Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

“You okay?” Rina asks me.

“Huh?”

“Yesterday-I saw you downstairs. With Orlando. You were friends, no?”

“Yeah… no… I’m okay. Thanks,” I tell her as she heads toward her own cube.

Lowering periscope, I turn back to Tot. “Rina,” I whisper, quickly adding, “So in this analogy, I’m the sheet of paper?”

“You’ve been here a few years now, Beecher-you should know history isn’t just something that’s written. It’s a selection process. It chooses moments, and events, and yes, people-and it hands them a situation they should never be able to overcome. It happens to millions of us every single day. But the only ones we read about are the ones who face that situation, and fight that situation, and find out who they really are.”

“And now you’re the one not listening, Tot. I know who I am. I fought for this life. And I spent two full years taking 140,000 photographs of overpriced wedding cakes, and grooms who think they can dance, just to make sure that I didn’t have to go back to Wisconsin and say that life outside my mother’s house was just too tough for me. I got further than my father, and his father, and every rotten classmate who used to aim for my head in dodgeball even though they knew headshots didn’t count. But whatever history supposedly handed me… whatever we did find in the SCIF… I don’t know what it is… I don’t know where to start… I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for!”

Once again shaking his head, Tot turns back to my computer and hits the enter key. Onscreen, I see the Archives’ history for Entick’s Dictionary. Yes, we have a copy. Yes, it’s in this building. And according to this, it’s currently…

“ Signed out ,” I blurt, reading from the screen.

It’s the first good news I’ve had all day. Every day at the Archives, hundreds of people come to do research. To make it easier, once you register as a researcher, you can fill up two carts and keep them on hold, stored in our research room, for three days. And from what it says here, Entick’s Dictionary is currently on hold for a researcher named… Tot clicks to the next screen.

“ Dustin Gyrich ,” we both whisper as my phone rings for the third time. For the third time, I ignore Security .

“This guy Gyrich from us?” I ask as I pull open my top drawer and start flipping through our staff list. A… B… C… G… H… I… No one named Gyrich.

“I don’t think he’s a pro either,” Tot adds, referring to the professional researchers people can hire by the hour.

Across the office, the door again swings open. “Beecher, you here!?” a familiar voice shouts.

Even without raising periscope, I smell the pipe smoke on Dallas. On most days, he ignores me. Today, his footsteps head right for me.

“Beecher?” he adds, sounding almost concerned. “You there or not?”

“Yeah… right here,” I say, stepping out from my cube.

“Dammit, then why didn’t you say something!? Security’s worried-After Orlando-Don’t do that !” he scolds, all his concern already faded in anger. “Next time someone calls your sorry ass, pick up the damn ph-”

Dallas cuts himself off, stopping midstep as he reaches my cube. He’s not looking at me anymore. He’s looking at what’s behind me. I spin around, worried he sees the dictionary. But the dictionary’s already gone-tucked away by the person still sitting at my desk.

“Hey, Tot,” Dallas offers, scratching at his starter beard. “Didn’t realize you were there.”

Tot doesn’t say a word. He just stares at Dallas, unblinking. It’s nothing personal. When he turned seventy, Tot decided there were ten rules for living a happy life. The only one he’s shared with me thus far is that, as an archivist, he won’t make friends with anyone who says FDR knew about the impending attack on Pearl Harbor, since there’s not a single sheet of paper in our building to back up that claim. I know another of his rules has something to do with white cotton panties and the keys to a great sex life (I made him stop talking because-just the thought of it made me want to be blind). And from what I can tell, there’s a third rule that enshrines a venomous hatred for bullies-especially those who curse at Tot’s friends.

The best part is watching Dallas take a half-step back. Even the most stubborn of cubs knows when the big cat’s around.

“I was just saying…” Dallas stutters, “… I was telling Beecher I was worried about-”

“How’d you know someone was calling him?” Tot challenges.

“Pardon?”

“When you came in,” Tot says. “You said Security was calling. How’d you know they were calling?”

“I–I was there,” Dallas says.

“In the Security Office?”

“No… at sign-in… with the detectors,” he says, referring to the check-in desk on the Penn Avenue side of the building. “They have a visitor for Beecher who’s pretty insistent that she see him…”

“ She? ” I ask.

“Your friend. From yesterday. The one with the nose pierce…”

Tot shoots me a look. He’s already called her the daughter of Lee Harvey Oswald. The last thing he wants is me bringing her in again.

“Clementine’s downstairs right now?” I ask.

“Why do you think they keep calling you?” Dallas says. “They saw you check in at the garage, but when you didn’t answer your phone-”

I glance at Tot, who doesn’t need help putting the rest together. The only way to get Clementine into this building is if I personally go down and sign her in. And while the last thing I need right now is to put myself higher on the suspect list because I’m helping out the daughter of a killer, the less time I let her spend with Security, the safer I’m gonna be.

“ Tot…” I say with a glance as I run for the door.

Go. I have it , he replies with a nod. It’s never taken me more than three minutes and twenty-two seconds to get to the sign-in desk. And while I need to get Clementine, priority number one is still finding out who Dustin Gyrich is and why, on the same day the President was set to arrive here, Gyrich requested this old dictionary.

“I’m old and hate small talk,” Tot tells Dallas as he turns back to my computer. “You need to leave right now.”

As Dallas heads back to his desk, I pick up speed and make a sharp left toward the office door. But as I pull it open and bound into the hallway, I nearly smash into the chest of the tall man. And his shiny Security badge.

“Beecher, you know the one thing that really ticks me off?” Deputy Security Chief Venkat Khazei asks as I crane my neck up to see him. “When people here-people sitting right at their desks-don’t return my calls.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder, but all I can think is that he’s the only other person in the entire building who knew Orlando was in that SCIF.

“Is there something I can help you with?” I ask.

“That’s generous of you, Beecher,” Khazei says. “I thought you’d never ask.”

"You tell me what’s easier,” Khazei offers, trying hard to keep it nice. “We can talk out here, or at your desk, or-”

“Out here’s fine,” I blurt, determined to keep him far from the book.

“Where you headed anyway?”

“Wha?”

“You were running, Beecher. You almost smashed into me. Just wondering where you’re headed.”

“Stacks,” I say with a nod, realizing that while Khazei was calling for info, it was the front-desk security guys who were calling about Clementine. “Just pulling a record from the stacks.”

He looks down at my empty hands. “Where’s the pull slip?”