Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

“I bet you practiced that monologue.”

“Just remember where you are: This is a prizefight, Beecher. And when you’re in a prizefight for a long time-take my word on this-you keep swinging that hard and you’re only gonna knock yourself out.”

“Actually, the knockout already happened.”

“Pardon?”

“Just remember where you are, Mr. President. Look around. By the end of the week, this office will be empty. The photo in the silver frame will be, I’m guessing, slipped inside Palmiotti’s coffin. Your doctor’s gone, sir. So’s your barber. Your Plumbers are finished. Goodbye. All your work did was get two loyal men killed. So you can try to pretend you’ve got everything exactly where you want it, but I’m the one who gets to go home for the rest of my week-while you’re the one at the funerals, delivering the eulogies.”

“You have nothing. You have less than nothing.”

“You may be right. But then I keep thinking… the whole purpose of the Plumbers was to take people you trust and use them to build a wall around you. That wall protected you and insulated you. And now that wall is gone,” I say. “So what’re you gonna do now, sir?” Standing from my seat and heading for the door, I add, “You have a good night, Mr. President.”

St. Elizabeths Hospital

Third floor

Nico didn’t like card games.

It didn’t matter.

Every few months, the doctors would still have a new pack of playing cards delivered to his room. Usually, they were cards from defunct airlines-both TWA and Piedmont Air apparently gave out a lot of free playing cards back in the day. But Nico didn’t know what the doctors’ therapeutic goal was. He didn’t much care.

To Nico, a card game-especially one like solitaire-could never be enjoyable. Not when it left so much to chance. No, in Nico’s world, the universe was far more organized. Gravity… temperature… even the repetition of history… Those were part of God’s rules. The universe definitely had rules. It had to have rules. And purpose.

So, every few months, when Nico would receive his playing cards, he’d wait a day or two and then hand them back to the orderlies, or leave them in the day room, or, if they found their way back to him, tuck them into the cushions of the couch that smelled like urine and soup.

But tonight, at nearly 10 p.m. in the now quiet main room, Nico sat at one of the Plexiglas tables near the nurses’ station and quietly played a game of solitaire.

“Thanks for being so patient, baby,” the heavy nurse with the big hoop earrings said. “You know how Mr. Jasper gets if we let him sit in his diaper too long.”

“Oooh, and you’re playing cards so nice,” the nurse crooned, making a mental note and clearly excited for what she’d inevitably be telling the doctors tomorrow.

It wasn’t much. But Nico knew it mattered. The hospital was no different than the universe. Everything had rules. And the number one rule here was: If you don’t please the nurses, you’re not getting your privileges.

It was why he didn’t complain when they let someone else feed the cats tonight. Or when Rupert brought him apple juice instead of orange.

Nico had been lucky earlier today. When he approached that car-the one with the barber and the blasphemous wrists-he was worried the blame would be put on him.

It wasn’t. And he knew why.

Whoever had burned Beecher-whoever had caused all that pain-the last thing they wanted was Nico’s name all over this. If that had happened, a real investigation would’ve been started.

The ones who did this… They didn’t want that.

In the end, it didn’t surprise Nico. But it did surprise him that, when it came to that investigation, they had the power to stop it.

Right there, Nico knew what was coming next.

“I see you put Randall’s Sprite cans in the recycling-cleaned up his crackers too,” the nurse added. “I know you’re sucking up, Nico-but I appreciate it. Now remind me what you’re waiting for again? Your mail?”

“Not mail,” Nico said. “My phone. Any new phone messages?”

The nurse with the hoop earrings gripped a blue three-ring binder from the shelf above her desk and quickly flipped to the last pages.

Nico could’ve snuck a look at the book when she wasn’t there.

But there were rules.

There were always rules.

And consequences.

“Lemme see… according to this…” she said as her chubby finger skated down the page. “Nope. Sorry, baby. No calls.” Snapping the book shut, she added, “Maybe tomorrow.”

Nico nodded. It was a good thought. Maybe it’d be tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or even the day after.

But it was going to happen. Soon.

Nico knew the rules.

He knew his purpose.

Beecher would be coming back. He definitely would.

It might take him a month. Or even longer. But eventually, Beecher would want help. He’d want help, and he’d want answers. And most of all, he’d want to know how to track down Clementine-which, if Nico was right about what was in her, was the only thing Nico wanted too.

Shoving his way back through the swinging doors and still thinking of how his daughter had misled him, Nico headed back to his room.

Soon, he and Beecher-George Washington and Benedict Arnold-would again be working together.

Just like the universe had always planned.

The White House

Second-Floor Residence

Where’s he, upstairs?” Minnie asked a passing aide who was carrying the newest stack of autographed items, from personal letters to a red, white, and blue golf ball, that the President had just finished signing.

“Solarium,” the aide said, pointing up as Minnie headed for the back staircase that would take her the rest of the way.

Minnie always loved the Solarium, which sat above the Truman Balcony on the top floor of the White House and had the best view of the Mall and the Washington Monument.

But Minnie didn’t love it for the view. Or because it was the one casual room in the entire Residence. She loved it because it reminded her of home. Literally.

Lined with old family photos from when she and the President were kids, the narrow hallway that led up and out to the Solarium rose at a surprisingly steep incline. Even with her pink flamingo cane, it was tough for Minnie to navigate. But she still stared as she passed each old photograph-the one when she and ten-year-old Orson are smiling with all the chocolate in their teeth… the one with Orson proudly holding his first cross-country running trophy… and of course, the one right after she was born, with her mother placing baby Minnie for the first time in her brother’s arms. Back then, the side of her face was covered with skin lesions. But little Orson is smiling down, so proud to be the new big brother. Wallace had personally made sure that picture made the list.

“Don’t you dare do that,” Minnie called out to her brother, rapping her cane against the floor. As she entered the room, which was decorated with casual sofas, she saw the problem.

With his back to her, the President stood there, hands in his pockets as he stared out the tall glass windows at the bright glow of the Washington Monument.

“Don’t do that,” she warned again, knowing him all too well.

“You know this was the room Nancy Reagan was in when they told her the President had been shot?” her brother announced.

“Yeah, and I know from the last time you were all upset and moody, it’s also the room where Nixon told his family he was going to step down. We get it. Whenever you start staring out at the monuments or talking about other Presidents, you’re in a piss mood. So just tell me: What’s it this time? What’s in your craw?”