by Brad Meltzer
As he entered the mint green Finding Aids room on the first floor of the Archives, Laurent didn’t waste a single second.
Without question, today was very much about speed. Most of the time, the goal was to move slowly—to go to the upstairs research room, pull a cart full of documents and pamphlets and half a dozen other records, and then hide what they needed right in plain sight.
But if what it said in A Problem from Hell was true… if someone else had grabbed the dictionary…
He didn’t even want to think about it.
A quick scan of the room told him he at least picked the right time. God bless government employees. This close to five, nearly all the staff was gone.
“Can we help you?” an older employee called out as she wheeled a rolling cart filled with small boxes toward the microfilm reading room on their far left.
“I’m actually okay,” Laurent said, waving his thanks, but not moving until she was gone.
When she was out of sight, he cut past the main research desk and headed for the bookshelves that lined the walls of the room. Ignoring record group numbers, he started counting. The one… two… three… fourth—here—fourth bookshelf on the right. Like nearly every other shelf in the room, it was filled with old leather books—mostly brown and dark blue, but a few red ones as well—each volume dedicated to a different subject matter. On the top shelf was a row of black binders and some pamphlets. According to the spines, Record Group 267.
Laurent nodded. That’s the one. Glancing over his shoulder, he double-checked that the supervisor was gone.
All clear.
Reaching to the top shelf, he used two fingers to tip back one of the thick black binders. As he removed it with one hand, he placed it squarely on top of the book he was carrying—A Problem from Hell—and then, in one easy motion, slid both books onto the top shelf and headed for the door.
The theory was so simple it was elegant. Archives employees are concerned about visitors sneaking records out. But no one ever suspects someone sneaking something in.
There it sat. Just another book in the world’s biggest archive.
Thirty seconds after that, Laurent was gone.
Thirty seconds after that, he was outside, using a crowd of departing employees to keep him out of the eyespace of security.
And thirty seconds after that, he was on his phone, dialing the number that by now he knew by heart.
As it began to ring, a beat-up Toyota whizzed by. On the back was a faded presidential bumper sticker: Don’t Blame Me—I Didn’t Vote For Wallace.
In the barber’s ear, the phone stopped ringing. Someone picked up.
Laurent didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
Without a word, he shut the phone. Message sent.
Fourth bookcase. Top shelf. Fast as can be.
Just like the client wanted.
* * *
46
He’s gone,” I say.
“Check his desk,” Tot says.
I go cubicle to cubicle, passing my own in our office on the fourth floor, but I already know the answer.
When we first got here, I saw the metal wipe-off board and the little magnet heads with our pictures on them. There were two people in the IN column. Everyone else is OUT. Including the one archivist we came here to see: Dallas.
“No answer on his cell. Maybe he’s downstairs,” Tot says. “Or in the stacks.”
“He’s not,” I say, heading back to the magnets in front. “You know how he is—he doesn’t check out until the moment he’s leaving. God forbid we shouldn’t know that he’s always working and—Hold on. Where’s Clementine?”
Tot looks over his shoulder. The door that leads out to the hallway is still open.
“Clemmi?” I call out, craning my neck outside.
She’s sitting down, cross-legged on the tiles. “Sorry, I’m just—It’s been a long day.”
“Y’think? Usually, when I meet my long-lost father, and get nabbed by Security, and find secret writings that may lead me to a murder, I’m way peppier than that.”
Forcing a smile, she reaches up and grips the doorframe to help her stand. But as she climbs to her feet, her face—it’s not just white anymore. It’s green.
“You’re really not okay, are you?”
“Will you stop? I’m fine,” she insists, forcing another smile. But as she tucks a few stray strands of black hair behind her ear, I see the slight shake in her hand. I’ve had twenty years to romanticize Clementine’s strength. It’s the worst part of seeing old friends: when your rose-colored memories become undone by reality.
“We should get you home,” I say, quickly realizing that, in all my excitement to see her, I have no idea where she lives. “Where in Virginia are you going? Is it far?”
“I can take the Metro.”
“I’m sure you can. But where’re you going?”
“By Winchester. Not far from Shenandoah University.”
I look at Tot, who’s already shaking his head. That’s far. Real far. “You sure the Metro goes out there?” I ask.
“Metro, then commuter bus. Will you relax? I do it all the time.”
I again look at Tot. He again shakes his head.
“Don’t ask me to drive her,” Tot says.
“I’m not asking you to drive her.”
“And don’t ask me for my car,” he warns.
I don’t say a word. Clementine’s face is green; her hand still has the shakes. Tot may not like her. And he may not like how overprotective she’s being. But even he can see it. She’s not making it home by herself.
“I’m fine,” she promises.
“Beecher…” Tot warns.
“It’ll be good. You’ll see.”
“No. I won’t see,” Tot says. “I’m tired and I’m cranky, and thanks to your dictionary I got nothing done today. The last thing I need is a two-hour tour of Virginia. You take her home, you come back and pick me up.”
“Right. Yes. You got it.”
Within six minutes and nineteen seconds, Clementine and I are in the powder blue Mustang, pulling out of the Archives garage and plowing into the evening traffic.
I know Tot’s worried. He’s always worried. But when I think of what we’ve been through today…
How could it possibly get worse?
* * *
47
The archivist had to make one stop first.
With Beecher now gone, it wouldn’t take long.
Just a quick moment to duck back into Finding Aids and head for the one… two… three… fourth bookshelf on the right. The archivist glanced back, but knew no one was here. That’s why they picked this room in the first place.
The President was always so focused on the SCIF. And that made sense. The SCIF was secure. The SCIF was perfect.
Until yesterday, when it wasn’t.
Reaching for the top shelf, the archivist shoved aside the black binders and went right for the book. A Problem from Hell.
From a pocket, the archivist took out a small plastic bottle about the size of a shot glass with a triangular nipple on top. The nipple was actually a sponge. The archivist flipped to the copyright page of the book, turned over the small bottle, and let the liquid mixture that was inside the plastic bottle soak into the triangular sponge. With a quick few brushes, the archivist painted the page.
Within seconds, small green handwriting revealed itself.
The archivist read it fast, already knowing most of it. But at the end…
The archivist nodded. When it came to Beecher… and this woman Clementine… That’s exactly what had to happen.
The words faded back to nothingness as the archivist slapped the book shut and headed through the lobby, out into the cold of Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Taxi!”
A black-and-yellow cab bucked to a stop.
“Where you going tonight?” an older cabbie with a round nose and thick bifocals asked, handing the archivist a laminated card as he slid inside.<
br />
“What’s this?” the archivist said.
“My mission statement.”
Sure enough, the laminated card said: To take you to your destination in an environment that is most pleasing to you. Underneath was a listing of all the local radio stations.
Only in D.C. Everyone’s a damn overachiever.
“Just turn the corner up here,” the archivist said. “I’m waiting for some friends—they’re in a light blue Mustang.”
“Y’mean like that one?” the cabbie asked, pointing through the windshield as the classic car, with Beecher and Clementine inside, climbed up the security ramp and made a sharp right into traffic.
“That’s the one. Beautiful automobile, huh?”
“Y’want me to follow it? Like the movies?” the cabbie asked.
“You can stay back a bit. Even if you lose them,” the archivist said, holding A Problem from Hell on the seat, “I already know where they’re going.”
48
You feeling any better?” I ask Clementine.
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t sound better. That sounds like a yeah.”
She sits with it a moment, staring into the mirror on her side of the car and eyeing the bright lights of the mob of cars behind us. Using the rearview, I do the same, making mental notes of who’s behind us: a blue Acura, a few SUVs, a disproportionate number of hybrids, and the usual rush-hour taxis. Nothing out of the ordinary. It doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Tot hates me,” Clementine says.
“Why would you say that?”
“Y’mean besides the long glares and accusatory stares—or maybe when I answered my phone and he basically said, Who’re you talking to? I hate you?”
“He’s just worried about me.”
“If he were worried, he’d be sitting in this car right now. He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t trust me.”
“Well, I trust you.”
As I tug the wheel into another right and follow the rush-hour traffic up Constitution Avenue, she doesn’t respond.
“What, now I don’t trust you?” I ask.
“Beecher, the fact you were there for me today—with Nico—I know how you feel. And I pray you know how I feel. In all these years… People aren’t nice to me the way you’re nice to me. But the only thing I don’t understand: How come you never told me what you saw in those call numbers—y’know, in the book?”
She’s talking about the invisible ink message:
Exitus
FEBRUARY 16
Acta
26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET
Probat
WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427
“You know what those numbers mean, don’t you?” she asks. “You know what books they are.”
I shake my head.
“Beecher, you don’t have to tell me. Honestly, you don’t. But if I can help—”
“They’re not books,” I say.
Making a left and following the parade of cars as it edges toward I-395 and the signs for the 14th Street Bridge, I take another glance at the rearview. SUVs, hybrids, taxis—a few pushy drivers elbow their way in, but for the most part, everything’s in the same place.
“Beecher, I was there. The guy in Preservation said—”
“The Diamond doesn’t know what he—”
“Wait. What’s the diamond?”
“Daniel. In Preservation. That’s his nickname. The Diamond,” I tell her. “And while he’s clearly the expert on book construction and chemical reactions, he doesn’t know squat about library science—because if he did, he’d know that neither of those is a call number.”
She squints as if she’s trying to reread the numbers from memory.
“NC 38.548.19 or WU 773.427,” I repeat for her. “They look like library call numbers, right? But they’re both missing their cutters.” Reading her confusion, I explain, “In any call number, there’re two sets of letters. The NC is the first set—the N tells us it’s Art. All N books have to do with art. The C will tell you what kind of art—Renaissance, modern, et cetera. But before the last set of numbers—the 19—there’s always another letter—the cutter. It cuts down the subject, telling you the author or title or some other subdivision so you can find it. Without that second letter, it’s not a real call number.”
“Maybe they left out the second letters on purpose.”
“I thought so too. Then I saw the other listing: WU 773.427.”
“And the W stands for…?”
“That’s the problem. W doesn’t stand for anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Years ago, every library had their own individual system. But to make things more uniform, when the world switched over to the Library of Congress system, every letter was assigned to a different subject. Q stood for Science. K stood for Law. But three letters—W, X, and Y—they never got assigned to anything.”
“So if a book begins with an X—”
“Actually, Xs sometimes mean books that’re held behind the main desk, maybe because they’re racy or dirty—guess where X-rated comes from? But you get the picture. A book that starts WU… that’s just not a book at all.”
“Could it be something besides a book?”
“Ten bucks says that’s what Tot’s working on right now,” I explain as I check in the rearview. The towering Archives building is long gone. “I know under the filing system for Government Publications, W is for the old War Department. But WU—it doesn’t exist.”
“So it can’t be anything?”
“Anything can be anything. But whatever it is, it’s not in the regular system, which means it could be in an older library that doesn’t use the system, or a private one, or a—”
“What kind of private one? Like someone’s personal library?” she asks.
I rub my thumbs in tiny circles on the steering wheel, digesting the thought. Huh. With all the running around for Dustin Gyrich, I hadn’t thought about that.
“Y’think the President has his own private library at the White House?” she asks.
I stay silent.
“Beecher, y’hear what I said?”
I nod, but I’m quiet, my thumbs still making tiny circles.
“What’s wrong? Why’re you shutting down like that?” she asks. Before I can say anything, she knows the answer.
“You’re worried you can’t win this,” she adds.
All I hear are Orlando’s words from that first moment we found the book in the SCIF. Name me one person ever who went up against a sitting President and walked away the same way they walked in. “I know we can’t win this. No one can win this. No one wins against a President.”
“That’s not true. As long as you have that book—and as long as he doesn’t know you have that book—you have him, Beecher. You can use that to—”
I start breathing hard. My thumb-circles get faster.
“You okay?” she asks.
I stay silent.
“Beecher, what’s wrong?”
Staring straight ahead, I motion outside. “Bridges. I don’t like bridges.”
She glances to her right as we’re halfway up the incline. But it’s not until the road peaks and we pass the glowing white columns along the back of the Jefferson Memorial that she spots the wide blackness of the Potomac River fanning out ahead of us. The 14th Street Bridge’s wide road doesn’t look like a bridge. But based on the shade of green that now matches my face with hers, she knows it feels like one.
“You’re kidding, right?” she laughs.
I don’t laugh back. “My father died on a bridge.”
“And my father tried to kill the President. Top that.”
“Please stop talking now. I’m trying not to throw up by visualizing that I’m back in colonial times writing letters with a dipped-ink pen.”
“That’s fine, but have you even seen what you’re missing? This view,” she adds, pointing out her window, “you can see the entire back of the Je
fferson Memorial.”
“I’ve seen the view. We have the finest shots in the world in our photographic records. We have the early files from when the commission was first discussing it. We even have the original blueprints that—”
“Stop the car.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard. Stop the car. Trust me.”
“Clemmi, I’m not—”
She grips the handle and kicks the car door open. Blasts of cold air create a vacuum that sucks our hair, and a stray napkin on the floor, to the right. The tires of the car choom-choom-choom across the plates in the bridge’s roadbed.
I slam the brakes and an opera of horns finds quick harmony behind us. As I jerk the wheel and pull us along the shoulder of the bridge, the open door of the Mustang nearly scrapes against the concrete barrier.
“Are you mental!?” I shout as we buck to a stop. “This isn’t some eighth grade—!”
“Don’t do that.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t go to eighth grade… don’t talk about something old… don’t bring up old memories that have nothing to do with who we are now. This is all that matters! Today,” she says as the horns keep honking behind us.
“The cops are gonna be here in two seconds,” I say, keeping my head down and staring at my crotch to avoid looking over the bridge. “You can’t stop at national monuments.”
“Sure you can. We just did. Now look up and tell me what you see.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Just try. I know you can.”
“Clemmi…”
“Try, Beecher. Just try.”
In the distance, I hear the sirens.
“Please,” she adds as if she’s pleading for my soul.
In no mood to face another set of law enforcement officers, and still hearing Orlando calling me Professor Indiana Jones, I raise my head and quickly glance to the right. It lasts a second. Maybe two. The wind’s made a wreck of Clementine’s hair, but over her shoulder I have a clear view of the bright white dome of the Jefferson Memorial. I pause, surprised to feel my heart quicken.
