Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

I see where he’s going. If Gyrich was here, if he checked in as a researcher and signed the log, we’ve got the possibility of having him on video, or at the very least fingerprints that can tell us who he really-

“Clemmi, c’mon…” I call out, already starting to run.

Clementine doesn’t move. She’s still flipping through the pull slips-the slips that every visitor has to fill out to look at a particular volume or box of documents-scanning each one like she’s reading a prescription bottle.

“Clemmi!” I call again.

Nothing.

I dart to the desk and grab at the pile of photocopies. “C’mon, we can read this after-”

Her arm springs out, desperately clutching the pages. She’s practically in tears. “Please, Beecher. I need to know.”

Within seconds, she’s back to scanning the documents.

Over her shoulder, I check the dates of the pull slips, trying to get context. July 7, July 10, July 30- all of them from ten years ago. What the hell happened in July ten y-?

Oh.

“You’re looking for Nico, aren’t you?” I ask.

She flips to another sheet.

At the NASCAR track. Ten years ago. That’s when Nico took the shots at President-

“Please tell me they didn’t know about that,” I say.

She shakes her head, unable to look up at me. There’s only so many punches this poor girl can take in one day. “They didn’t,” she says, her voice shaking as she nears the end of the pull slips.

“That’s good, right? That’s good.”

“I–I-I guess,” she says. “I don’t even know if I was hoping for it or not… but if this Culper Ring knew about all those other parts of history… I… I dunno. I just thought they might-”

“Clemmi, it’s okay,” I tell her. “Only a fool wouldn’t’ve checked. It’s completely-”

“You don’t have to say it’s normal, Beecher. Searching to see if some secret two-hundred-year-old group knew about the day your father tried to murder the President… We’re a little far from normal.”

I know she’s right, but before I can tell her, I feel the vibration of my phone in my pocket. Caller ID tells me it’s the one call I’ve been waiting for. Extension 75343. The Preservation Lab downstairs.

“You ready for it, Beecher?” Daniel the Diamond asks before I can even say hello.

“You were able to read it?” I say.

“It’s invisible ink, not the Rosetta Stone. Now you want to come down here and see what’s written in this book or not?”

Andre Laurent hated hats.

He always hated them-even on a day like today, when the late afternoon winds were galloping down from the Capitol, barreling full force as they picked up speed in the wide canyon created by the buildings that lined Pennsylvania Avenue. Sure, a hat would keep him warm. But as Andre Laurent knew-as any barber knew-a hat did only one thing: ruin a good day’s work.

Still, as Laurent leaned into the wind, fighting his way up the block toward the huge granite building, he never once thought about removing his red Washington Nationals baseball cap.

He knew its benefits, especially as he made a final sharp right, leaving the wind tunnel of Pennsylvania Avenue and heading under the awning that led to the automatic doors of the National Archives.

“Looks like Dorothy and Toto are flying around out there,” the guard at the sign-in desk called out as Laurent pushed his way into the lobby, bringing a frosty swirl of cold air with him.

“It’s not that bad,” Laurent said.

He meant it. Compared to the permanent gray of Ohio, the winters in D.C. were easy. But as he approached the sign-in desk, Laurent couldn’t help but think that was the only thing that was easier here.

Especially over the last few months.

“Research, or you got an appointment?” the guard asked.

“Research,” Laurent said, noticing just how bushy the guard’s eyebrows were. They definitely needed a trim, he thought, reaching for the ID Palmiotti had given him and carefully readjusting his baseball cap, which right now was the only thing protecting his face from the ceiling’s security camera.

“And your name again?”

Laurent leaned against the sign-in desk, which was built like an airline counter-so tall it came up to his chest. He never liked coming here. But as they knew, the President couldn’t get his hair cut every single day. “You don’t recognize me by now? I’m here all the time,” Laurent said as he held up the ID. “I’m Dustin Gyrich.”

"You talk me up to Rina yet?” the Diamond asks.

“You’re joking, right?” I shoot back. “How fast you think I am?”

“Plenty fast,” he says, nodding a hello to Tot and taking a quick glance at Clementine. “Kinda like I was with this invisible ink problem you got.”

He cocks both eyebrows, thinking he’s hysterical. With a pivot, he spins toward the lab, inviting us inside.

“By the way, where’s she from?” he adds, his back to us as he throws a thumb at Clementine.

“She’s… er…” I reach over to Clementine and tuck the red Visitor ID badge that Tot got her inside the lapel of her jacket. “She works in Modern Military in College Park,” I add, referring to our facility out in Maryland. “Her name’s Lucy.”

“ Lucy? ” Clementine mouths, making a face.

“Nice to meet you, Lucy,” the Diamond says, his back still to us. “It’s kooky though that a full-time employee would be wearing a visitor’s badge.”

I don’t say a word as we pass a bank of map cabinets and storage units. I shouldn’t be surprised. He spends every day studying the tiniest of details.

“Listen, Daniel…” Tot begins.

“Tot, I don’t care. I really don’t,” he insists. “Beecher, just make sure you put the word in with Rina. Fair trade?”

I nod. Fair trade.

“Okay, so on to your next nightmare,” he says, leading us to a square lab table in back that’s covered by an array of sky blue plastic developing trays, like you find in a darkroom. On the edge of the lab table is our copy of Entick’s Dictionary . “How much you know about invisible ink?”

“I remember fifth-grade science fair: Someone writes it in lemon juice, then you heat the paper and voila…”

As I flip the dictionary open, there’s now a sheet of see-through archival tissue paper protecting each page. But except for where it says,

Exitus

Acta

Probat

… that front inside page is otherwise still blank.

“I thought you said you found the writing,” Tot challenges, nearly as annoyed as I am.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” the Diamond begs. “Whoever put this in here-they’re not playing Little League. This is pro ball,” he explains. “The best secret inks date back thousands of years, to China and Egypt-and by the eighteenth century, they were almost universally based on some organic liquid like leeks or limes or even urine. And like you said, a little heat would reveal the writing. But as George Washington understood, it’s not much of a secret when every British soldier knows that all you have to do is wave a candle to see the magic appear.”

“Get to the part about the pro ball,” Tot tells him.

“That is the part,” the Diamond insists. “Basic invisible inks require a heating process. You heat the paper, you crack the code. But to foil the British, Washington and his Culper Ring started playing with a chemical process.”

“Wait… What was that?” Clementine asks.

“The chemical process?”

“No-before that,” she says.

“She means the Culper Ring,” I jump in. I know where she’s going. She wants to know how much of Nico’s ramblings were right. “So the Culper Ring were the ones who used this?”