by Brad Meltzer
“So even before the Archives opened…”
“… a Mr. D. Gyrich has been going in there and looking at old books that just happened to once be owned by General George Washington. Still, the real marvel is his timing: three days before the massacre at Wounded Knee… six days before the Battle of Gettysburg… They’re still searching, but we found another all the way back to July 4th, 1826, when former Presidents Jefferson and Adams both died within hours of each other on Independence Day.”
“He’s like the evil Forrest Gump,” I say.
“You say ‘he’ like he’s one person—as if there’s one guy who’s been walking around since 1826,” Tot counters. “No offense, but vampire stories are overdone.”
“So you think it’s more than one person.”
“I have no idea what it is. But do I think there’re a bunch of people who could be using that name throughout history for some unknown reason? We’re in a building dedicated to housing and preserving the government’s greatest secrets. So yes, Beecher, I very much believe that that kind of Easter Bunny can exist. The only question is—”
“They’re communicating,” Clementine blurts.
Tot and I turn. She’s sitting at the dusty desk, flipping through Tot’s stack of photocopies.
“They’re talking to each other,” she repeats. “They’re coming in here and they’re using the books. That’s how George Washington communicated with his group. It’s like my d—” She cuts herself off. “Think of what Nico said.”
“You spoke to Nico?” Tot asks me. “What’d he say? He knew something? What could he possibly know?”
Tot’s questions come fast. They’re all fair. But what catches me by surprise is the intensity in his voice.
“Beecher, tell me what he said.”
“I will, but… can I ask you one thing first?”
“You said Nico—”
“Just one thing, Tot. Please,” I insist, refusing to let him interrupt. “Yesterday… before Orlando was killed…” I take a deep breath, vomiting it all before I can change my mind. “When I was in Orlando’s office earlier, on his caller ID… Why were you calling Orlando on the day he died?”
Clementine looks up from the paperwork. Tot freezes. And then, just as quickly, he smiles, his blind eye disappearing in a playful smirk.
“Good for you, Beecher. Good for you,” he insists, doing the thing where he twirls his finger in his beard. “I told you to not trust anyone, and you’re doing just that.”
“Tot…”
“No, don’t apologize. This is good, Beecher. Smart for you for asking that. This is exactly what you need to be doing.”
I nod, appreciative of his appreciation, but…
“You never said why you were calling him,” Clementine blurts.
Tot’s finger slowly twirls out of his beard. “My ID,” he says. “My Archives ID is about to expire, and they told me to call Orlando to get the paperwork for a new one.”
“I thought the IG does all our investigations,” I say, referring to the Inspector General’s office.
“They do. But Orlando’s the one who takes your photo. Go look. Across from his desk, there’s one of those passport backgrounds that you pull up and stand in front of.”
I look at Clementine, then at Tot. That’s all I need. He just saved our asses from Khazei, and gave us his car, and did all this Dustin Gyrich research for no other reason than that he’s my dearest friend.
“Beecher, if you don’t want to talk about Nico, it’s fine,” he offers.
“Just listen,” I tell him. “Do you know what the Culper Ring is?”
“Y’mean, as in George Washington’s spy brigade?”
“So you’ve heard of them?”
“Beecher, I’ve been here since before Joe Kennedy had chest hair. Of course I’ve heard of—” He catches himself as it all sinks in. “Oh. So that’s what Nico—”
“What?” I ask. “That’s what Nico what?”
He thinks a moment, still working the details. “Beecher, do you have any idea what the Culper Ring actually did?” Tot finally asks.
“Just like you said: They were Washington’s personal spy unit. That he used civilians to move information back and forth.”
“Yeah, no—and that’s right. They moved lots of information. Washington’s top military spies kept getting caught by the British—his plans kept getting intercepted, he didn’t know who to trust—so he turned to these civilians, these regular people, who wound up being unstoppable. But what the Culper Ring is really known for, and what they’re treasured by history for, is—” He again stops. “Have you ever seen whose statue sits outside the original headquarters of the CIA?”
“Tot, I’m good, but I don’t know this stuff like you do.”
“Nathan Hale. You know him?”
“I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country…”
“That’s the one. One of Washington’s earliest spies. And just to be clear, Hale never said that.”
“What?”
“He never said it, Beecher. The one life to lose for my country part came from a play which was popular during Revolutionary times. But do you know why our leaders lied and said Hale was such a hero? Because they knew it was better for the country to have a martyr than an incompetent spy. That’s all Hale was. A spy who got caught. He was hung by the British.”
“And this is important because…?”
“It’s important because when William Casey took over the CIA in the early eighties, it used to drive him crazy that there was a statue of Nathan Hale at headquarters. In his eyes, Nathan Hale was a spy who failed. Hale was captured. According to Casey, the statue in front of the CIA should’ve been of Robert Townsend.”
“Who’s Robert Townsend?” I ask.
“That’s exactly the point! Townsend was one of the members of the Culper Ring. But have you ever heard his name? Ever seen him mentioned in a history book? No. And why? Because for two hundred years, we didn’t even know Townsend was part of the Culper Ring. For two hundred years, he kept his secret! We only found out when someone did handwriting analysis on his old letters and they matched the ones to Washington. And that’s the real Culper Ring legacy. Sure, they moved information, but what they did better than anyone was keep their own existence a secret. Think about it: You can’t find them if you don’t know they exist.”
I look over at Clementine, who’s still flipping through the photocopied pull slips. I’m not sure what unnerves me more: the way this is going, or that Nico’s ramblings aren’t sounding as crazy as they used to.
“So this Dustin Gyrich guy—you think he’s part of…” As I say the words… as I think about Benedict Arnold… none of this makes sense. “You’re saying this Culper Ring still exists?”
“Beecher, at this exact moment, the only question that seems logical is, why wouldn’t they still exist? They were the best at what they did, right? They helped win a revolution. So you’ve got half a dozen men—”
“Hold on. That’s all there were? Half a dozen?”
“It think it was six… maybe seven… it wasn’t an army. It was Benjamin Tallmadge and Robert Townsend and I think George Washington’s personal tailor… they were a small group with loyalty directly to Washington. And if you’re George Washington, and you’re about to step into the Presidency, and you can’t trust anyone, why would you suddenly disband the one group that actually did right by you?”
“See, but there’s the problem,” I point out. “To assume that this Ring—whatever it really is—to assume it lasted all the way to now… No offense, but these days, even the CIA can’t keep their own spies’ real names off the front page of the newspaper. No way could this town keep a secret that big for that long.”
Tot looks at me with one of his Tot looks. “I know you have a security clearance, Beecher. Do you really think there aren’t any secrets left in our government?”
“Okay, maybe there are still a few secrets. I’m just saying, o
ver the course of two hundred years—with each new President and each new agenda—forget about even keeping the secret… how do we possibly know this group is still doing right?”
“I assume you’re talking about what happened with Orlando?”
“Y’mean that part where Orlando suddenly shows up dead right after it looks like he’s the one who has their book? Especially when I’m the one who has their book? Yeah, call me paranoid, but that’s kinda the part I’m focusing on right now.”
Tot runs his fingers down the metal ribbons of his bolo tie. He doesn’t like the sarcasm, but he understands the pressure I’m under. Behind him, Clementine is flipping even faster through the photocopies. Like she’s looking for something.
“Clemmi, you okay?” I call out.
“Yeah. Yeah, yeah,” she insists without looking up.
“Beecher, I hear you,” Tot continues. “And yes, over the course of two hundred years, who knows if this current Culper Ring has any relation to the original Culper Ring, but to assume that they’ve turned into the evil hand of history—”
“Did you not see that list?” I interrupt. “Hiroshima, Gettysburg, the Bay of Pigs—all we’re missing is the grassy knoll and theater tickets with John Wilkes Booth!”
“That’s fine, but to say that a single small group of men are at the cause of all those singular moments—that’s just stupid to me, Beecher. Life isn’t a bad summer movie. History’s too big to be controlled by so few.”
“I agree. And I’m not saying they’re controlling it, but to be so close on all those dates… they’ve clearly got access to some major information.”
“They’re communicating,” Clementine says again, still looking down. “That’s what I said before. That’s what Nico said: To send messages to his Culper Ring, Washington used to hide stuff directly in his books. So maybe today… they put info in a book, then someone picks up that book and reads the message.”
“That’s… yeah… can’t it be that?” I say with a nod. “These guys have information—they sit close to the President, so they traffic in information—and in this case, in this book that was left in the SCIF, President Wallace has information.”
“Or someone has information for President Wallace,” Tot points out.
“Or that. That’s fine,” I say. “Either way, maybe this is how they share it.”
“Okay—that’s a theory—I can see that. But if it’s really that earth-shattering, why not just bring it directly to the President?”
“Look at the results: Dustin Gyrich comes in here, then—kaboom—World War I. Another visit, then—kaboom—Hiroshima. This isn’t small stuff. So for Gyrich to be back yesterday, there’s clearly something big that—”
“Wait. Hold on. Say that again,” Tot interrupts.
“Clearly something big?”
“Before that…”
“For Gyrich to be back yesterday?”
“We never checked, did we?” Tot asks.
“Checked what?”
“Gyrich’s visit. We know the dictionary was on hold for him yesterday, but we never checked if Gyrich actually physically came into the building…”
I see where he’s going. If Gyrich was here, if he checked in as a researcher and signed the log, we’ve got the possibility of having him on video, or at the very least fingerprints that can tell us who he really—
“Clemmi, c’mon…” I call out, already starting to run.
Clementine doesn’t move. She’s still flipping through the pull slips—the slips that every visitor has to fill out to look at a particular volume or box of documents—scanning each one like she’s reading a prescription bottle.
“Clemmi!” I call again.
Nothing.
I dart to the desk and grab at the pile of photocopies. “C’mon, we can read this after—”
Her arm springs out, desperately clutching the pages. She’s practically in tears. “Please, Beecher. I need to know.”
Within seconds, she’s back to scanning the documents.
Over her shoulder, I check the dates of the pull slips, trying to get context. July 7, July 10, July 30—all of them from ten years ago. What the hell happened in July ten y—?
Oh.
“You’re looking for Nico, aren’t you?” I ask.
She flips to another sheet.
At the NASCAR track. Ten years ago. That’s when Nico took the shots at President—
“Please tell me they didn’t know about that,” I say.
She shakes her head, unable to look up at me. There’s only so many punches this poor girl can take in one day. “They didn’t,” she says, her voice shaking as she nears the end of the pull slips.
“That’s good, right? That’s good.”
“I-I-I guess,” she says. “I don’t even know if I was hoping for it or not… but if this Culper Ring knew about all those other parts of history… I… I dunno. I just thought they might—”
“Clemmi, it’s okay,” I tell her. “Only a fool wouldn’t’ve checked. It’s completely—”
“You don’t have to say it’s normal, Beecher. Searching to see if some secret two-hundred-year-old group knew about the day your father tried to murder the President… We’re a little far from normal.”
I know she’s right, but before I can tell her, I feel the vibration of my phone in my pocket. Caller ID tells me it’s the one call I’ve been waiting for. Extension 75343. The Preservation Lab downstairs.
“You ready for it, Beecher?” Daniel the Diamond asks before I can even say hello.
“You were able to read it?” I say.
“It’s invisible ink, not the Rosetta Stone. Now you want to come down here and see what’s written in this book or not?”
40
Andre Laurent hated hats.
He always hated them—even on a day like today, when the late afternoon winds were galloping down from the Capitol, barreling full force as they picked up speed in the wide canyon created by the buildings that lined Pennsylvania Avenue. Sure, a hat would keep him warm. But as Andre Laurent knew—as any barber knew—a hat did only one thing: ruin a good day’s work.
Still, as Laurent leaned into the wind, fighting his way up the block toward the huge granite building, he never once thought about removing his red Washington Nationals baseball cap.
He knew its benefits, especially as he made a final sharp right, leaving the wind tunnel of Pennsylvania Avenue and heading under the awning that led to the automatic doors of the National Archives.
“Looks like Dorothy and Toto are flying around out there,” the guard at the sign-in desk called out as Laurent pushed his way into the lobby, bringing a frosty swirl of cold air with him.
“It’s not that bad,” Laurent said.
He meant it. Compared to the permanent gray of Ohio, the winters in D.C. were easy. But as he approached the sign-in desk, Laurent couldn’t help but think that was the only thing that was easier here.
Especially over the last few months.
“Research, or you got an appointment?” the guard asked.
“Research,” Laurent said, noticing just how bushy the guard’s eyebrows were. They definitely needed a trim, he thought, reaching for the ID Palmiotti had given him and carefully readjusting his baseball cap, which right now was the only thing protecting his face from the ceiling’s security camera.
“And your name again?”
Laurent leaned against the sign-in desk, which was built like an airline counter—so tall it came up to his chest. He never liked coming here. But as they knew, the President couldn’t get his hair cut every single day. “You don’t recognize me by now? I’m here all the time,” Laurent said as he held up the ID. “I’m Dustin Gyrich.”
41
You talk me up to Rina yet?” the Diamond asks.
“You’re joking, right?” I shoot back. “How fast you think I am?”
“Plenty fast,” he says, nodding a hello to Tot and taking a quick glance at Clementine. “Kinda like
I was with this invisible ink problem you got.”
He cocks both eyebrows, thinking he’s hysterical. With a pivot, he spins toward the lab, inviting us inside.
“By the way, where’s she from?” he adds, his back to us as he throws a thumb at Clementine.
“She’s… er…” I reach over to Clementine and tuck the red Visitor ID badge that Tot got her inside the lapel of her jacket. “She works in Modern Military in College Park,” I add, referring to our facility out in Maryland. “Her name’s Lucy.”
“Lucy?” Clementine mouths, making a face.
“Nice to meet you, Lucy,” the Diamond says, his back still to us. “It’s kooky though that a full-time employee would be wearing a visitor’s badge.”
I don’t say a word as we pass a bank of map cabinets and storage units. I shouldn’t be surprised. He spends every day studying the tiniest of details.
“Listen, Daniel…” Tot begins.
“Tot, I don’t care. I really don’t,” he insists. “Beecher, just make sure you put the word in with Rina. Fair trade?”
I nod. Fair trade.
“Okay, so on to your next nightmare,” he says, leading us to a square lab table in back that’s covered by an array of sky blue plastic developing trays, like you find in a darkroom. On the edge of the lab table is our copy of Entick’s Dictionary. “How much you know about invisible ink?”
“I remember fifth-grade science fair: Someone writes it in lemon juice, then you heat the paper and voilà…”
As I flip the dictionary open, there’s now a sheet of see-through archival tissue paper protecting each page. But except for where it says,
Exitus
Acta
Probat
… that front inside page is otherwise still blank.
“I thought you said you found the writing,” Tot challenges, nearly as annoyed as I am.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” the Diamond begs. “Whoever put this in here—they’re not playing Little League. This is pro ball,” he explains. “The best secret inks date back thousands of years, to China and Egypt—and by the eighteenth century, they were almost universally based on some organic liquid like leeks or limes or even urine. And like you said, a little heat would reveal the writing. But as George Washington understood, it’s not much of a secret when every British soldier knows that all you have to do is wave a candle to see the magic appear.”
