The President's Shadow

by Brad Meltzer

  It’s a flawless pitch, delivered by the flawless pitchman. Best of all, if I make nice, it’s the cleanest way for me to get what I came here for. But c’mon. When is anything ever that easy with Wallace? I know he’s full of crap. He’s always full of crap. Even worse, big bears always hide big claws.

  It all comes from his hatred of the Ring: We know what he did back in college, when he used a baseball bat and car keys to put that kid into a coma. If I let him inside, it gives him a perfect chance to nuke the Culper Ring from within. But right now, he has what I want. And I—thanks to the Ring and its ability to keep a secret—have what he wants. In this town, lifelong relationships have been built on less than that.

  “You’re smart to be cautious. We haven’t done much to earn your trust,” the President adds. I know it’s his job, but sometimes I forget how uncanny he is at reading people. And mobilizing them.

  “Beecher, have you ever heard of the Courtyard Café?” he adds.

  I shake my head.

  “During the Cold War, when the Russians had their nukes aimed at us—and we at them—the exact bull’s-eye for their missiles was actually a small shack, a little hot dog stand, in the center courtyard of the Pentagon. It’s called the Courtyard Café. Of course, it’s no surprise they were aiming at the Pentagon, but for years, we wanted to know: Why’d the Russians pick that little shack? And are you ready for the answer? It’s because on all their satellites, every single day, they’d see our top generals going in and out of that building. In and out, in and out. Moscow spent millions studying it, eventually deciding it was the entrance to an underground briefing area below the Pentagon. But all these years later, you know the real reason those generals kept heading for that shack? Because that café had cheap coffee and the best hot dogs.”

  “So sometimes a hot dog is just a hot dog?” I ask.

  “Or sometimes, when someone says they can use your help, they really are just looking for your help,” the President says, glancing down at the empty plate that had held his lemon square. It’s now covered by the photo of the flattened penny that came from Nico’s unit. My father’s unit.

  They’re the ones who know how my dad really died. And why.

  “When those files…the Plankholder files…get pulled from storage, I want them. I need to see them,” I insist. “If you want my help, you need to promise me that.”

  “I understand. You know so much about history, but you don’t know anything about your own,” the President says. “No matter what you think, though, we all want the same thing,” he adds, trying to be reassuring.

  It doesn’t help. I don’t trust him. Not a bit. But right now, if I want my father’s files and want to know how they’re tied to this buried arm, there’s only one way to get them. Does that bring its own risks? For sure. Though aligning myself with the President also brings unique opportunities, especially when it comes to showing the world who he really is. Under Tot, the Culper Ring was eviscerated. This is our chance to rebuild, to make it more effective than ever. The Ring deserves no less than that.

  In my hands, I’m still holding the photo of the trumpet player in profile. It’s blurred so much, I can’t even tell if it’s a he or she, much less their hair color. But I still read body language. “That’s not Nico. Or Clementine.”

  “For all we know, it’s someone they hired to sneak inside,” Francy says.

  “Or maybe Nico and Clementine have nothing to do with this,” I say.

  “You really believe that?” the President asks. “After all Nico’s talks of destiny, and history, and how God chose him to kill a President? Three weeks ago, Clementine went to visit him; within two hours, he escaped and disappeared. Now, what a surprise, we’ve got body parts showing up in the White House. C’mon, Beecher, there’s coincidence and then there’s—”

  “Francy, check this out,” A.J. announces, waving her over to the TV.

  Francy joins him quickly, both their faces glowing white as they lean toward the monitor with the surveillance camera feeds. For a full thirty seconds, they just stand there. A.J. hits a few buttons on a keyboard so only one of the four camera angles is now showing onscreen.

  “You may want to look at this,” A.J. says, turning back to us.

  “Not now,” the President scolds.

  “I didn’t mean you, sir. I meant him,” A.J. says. He’s pointing at me.

  “We’ve definitely got a problem,” Francy adds, her reading glasses swaying as she taps a finger on the TV.

  Onscreen, across the street from the White House, a lone figure lingers by the front gate on Pennsylvania Avenue, hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s wearing a wool cap and keeps his head down, but there’s no mistaking who it is.

  Aw crap.

  What’s he doing here?

  14

  Bursting out from the East Wing entrance and weaving through a crowd of visitors waiting to start their White House tour, I make a sharp left on East Exec and nearly collide with a middle-aged woman trying to take a cell phone photo of the White House. The President didn’t say a word as I left; they want to know why he’s here too.

  “Sorry…!” I call out, waving an apology as I swim upstream on East Exec.

  “Watch yourself!” a dad with two little kids barks as I cut past him and almost plow into someone else. But what catches me off guard is when that someone else grabs my wrist. And squeezes.

  I fight to pull away.

  He squeezes tighter, digging his thumb into my wrist. A jolt of electricity zigzags to my elbow. My arm goes numb. “What’re you doing!?” I hiss, finally turning to face him.

  His drooping gold eyes, the color of white wine, lock on me. His whole face sags, and his putty-like skin appears extra waxy in the sun. Still, even without his burns, I know that look since our childhoods in his treehouse. Not here. Be smart, Marshall insists with a burning glare.

  “Look, check him out!” someone whispers next to us.

  I turn just as two overweight teenage girls quickly look away. On our right, an older woman tugs her husband’s arm, trying to steer his gaze toward us. This is Marshall’s life every day: pretending not to notice all the stares.

  He lowers his head and steers me through the throng, back toward the public part of Pennsylvania Avenue.

  I again try to pull free; he again squeezes the pressure point on my wrist.

  “What’re you doing here!?” I demand.

  He shakes his head, glancing up toward a nearby lamppost. A round security camera stares back down. I almost forgot. Marshall breaks into buildings for a living. Of course he knows where the cameras are.

  As he leads us through the crowd, he doesn’t duck and weave; he plows forward in a straight line. Some people see him, others just feel him coming. It’s why he’s so good at his job. The man with the boiled face is here. Whether it’s from fear or pity, everyone gets out of the way.

  “You know they saw you, right? They caught you on camera inside,” I tell him as we cross Pennsylvania Avenue and head across the street to Lafayette Square. He stops at a nearby bronze statue. It’s not the big statue at the center of the park—of Andrew Jackson looking glorious on horseback. It’s the smaller statue—of General Lafayette himself, his arm raised in mid-speech—that’s tucked in the corner of the park.

  “They shouldn’t care,” Marshall says, his voice grinding like crushed glass. His military posture is perfect as he scans the area, ever the wolf.

  “Of course they care. They know what you are!”

  “And what am I, Beecher?”

  I pause, choosing each word carefully. Until a few weeks ago, he’d been gone from my life. In one of my first cases with the Culper Ring, he came back, even helping me solve an old murder and stop a serial killer. “They’ve seen what you do. At the Lincoln Memorial…you may’ve been trying to protect the President, but you’re still the one who killed that shooter. Last I checked, they don’t like suspected murderers hanging outside the White House.”

  �
�I’m not the one they should be worried about,” Marshall says, looking down and kicking at a spot on the sidewalk. “Six o’clock. Directly behind me.”

  I glance over his shoulder. On the left: a homeless man tugging a rusted toy red wagon filled with old newspapers; on the right: a bald tourist with an old-fashioned camera around his neck.

  “The tourist,” Marshall says. “When A.J. took you out of the van and into the White House, the tourist was watching from across the street. Took photos of the whole thing.”

  “What? I thought you were—?” I look back at Marshall. “I told you to stay out of sight…that you should just listen through the phone. Why’d you come early?”

  “I was looking for someone like him,” he says, still keeping his back to the tourist.

  “But don’t you see? Now that the President’s seen you…now he knows we’re working together—”

  “C’mon, Beecher, how dumb do you think Wallace is? He knows we saved his life last month. He knows that my dad served with your dad and Clementine’s dad in the same unit—that’s what ties us all to Nico. You really think he doesn’t know I’m helping you?” He shakes his head, but his skin’s so stiff, his face moves like a solid mask. “Just tell me, did you get the files or not?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t think this is about the files.” For the next few minutes, I bring Marshall up to date, telling him about the First Lady and the buried arm…the flattened penny that was stashed inside its grip…even the part about the trumpet player with the name Alek Hidell.

  For a full thirty seconds, he just stands there, his gaze jumping between me and the bald tourist who’s still across the park. Marsh readjusts his black gloves. It’s not that cold out. He uses them to hide the burns on his hands.

  “They think it’s Nico?” he finally asks.

  “They do.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “You tell me. Y’think Nico and Clementine could make their way into the White House and bury an arm in the Rose Garden?”

  “Not without assistance.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Now you see the problem.”

  “So Wallace doesn’t trust his own Service?”

  “He trusts some of them. He definitely trusts A.J.—and this woman Francy. But the way Wallace tells it…”

  “He wants some help from the Culper Ring,” Marshall says skeptically.

  “Trust me, I didn’t believe him either.”

  “But now you do?”

  “How long have we known each other? Wallace lies. He always lies. And he does it in a way that makes you feel like he’s doing you a favor.”

  “So you think he’s after you?”

  “I’m not big enough.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” he says. “You’re the one who found his secret: on that night with the baseball bat.”

  “I still can’t prove it.”

  “For now.”

  I nod in agreement. “That’s why the President wants the Ring; he knows the damage we can do. Especially to him.” Marshall understands. For over two hundred years, the Ring has had a hand in every battle from the Revolutionary War and Gettysburg, to Hiroshima and getting the hostages out of Iran. Even the way it’s splintered today, its remaining members can pull off a miracle. Wallace doesn’t want that miracle being turned on him.

  “So he’s doing this to bring you on his side,” Marshall says.

  “Or maybe he’s trying to squash us altogether. All I know is, we want the files about our dads’ unit, and he’s got the files about our dads’ unit. At least this way, we get what we want and we get to keep an eye on him. It’s the one thing even Tot couldn’t pull off. This is our chance: to add strength to the Ring and rebuild it right.”

  Marshall looks down at his gloves but doesn’t readjust them.

  “Beecher, what’re you really looking for in those files?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “In the Plankholder files. With our dads. My father came back with no legs. Now that he’s dead, I want to know what happened to him in that unit. And I get that you want to know how your own dad died—”

  “Or if he was killed.”

  “Of course. Anyone would want to know that. But these risks you’re taking…” He stops a moment. “This isn’t just about these files, is it? There’s something else you’re searching for.”

  Sometimes I forget how long he knows me. And how quickly he spots my lies. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Marshall stands there silent, once again eyeing the bald tourist with the camera. “Do you think the President is being up-front about the arm?”

  “Like I said, he’s not up-front about anything. But you should’ve seen the First Lady’s face. It’s a severed arm. They didn’t even like looking at the photo. Plus when Wallace was talking about his wife finding it…the rage in his voice… There’re some things even a scumbag politician won’t lie about.”

  Marsh is still eyeing the bald tourist. “Do you know the real secret of how Presidents become Presidents?” Before I can answer, he explains, “It’s because they’re good at getting people to do things for them. In fact, they’re not just good at it. They’re maestros. Virtuosos. To get that title of President, you need thousands of people doing thousands of different things, all for your benefit. It’s a massive churning machine. And y’know what feeds that machine?” he asks. “People like you, Beecher. It’s fed with your life, and your family, and your reputation. Because when things go wrong…and they always go wrong…the President isn’t allowed to have that skunk smell around him. So when that happens, he doesn’t just replace you. He crumples you up, tosses you out back, and…chomp goes the woodchipper.”

  “You have a very graphic view of politics.”

  “A realistic view. You need to be smart here.”

  “I am being smart. You think I don’t see the magical coincidences? This arm just happens to have a penny in it that just happens to come from our dads’ unit? The woodchipper isn’t just coming, Marshall. It’s already here. Whoever set this up—whether it’s Nico, Clementine, or whoever they’re working with at the White House—I know they’re waiting to grind us, and by they, I mean Wallace too. He’ll take our help and throw us in the trash faster than anyone.”

  “But the way you’re talking, the President has you—”

  “Wallace doesn’t have me doing anything. I’m exactly where I want to be. The only way I’m finding out what happened to our dads is by being right by his side. So you tell me which is smarter: walking away with nothing, or ducking a few spinning blades while we pick his pocket?”

  Marshall stands there, unreadable as ever.

  “So what do we do about him?” I ask, motioning to the bald tourist.

  Marshall doesn’t hesitate. Forever fearless, he turns around and marches straight at the tourist. “You!” he calls out. “Can I help you with something?”

  The tourist looks our way, confused. “Me?”

  “Don’t insult us,” Marshall warns. “I saw you on the south side of the White House, then I saw you here. So. For the last time,” he adds, plowing at the man. “Can I help you with something?”

  The bald man’s confused look shifts to anger. He’s short and muscular, built like a rugby player, with the crooked nose to prove it. But as we get closer, the most haunting parts of his face are his slitted eyes and stark white eyelashes. He looks like the ghost of Andy Warhol.

  He reaches for something from his chest pocket.

  If that’s a gun…

  Marshall’s all over him. He grips the bald man’s wrist. With a squeeze, Marsh goes for the same pressure point that made my arm numb. But without even batting a white eyelash, the bald man whips his arm free and jams a thumb into Marsh’s neck.

  “Hkkkk!” Marshall gasps, grabbing his own throat and stumbling backward. I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. Not even Marshall.

  “Secret Service!” the man announces, pulling out hi
s wallet and flashing a badge.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. For years, the Service has used the same trick as Disney World, dressing their agents as tourists so they can blend in and eavesdrop on the crowd. But as I look over at Marshall, he’s bent over, more pissed than ever. His eyes narrow at the agent. He sees something he doesn’t like. I don’t blame him. It’s been barely ten minutes since I left the basement hideout where the President told me there was a rotten apple in the Service. And suddenly, here’s someone in the Service who decided that the best use of his time was taking my picture as A.J. led me inside.

  “Let’s see some ID! Both of you!” the bald agent barks. He’s younger than both of us.

  As I hand him my ID, I spot the orange-jeweled Secret Service pin on the lapel of his jacket.

  “Take it easy. We’re on the same side,” Marshall says coldly, pulling out his own driver’s license plus the government ID that he uses when he breaks into a public facility and gets questioned. “Next time, though, maybe you should identify yourself a little earlier,” Marshall adds, getting face-to-face with him. “Otherwise, you may get your arm broken.”

  “I was going to say the same about your neck,” the bald agent replies.

  Within seconds, they’re chest to chest, dueling egos. Most people look away when they’re this close to Marshall. Andy Warhol doesn’t seem to be bothered.

  “Okay, everyone put your macho away,” I interrupt, pushing them apart and stepping between them. For a moment, Marshall pushes back, looking for a skirmish. But just as quickly, he lets it go.

  The bald agent stands there, studying our IDs. Eventually, he has no choice. “Next time, think about where you are,” he warns, motioning to the White House and tossing back my ID. Without another word, he follows the path back through the park.

  We both stand there, watching him from behind.

  He’s headed toward 17th Street.

  “You don’t think he’s Secret Service, do you?” I eventually ask.

  Marshall doesn’t answer. “I saw you steal his pin, Beecher.”