Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

United States Secret Service.

“Beecher here,” I say as I pick up.

“We’ve got Homerun ready to move,” an agent with a stubborn Boston accent says. “You ready for us?”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I tell him.

“You need to be there now ,” he challenges.

As he hangs up on my ear, I know the mess on my desk has to wait. I quickly dart for the stairs. I’ve got bigger problems to deal with.

During his early days at the White House, this was Orson Wallace’s favorite part.

“Just an honor, Mr. President,” an older man with a graying goatee offered.

“So nice to meet you, Mr. President,” a woman wearing two diamond rings added.

“Thank you so much, Mr. President,” a tall woman with wide black eyes said as she reached to shake his hand.

The speech was over, the applause was still going, and as President Wallace followed his aide to the swinging doors of the hotel’s kitchen, he was riding such a swell of enjoyment, he tried to touch every outstretched hand of the insta-crowd that was now pressing so hard against the rope line.

It wasn’t the adulation that got him going. What Wallace appreciated was just… the appreciation. The simple act of people saying thank you . These days, in this economy, that kind of crowd seemed to appear less and less often.

“Thank you so much, Mr. President.”

“-just an inspiration, sir.”

“-reinvigorated all of us, Mr. President.”

“I hope you enjoyed the breakfast, Mr. President,” the chef called out as Wallace weaved back through the kitchen.

“Just fantastic. We need to have you cook at the White House,” Wallace called back, using the same compliment he saved for every chef in every hotel kitchen.

“-just want to thank you so much,” Ross the Boss chimed in, leading the final row of handshakes-the VIP goodbyes-that waited for Wallace at the far end of the service entrance and would take him to the waiting door of his armored limo.

“Hey-!” a female voice called out.

Wallace’s arm was already extended in a handshake as he finally looked up at the last person in line: a heavyset woman in a royal blue dress.

“I love you,” his sister Minnie said, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.

“You’re just saying that because I’m the President,” Wallace teased.

With a whack, Minnie rapped her pink flamingo cane against his shin.

The President was still laughing as the Secret Service agent pushed the hidden button under the door handle, which unlocked the door so he could usher Wallace into the car. And for that moment, as he ducked inside and brother and sister shared their laughter, Wallace almost forgot about where he was headed next.

Almost.

“Homerun moving,” one of the Secret Service agents whispered into his wrist, using the President’s official Service code name. “Arrival at the Archives in approximately four minutes.”

As I tear full speed around the corner, my shoes slide across the twelfth floor’s green terrazzo squares. If my timing’s right, I’ve still got a few minutes on the President. I need them. Especially if I want to be ready.

“I need some ID,” a calm voice announces just as I make the turn. His voice draws out each syllable so it sounds like Eye. Dee .

I know that voice.

But as I nearly plow into the man in the black body armor, I’m not focused on him or his black rifle. I don’t even see the SCIF that sits at the end of the hall. All I see are ghosts. Ghosts of myself. And Clementine. And Orlando. Forty-eight hours ago, we were standing in this same pale blue hallway, with the same marble wainscoting, studying this same room with the matching pale blue metal door. I wish it were just deja vu. Deja vu is easy to dismiss. But this… this is like stepping on Orlando’s grave.

A cold dread grips me, squeezing my Adam’s apple until I barely remember how to breathe. It reminds me that the only reason to search for these Plumbers-and for what they put in that dictionary-is to prove that they’re the ones who killed my friend.

“I said, ID ,” the agent insists.

“Y-Yeah… sure… sorry,” I say, holding up my badge.

“Arms up,” he barks, pulling out a black-and-yellow wand that looks like a flattened flashlight. Metal detector.

Of course. He saw my name. He knows I’m staffing him. No way they’re letting me get close without making sure I’m clean.

As he waves the wand under my armpits, I blink once and see Orlando’s dimpled chin and big-toothed smile as he clutched his little coffee cup and ushered me and Clementine inside. I blink again, and there’s nothing but the empty pale blue hallway.

“Don’t be so nervous,” the Secret Service agent calls out, pinning a temporary metal clearance button on my lapel and motioning me toward the SCIF. “The President doesn’t bite. Unless he’s pissed.”

I can’t even pretend to laugh as I speedwalk up the hallway and stop at the call box that hangs on the wall. As I press the silver intercom button, a red indicator light blinks on.

“This is Beecher,” I say into the intercom. “I’m opening SCIF 12E1.” They’re the same words Orlando said to Khazei two days ago.

I wait to hear Khazei growl something back. The way he’s been watching, there’s no way I’m seeing the President without him weighing in. But to my surprise…

“You’re all set,” a female voice replies. “Moses is four minutes away,” she says, using our internal code name for him. “Enjoy.”

The intercom goes silent, and I dart for the entrance to the SCIF. As I spin the combination lock, a sting of bile burns my throat.

I step inside the vault and catch a flash of shadow moving on my left. I’m not the only one in here.

“Oh, c’mon now,” Khazei says as he slams the metal door shut and locks the two of us inside. “You really thought I’d miss this one?”

"You shouldn’t be here,” I warn Khazei.

“Let me just say that’s one of a variety of things you’re wrong about,” he counters.

As always, he’s trying to keep me cornered. But just seeing Khazei here-just seeing his polished fingernails and his cocky grin-even I’m surprised how fast my fear gets swallowed by anger. “You’re interfering with my work. And the work of the President,” I shoot back.

“Oh, so now you and the President are a team ?”

“I never said that. What I said was you were interfering.”

“Beecher, do me a favor and take a seat,” he says, pointing to the single table at the center of the room and the rolling research cart stocked with documents that sits next to it.

I stay where I am. He doesn’t seem to care.

“Beecher, I’ve thought long and hard about this. I know I can keep putting the pressure on you. I can keep huffing and puffing and trying to blow your house down. Or I can be honest with you,” he says, his voice softening to nearly a whisper.

“Before I started working here, y’know what my old job was?” Khazei asks as he leans a hand on the research cart. “I used to be a cop out in Virginia. The pay was good. The hours were bad. And the pension couldn’t even touch what I get here, which is why I made the switch. But there’s one thing I learned as a cop: Sometimes good people don’t know how to be good to themselves. Y’understand what that means?”

“It means you’ve been reading too many self-help books.”

“No, it means you have no idea how many guns are aimed at your head. So let me do you one favor and tell you what I know: I know who your girlfriend Clementine is. I know who her dad is-which explains why you’ve been trying to hide her. Sure, I don’t know why Orlando died-yet-but I do know that President Orson Wallace was scheduled to be in this room two days ago. I know that the Secret Service did everything in their power to clear out the CSI investigative folks from being here. And I know that despite the fact that there are over two dozen other SCIFs in this building that the President could’ve picked, he for some unexplainable reason asked for this room, with you , which puts him right back in the exact same place that, less than forty-eight hours ago, was the last known location that Orlando was seen before they found him lying downstairs on the carpet with his eyes permanently open. Now I know you’re one of the smart ones, Beecher. Whatever deal you’re working with the President-”