Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

“It’s a Caregivers’ Conference-for the top scientists who study brain injuries,” she explained, referring to the cause that she now spent so much time pushing for. “My brother already said he’d come, but when I spoke to Gabriel-”

“Listen, you know that if Gabriel tells you no, it’s no ,” he said. But as he reached for the best way to track down the President-the earpiece and Secret Service radio that sat on his desk-there was a sudden burst of voices behind him. Over his shoulder, out in the Ground Floor Corridor, he saw a phalanx of staffers-the President’s personal aide, his chief of staff, the press secretary, and an older black speechwriter-slowly gathering near the President’s private elevator. Palmiotti had watched it for three years now. Forget the radio. The personal aide always got the call first from the valet who laid out Wallace’s suits.

Sure enough, the red light above the elevator blinked on with a ping. Agent Mitchel whispered something into the microphone at his wrist, and two new Secret Service agents appeared from nowhere. Thirty seconds after that, President Orson Wallace, in fresh suit and tie, stepped out to start the day. For a second, the President glanced around the hallway rather than focusing on the swarm of staff.

The doctor shook his head.

Not every President is a great speaker. Not every President is a great thinker. But in the modern era, every single President is a master of one thing: eye contact. Bill Clinton was so good at it, when he was drinking lemonade while you were talking to him, he’d stare at you through the bottom of his glass just to maintain that lock on you. Wallace was no different. So when he stepped off the elevator and glanced around instead of locking on his aides…

… that’s when Palmiotti knew that whatever happened last night, it was worse than he thought.

“ Just gimme a minute ,” the President mimed as he patted his personal aide on the shoulder and sidestepped through the small crowd-straight toward Palmiotti’s side of the corridor.

Of course, the staffers started to follow.

Yet as the President entered the reception area of the Medical Unit, half the throng-the speechwriter and the press secretary, as well as the Secret Service-stopped at the door and waited in the hallway, well aware that their access didn’t include a private visit to the President’s doctor.

“ Dr. Palmiotti…! ” the duty nurse murmured in full panic. The only times the President had come this way were when it was officially on the schedule.

“I see him,” Palmiotti called back from his office.

“Where you hiding him? You know he’s dating again? He tell you he was dating?” the President teased the nurse, flashing his bright whites and still trying to charm. It was good enough to fool the nurse. Good enough to fool the two trailing staffers. But never good enough to fool the friend who used to get suckered trading his Double Stuf Oreos for Wallace’s Nilla Wafers in fifth grade.

As the two men made eye contact, Palmiotti could feel the typhoon coming. He had seen that look on the President’s face only three times before: once when he was President, once when he was governor, and once from the night they didn’t talk about anymore.

The President paused at the threshold of Palmiotti’s private office, which was when Palmiotti spotted the hardcover book the President was carrying.

Palmiotti cocked an eyebrow. We’re not alone , he said with a glance.

Wallace dipped his neck into the office, spotting his sister, who raised her flamingo cane, saluting him with the beak.

Definitely not ideal.

The President didn’t care. He stepped into Palmiotti’s office, which was decorated with the same medical school diplomas that had covered his first office back in Ohio. Back when everything was so much simpler.

“Mr. President…” Wallace’s personal aide said, standing with the chief of staff at the threshold.

In any White House, the smart staffers get invited to walk with the President. But the smartest staffers-and the ones who get the farthest-are the ones who know when to walk away .

“… we’ll be right out here,” the aide announced, thumbing himself back to the reception area.

“Stewie was just examining my hands,” Minnie announced, reaching forward from the couch and extending her open palms to Palmiotti.

“Wonderful,” Wallace muttered, not even looking at his sister as he closed the door to Palmiotti’s office. There were bigger problems to deal with.

“So I take it your back’s still hurting you?” Palmiotti asked.

Orson Wallace studied his friend. The President’s eye contact was spectacular. Better than Clinton’s. Better than W’s. Better than Obama’s. “Like you wouldn’t believe,” the leader of the free world said, carefully pronouncing every syllable. “Think you can help with it?”

“We’ll see,” Palmiotti said. “First I need you to tell me where it hurts.”

"This is bad, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Relax,” Tot whispers, rolling down his window as a snakebite of cold attacks from outside. He’s trying to keep me calm, but with his right hand he tugs at his pile of newspapers, using them to cover George Washington’s dictionary.

“Sorry, fellas,” the guard says, his breath puffing with each syllable. “IDs, please.”

“C’mon, Morris,” Tot says, pumping his overgrown eyebrows. “You telling me you don’t recognize-”

“Don’t bust my hump, Tot. Those are the rules. ID.”

Tot lowers his eyebrows and reaches for his ID. He’s not amused. Neither is the guard, who leans in a bit too deeply through the open window. His eyes scan the entire car. Like he’s searching for something.

Circling around toward the trunk, he slides a long metal pole with a mirror on the end of it under the car. Bomb search. They haven’t done a bomb search since we hosted the German president nearly a year ago.

“You got what you need?” Tot asks, his hand still on the newspapers. The story on top is the one about Orlando.

“Yeah. All set,” the guard says, glancing back at the guardhouse. Doesn’t take James Bond to see what he’s staring at: the flat, compact security camera that’s pointed right at us. No question, someone’s watching.

There’s a deafening metal shriek as the antiram barrier bites down into the ground, clearing our path. Tot pulls the car forward, his face again mostly turned to me. His blind eye is useless, but I can still read the expression. Don’t say a word.

I follow the request from the parking lot all the way to the elevators. Inside, as we ride up in silence, Tot opens up the folded newspapers, but it’s clear he’s really reading what’s tucked inside- Entick’s Dictionary . I watch him study the swirls and loops of the handwritten inscription. Exitus acta probat.

“See that?” I ask. “That’s George Washing-”

He shoots me another look to keep me quiet. This time, I wait until we reach our offices on the fourth floor.

The sign next to the door reads Room 404 , but around here it’s called Old Military because we specialize in records from the Revolutionary and Civil wars.

“Anyone home…?” I call out, opening the door, already knowing the answer. The lights in the long suite are off. On my left, a metal wipe-off board has two columns-one IN, one OUT-and holds a half dozen magnets with our headshot photos attached to each one. Sure, it’s ridiculously kindergarten. But with all of us always running to the stacks for research, it works. And right now, everyone’s in the OUT column. That’s all we need.

Knowing the privacy won’t last, I rush toward my cubicle in the very back. Tot does his best to rush toward his in the very front.