.

“Do what?”

“What’s it now? Reception in the Oval? Having the President speak at your annual convention?”