by Brad Meltzer
“Nico Hadrian,” I blurt.
Her eyes jump back and forth, fighting to process. I wait for her to lean on the end of the metal shelves for support, but her body stays stiff. She’s trying to will herself back to calm. It’s not working. “N-Nico? Y’mean, like the guy who—”
“Him. Mm-hmm. Nico Hadrian.” I nod, hoping to soften the blow. But there’s no other way to say it. “The man who tried to shoot President—”
“But he’s alive, right?”
“Yeah, sure—I mean, I think he’s in a mental hospital…”
“But he’s alive. My dad’s alive.” She reaches for the metal shelf on her left, but never grabs it. “It’s—it’s not what I expected, but I think—I think—I think—this is better than being dead, isn’t it?—it’s better,” she insists, blinking over and over, brushing away the tears. “I was so scared he’d be dead.” Her eyes stare straight ahead, like she can’t even see I’m there. “I didn’t think he’d be this, but—There are worse things in life, right?”
“Clementine, are you—?”
“There are worse things in life. He could’ve been dead; he could’ve been—” She cuts herself off, and slowly—right in front of me—it’s like she’s finally hearing her own words. Her jawbone shifts in her cheek. Her knees buckle. Before, she was unprepared. Now she’s unraveling.
I grab her arm, tugging hard. Time to get her out of here. At the end of one of the stacks—the real end this time—I push a metal door open and the dusty old stacks on the ninth floor dump us into the polished office hallway on the third floor of the main building.
The sirens from the motorcade still scream through the hall. No doubt, the President is inside the Archives by now, probably already in the SCIF with Dallas and Rina. The sirens should be fading soon. But as we head down the final steps to the lobby, as I tuck the coat-covered book tight under my arm and tug Clementine along, the sirens keep wailing. By the time I wave my badge and hear the click that opens the heavy door, there are a half dozen armed Secret Service agents standing in the lobby. The sirens are louder than ever.
A blast of mean December air from outside nearly knocks over the lobby’s Christmas tree as it sends its shredded paper decorations flying. On my right, I spy the source of the sudden wind tunnel: The automatic doors that lead out to Pennsylvania Avenue are wide open.
“Step aside! Emergency!” someone yells as a gleaming metal gurney comes blasting through the entrance, pushed by two impassive paramedics in dark blue long-sleeved shirts.
“What’s going on?” I ask the nearest uniformed Secret Service guy. “Something happen with the President?”
He glances at my badge, making sure I’m staff. “You think we’d be standing here if that were the case? We took him out of here six minutes ago. This is one of yours.”
A strand of shredded paper kisses the side of my face, hooking around my ear. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. “How do you mean, one of ours?”
“One of them,” he clarifies, pointing with his nose at the Security guys who run the main check-in desk. “Apparently, some poor guy had a seizure—or heart attack—they found him on the floor of his office. I think they said his name was…”
“Orlando!?” a guard shouts from the check-in desk.
“Orlando!?” Clementine blurts behind me.
No. No no. He didn’t just say—
The string of shredded paper slips off my ear, blowing into a small swirl at the center of the marble lobby. Clementine is silent behind me.
There’s no way. I was just… he was just…
“Beecher,” Clementine whispers behind me.
I’m already running, dragging her with me by her hand.
This isn’t happening. Please tell me this isn’t happening.
But it is.
10
Move! Move it! Move!” I yell, running full speed up the bright white basement hallway with the white-and-gray checkerboard floor. The magic key bounces against my chest as I fight my way through the insta-crowd that’s already forming outside Orlando’s office.
I’m not a big person. Or strong. But I have two older sisters. I know how to get what I want:
I lie.
“We’re with them!” I shout as I point to the paramedics who’re barely fifty feet ahead, riding their wake as they pull me and Clementine through the crowd.
Not a single Archives employee tries to stop me. Archivists aren’t built for confrontation. They’re built for observation, which explains why small groups of gawkers fill the hall all the way to the front door of the Security Office.
I hear more whispers as I run: Orlando…? Orlando…! Heard a seizure… Orlando…!
“Don’t assume the worst. He could be okay,” Clementine says.
I refuse to argue as we squeeze into the large office suite. Inside, it’s quiet and looks like any other: a long rectangular layout spotted with cubicles and a few private offices. All the action is on our left, where I hear the squawks and crackles of far too many walkie-talkies. The paramedics have them. Security has them. And so does the small team of firefighters who arrived earlier and are now in a small circle at the center of the office, crouched on their knees like kids studying an anthill.
“They’re still working on him,” Clementine says.
That’s good news. If they’re working on him…
But they’re not working. There’re no frenzied movements. No CPR.
“On three,” they call out, getting ready to lift the stretcher. “One… two…”
There’s a metal howl as the stretcher’s steel legs extend and pins and sockets bite into place. With a tug, the firefighters pull tight on the black Velcro straps that tighten around the white sheet…
Not just a sheet… under the sheet…
Orlando.
One of the firefighters takes a half-step back and we get a short but perfect view of Orlando’s face. His skin is dry like a faded chalkboard. You don’t need a medical degree to know when you’re staring at a dead man.
“Beecher, take a breath,” Clementine whispers behind me. “Don’t pass out.”
“I’m not going to pass out.”
“You are. I can see you are.”
“What do you want me to do? That’s—We—This man’s my friend!”
I crane my neck to look through the crowd, studying Orlando’s profile. His head is tilted to the side—almost toward us—and the bottom right corner of his mouth sags slightly open and down, the way my mom looked when she had the complications with her heart surgery.
“He was just—We just saw him,” Clementine whispers.
I try to focus on Orlando’s eyes, which are closed and peaceful. But that bottom corner of his mouth, sagging open so slightly…
“I’m so sorry,” Clementine offers.
A whiplash of pain stings my heart, my lungs—like every one of my organs is made of crushed glass. The shattered pieces cascade like sand down my chest, landing in my stomach.
Please tell me this wasn’t because we were in that room… I say to myself.
“You heard them,” Clementine says, reading me perfectly. “He had a heart attack… or a seizure.”
I try to believe that. I really do. There’s no reason to think otherwise. No reason at all. Except for that gnawing ache that’s tunneling through my belly.
“What?” she whispers. “How could it not be a heart attack?”
“I’m not saying it’s not, but… it’s a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? I mean, think of the odds: Right after we find that hiding spot, Orlando just happens to—” I lower my voice, refusing to say it. But she hears it. When Orlando made that call through the intercom, he put himself on record. He’s the only one listed as being in the SCIF, so if someone else went in that room after we left, if they went looking for—
Oh crap.
I look down at my bundled lab coat covered in coffee stains. It’s squeezed by my armpit. But all I feel are the worn edges of what’s hidden unde
rneath.
The book. Of course. The stupid book. If that was left there for the President, and they thought Orlando took it—
“Beecher, get it out of your head,” Clementine warns. “For anyone to find out he was even in there… no one’s that fast.”
I nod. She’s right. She’s absolutely right.
In fact, besides us, the only person who even knew Orlando was in there was—
“What an effin’ nightmare, eh?” a soft-spoken voice asks.
I stand up straight as a burning sting of vomit springs up my throat. I know that voice. I heard it earlier. Through the intercom. When he buzzed us into the SCIF.
“Venkat Khazei,” says a tall Indian man with low ears and thin black hair that’s pressed in a military-combed side part. He knows I know who he is, and as he puts a cold hand on my shoulder, I notice that he’s got the shiniest manicured fingernails I’ve ever seen. I also notice the equally shiny badge that’s clipped to his waist. Deputy Chief of Security—National Archives.
And the only person who I’m absolutely sure knew that Orlando was in that SCIF and near that book.
“Beecher, right?” he asks, his sparkling fingers still on my shoulder. “You got a half moment to chat?”
* * *
11
What a horror—and especially with you two being so close, eh?” Khazei asks, his accent polished, like a Yale professor. Across from us, a firewoman covers Orlando’s face by pulling up the thin bedsheet that’s neither crisp nor white. The sheet’s been beaten and washed so many times, it’s faded to the color of fog. Worst of all, it’s not big enough to really cover him, so as he lies there on the stretcher, as the paramedics confer with the firefighters, Orlando’s black work boots stick out from the bottom like he’s in a magician’s trick, about to float and levitate.
But there’s no trick.
“Pardon?” I ask.
“I saw you run in with the paramedics… the concern you were wearing.” Khazei stands calmly next to me, shoulder to shoulder, like any other person in the crowd. He’s careful to keep his voice low, but he never steps back, never tries to draw me out or get me to talk somewhere private. I’m hoping that’s good. Whatever he’s fishing for, he still doesn’t know exactly where he’s supposed to be fishing. But that doesn’t mean he’s not hiding a hook.
“We’re both from Wisconsin—he was always nice to me,” I admit, never taking my eyes off the body, which sits right in front of Orlando’s open cubicle. On the floor, there’s a small pile of scattered papers and books fanned out at the foot of Orlando’s desk. They could easily be the papers Orlando knocked over when he toppled from his chair. But to me, even as Khazei takes his manicured fingers off my shoulder, they can just as easily be the aftermath of someone doing a quick search through his belongings. But what would they be looking—?
Wait.
The video.
In the SCIF. Orlando grabbed that video so no one would know we were there. So no one would know what we grabbed. We. Including me. But if someone sees that video… If someone finds out I was in that room… Maybe that’s why Orlando was—
No, you don’t know that, I tell myself. I again try to believe it. But I’m not believing anything until I get some details. And until I’m sure that videotape is in my own hands.
“Do we even know what happened? Anyone see anything?” I ask.
Khazei pauses. He doesn’t want to answer. Still, he knows he’s not getting info until he gives some.
“Our receptionist said Orlando was being his usual self,” he explains, “said he was humming ‘Eye of the Tiger’ when he walked in—which is sadly typical—then he headed back to his cube and then…” Khazei falls silent as we both study the covered body. It’s the first time I notice that, across the room, mixed in with the still growing crowd, are two familiar faces—one with a crappy beard, the other with her green reading glasses and triple-knotted shoes.
Dallas and Rina.
Clementine coughs loudly from behind. I don’t turn around. So far, Khazei hasn’t even looked at her. He has no idea we’re together. Considering who we just found out her dad is, that’s probably for the better.
“Y’know he had sleep apnea, right? Always bitching about going to bed wearing one of those masks,” Khazei explains.
I’m still studying Dallas and Rina, my fellow archivists. Unlike everyone else, who’s pretty much standing behind us, the two of them are deep on the other side of the room, facing us from behind the cubicles. Like they’ve been here for a bit. Or are looking for something.
I continue to check each desk, searching for the videotape.
“One of the firefighters even said that if the stress gets high enough, you can trigger a seizure, but—” Khazei shakes his head. “When you spoke to Orlando earlier, he seem bothered or upset about anything?”
“No, he was—” I stop and look up at Khazei. He’s not wearing a grin, but I feel it. Until this moment, I’d never mentioned that I’d spoken to Orlando earlier.
Dammit.
I’m smarter than that. I need to be smarter than that. But the longer I stand here, the more I keep thinking that there’s only one possible reason Orlando died. And right now, that reason is wrapped in my lab coat and clutched by my now soaking armpit.
“I’m just trying to talk with you, Beecher. Just be honest with me. Please.”
He adds the Please to sound nice. But I’m done being suckered. Of the forty people rubbernecking around the office, I’m the one he’s decided to chat with. That alone means one of two things: Either he’s a hell of a good guesser, or he’s got something else he’s not saying.
I replay the past half hour in my head, scouring for details. But the only one I keep coming back to is Orlando’s Roman Numeral Two: If this book does belong to the President, and the President finds out we have it, he’s going to declare war on…
On us. That’s how Orlando put it.
But there is no us. Not anymore.
Orlando’s dead. And that means that whatever’s really happening here—whether it’s the President or Khazei or someone else that’s playing puppetmaster—the only one left to declare war on…
Is me.
A single bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck.
Across the way, Dallas and Rina continue to stand there, still facing us from the far end of the room. Dallas grips the top of a nearby cubicle. Rina’s right behind him. Sure, they saw us in the hallway—just outside the elevator—but that doesn’t tell them I was in the SCIF, or, more important, that I’m the one who actually has the book. In fact, the more I think about it, there’s only one way anyone could’ve known we were in there.
My brain again flips back to the video.
“Beecher, you understand what I’m saying?” Khazei asks.
When Orlando grabbed that videotape, he told us it was the best way to keep us safe—that as long as no one knew we were in there, we could still be Mark Felt. But if that tape is out there… if someone already has their hands on it… they’d have proof we were in the room and found the book, which means they’d already be aiming their missiles at—
“Were you with him all afternoon?” Khazei asks. “What time did you leave him?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just reacting to your words, Beecher. You said you were with Orlando. But if you want, take a look at your calendar… at your datebook… whatever you keep it in. My only concern is getting an accurate timeline.”
I nod at his swell of helpfulness. “Yeah… no… I’ll look at my calendar.”
“I appreciate that. Especially because…” He pauses a moment, making sure I see his smile. “… well, you know how people get.”
“How people get about what?”
“About things they don’t really know about that they think they know about,” he says, his voice as kind as ever. “So if I were wearing your shoes, Beecher, the last thing I’d want is to suddenly be known as the last person to be alone with the
security guard who mysteriously just dropped dead. I mean, unless of course it was just a heart attack.”
On the back of my neck, my single drop of sweat swells into a tidal wave as I start to see the new reality I’m now sitting in. Until this moment, I thought the worst thing that could come from that videotape was that it made me look like a book thief. But the way the picture’s suddenly been repainted, that’s nothing compared to making me look like a murderer.
“Make way, people! Coming through!” the paramedics call out, shoving the stretcher and slowly rolling Orlando’s body back toward the reception desk.
The crowd does the full Red Sea part, clearing a path.
But as we all squeeze together, I once again eye Orlando’s cubicle, searching his messy desk, scanning the papers fanned across the floor, and scouring the office for—
There.
I didn’t look for it before—didn’t know it was that important—back in the corner, just outside his cubicle. Right where Dallas and Rina were first standing.
There’s a black rolling cart, like you see in every A/V department, with a small TV on top. But I’m far more interested in what’s underneath.
I push forward, trying to fight through the crowd as it squeezes back, bleeding into other cubicles to make way for the stretcher.
“Easy!” a middle-aged woman in full security uniform snaps, shoving me back with a shoulder.
It’s just the shove I need. On the lower shelf of the A/V cart sits an ancient bulky VCR. Like the one upstairs, it’s a top-loader. Unlike the one upstairs, the basket that holds the tape is standing at full attention, already ejected.
And empty.
