Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

Within seconds, small green handwriting revealed itself.

The archivist read it fast, already knowing most of it. But at the end…

The archivist nodded. When it came to Beecher… and this woman Clementine… That’s exactly what had to happen.

The words faded back to nothingness as the archivist slapped the book shut and headed through the lobby, out into the cold of Pennsylvania Avenue.

“ Taxi! ”

A black-and-yellow cab bucked to a stop.

“Where you going tonight?” an older cabbie with a round nose and thick bifocals asked, handing the archivist a laminated card as he slid inside.

“What’s this?” the archivist said.

“My mission statement.”

Sure enough, the laminated card said: To take you to your destination in an environment that is most pleasing to you. Underneath was a listing of all the local radio stations.

Only in D.C. Everyone’s a damn overachiever.

“Just turn the corner up here,” the archivist said. “I’m waiting for some friends-they’re in a light blue Mustang.”

“Y’mean like that one?” the cabbie asked, pointing through the windshield as the classic car, with Beecher and Clementine inside, climbed up the security ramp and made a sharp right into traffic.

“That’s the one. Beautiful automobile, huh?”

“Y’want me to follow it? Like the movies?” the cabbie asked.

“You can stay back a bit. Even if you lose them,” the archivist said, holding A Problem from Hell on the seat, “I already know where they’re going.”

"You feeling any better?” I ask Clementine.

“Yeah.”

“That doesn’t sound better. That sounds like a yeah.”

She sits with it a moment, staring into the mirror on her side of the car and eyeing the bright lights of the mob of cars behind us. Using the rearview, I do the same, making mental notes of who’s behind us: a blue Acura, a few SUVs, a disproportionate number of hybrids, and the usual rush-hour taxis. Nothing out of the ordinary. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Tot hates me,” Clementine says.

“Why would you say that?”

“Y’mean besides the long glares and accusatory stares-or maybe when I answered my phone and he basically said, Who’re you talking to? I hate you ?”

“He’s just worried about me.”

“If he were worried, he’d be sitting in this car right now. He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t trust me.”

“Well, I trust you.”

As I tug the wheel into another right and follow the rush-hour traffic up Constitution Avenue, she doesn’t respond.

“What, now I don’t trust you?” I ask.

“Beecher, the fact you were there for me today-with Nico-I know how you feel. And I pray you know how I feel. In all these years… People aren’t nice to me the way you’re nice to me. But the only thing I don’t understand: How come you never told me what you saw in those call numbers-y’know, in the book?”

She’s talking about the invisible ink message:

Exitus

FEBRUARY 16

Acta

26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET

Probat

WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427

“You know what those numbers mean, don’t you?” she asks. “You know what books they are.”

I shake my head.

“Beecher, you don’t have to tell me. Honestly, you don’t. But if I can help-”

“They’re not books,” I say.

Making a left and following the parade of cars as it edges toward I-395 and the signs for the 14th Street Bridge, I take another glance at the rearview. SUVs, hybrids, taxis-a few pushy drivers elbow their way in, but for the most part, everything’s in the same place.

“Beecher, I was there. The guy in Preservation said-”

“The Diamond doesn’t know what he-”

“Wait. What’s the diamond?”

“Daniel. In Preservation. That’s his nickname. The Diamond ,” I tell her. “And while he’s clearly the expert on book construction and chemical reactions, he doesn’t know squat about library science-because if he did, he’d know that neither of those is a call number.”

She squints as if she’s trying to reread the numbers from memory.

“NC 38.548.19 or WU 773.427,” I repeat for her. “They look like library call numbers, right? But they’re both missing their cutters.” Reading her confusion, I explain, “In any call number, there’re two sets of letters. The NC is the first set-the N tells us it’s Art . All N books have to do with art. The C will tell you what kind of art-Renaissance, modern, et cetera. But before the last set of numbers-the 19-there’s always another letter-the cutter . It cuts down the subject, telling you the author or title or some other subdivision so you can find it. Without that second letter, it’s not a real call number.”

“Maybe they left out the second letters on purpose.”

“I thought so too. Then I saw the other listing: WU 773.427.”

“And the W stands for…?”

“That’s the problem. W doesn’t stand for anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Years ago, every library had their own individual system. But to make things more uniform, when the world switched over to the Library of Congress system, every letter was assigned to a different subject. Q stood for Science . K stood for Law . But three letters-W, X, and Y-they never got assigned to anything.”

“So if a book begins with an X-”

“Actually, Xs sometimes mean books that’re held behind the main desk, maybe because they’re racy or dirty-guess where X-rated comes from? But you get the picture. A book that starts WU… that’s just not a book at all.”

“Could it be something besides a book?”

“Ten bucks says that’s what Tot’s working on right now,” I explain as I check in the rearview. The towering Archives building is long gone. “I know under the filing system for Government Publications, W is for the old War Department. But WU-it doesn’t exist.”

“So it can’t be anything?”

“Anything can be anything. But whatever it is, it’s not in the regular system, which means it could be in an older library that doesn’t use the system, or a private one, or a-”

“What kind of private one? Like someone’s personal library?” she asks.

I rub my thumbs in tiny circles on the steering wheel, digesting the thought. Huh. With all the running around for Dustin Gyrich, I hadn’t thought about that.

“Y’think the President has his own private library at the White House?” she asks.

I stay silent.

“Beecher, y’hear what I said?”

I nod, but I’m quiet, my thumbs still making tiny circles.

“What’s wrong? Why’re you shutting down like that?” she asks. Before I can say anything, she knows the answer.

“You’re worried you can’t win this,” she adds.

All I hear are Orlando’s words from that first moment we found the book in the SCIF. Name me one person ever who went up against a sitting President and walked away the same way they walked in. “I know we can’t win this. No one can win this. No one wins against a President.”

“That’s not true. As long as you have that book-and as long as he doesn’t know you have that book-you have him, Beecher. You can use that to-”

I start breathing hard. My thumb-circles get faster.

“You okay?” she asks.

I stay silent.

“Beecher, what’s wrong?”

Staring straight ahead, I motion outside. “Bridges. I don’t like bridges.”

She glances to her right as we’re halfway up the incline. But it’s not until the road peaks and we pass the glowing white columns along the back of the Jefferson Memorial that she spots the wide blackness of the Potomac River fanning out ahead of us. The 14th Street Bridge’s wide road doesn’t look like a bridge. But based on the shade of green that now matches my face with hers, she knows it feels like one.