by Brad Meltzer
It took less than a minute in all. Even if someone was watching, he looked like just another mourner at another grave.
But as Palmiotti strode back to the concrete path and the snow seeped into his socks, he could tell—by the mere fact he was out here, and the fact that someone else had found out what they had done all those years ago—the end was coming.
This would all be over soon. It had to be.
To get this far, to climb this high, you had to be capable of a great many things. And on that night all those years ago—to protect their future… to protect his and Wallace’s dreams—Palmiotti found out exactly what he was capable of.
It wasn’t easy for him. And it wasn’t easy for him now. But as he learned from his own father, big lives required big sacrifice. The thing is, growing up in Ohio, Palmiotti never thought he’d have a big life. He thought he’d have a good life. Not a big one. Not until that first day of fifth grade, when he met Orson Wallace. But if Wallace was proof of anything, it was that, for Palmiotti, the big life was finally possible.
Still, to look at all that Palmiotti had sacrificed over the years—his time, his marriage, his defunct medical practice—to look at his life and realize that all those sacrifices were about to become worthless…
No. Palmiotti was capable of far more than anyone expected. And that’s exactly why the President kept him so close.
No matter what, this would be the end.
And there was nothing Beecher could do to stop it.
64
As Tot and I wait at the guardhouse, blocked by the yellow metal antiram barrier that sticks out from the concrete, we both reach for our IDs.
“Beautiful morning,” the guard with the bright white teeth calls out, waving us through without even approaching the car.
The metal barrier churns and lowers with its usual shriek, biting into the ground. We both wave back, confused.
There’s no ID check, no bomb sweep. Yesterday, we were enemies of the state; today we’re BFFs.
The guard even adds a wink as we pass his booth and ride down to the garage. A wink.
“Something’s wrong,” Tot insists.
Of course something’s wrong. But as I mentally replay Dallas’s words from last night, my mind wanders back to a few years ago when the Archives released all the personnel records of the OSS, the early version of the CIA. Historians had estimated that there were about six thousand people who had spied for the agency back during World War II. When the records were unsealed, there were actually twenty-four thousand previously unknown spies, including Julia Child, Supreme Court Justice Arthur Goldberg, and a catcher for the Chicago White Sox.
The OSS lasted a total of three years. According to Dallas, the Culper Ring has been around for two hundred.
As Tot pulls into his parking spot, I look over my shoulder and up the ramp of the garage, where White Teeth is still watching us. And smiling.
Dallas never said it… never even hinted it… but only a fool wouldn’t think that maybe this Culper Ring has a deeper reach than I originally thought.
“Look who else is visiting,” Tot whispers, working hard to climb out of the Mustang. As I elbow open the car door and join him outside, I finally see who he’s looking at: Over by the metal door that leads inside are two men in black body armor, both of them holding rifles. Secret Service.
From the look on Tot’s face, he has no idea why they’re here.
“Think Wallace is coming back?” he whispers.
“He’s definitely coming back.”
He shoots me a look. “How do you know?”
I take a breath, repracticing what I’ve been practicing all morning. It’s one thing to play it safe—for now, while I gather info—by not mentioning Dallas and the Culper Ring. But to hide that I’ll be with the President… to hide what I know Tot’ll find out…
“I’m the one staffing him,” I say as I slam the car door and head for the Secret Service.
Limping behind me, Tot’s too smart to make a scene. But as we flash our IDs and give quick head-nods to the Service, I can tell he’s pissed.
He doesn’t say a word until we’re in the elevator.
“When’d you find out?” Tot hisses just as the doors snap shut and we ride up to our offices.
“Last night. They emailed me last night.”
His good eye picks me apart. I know what he’s thinking.
“I was trying to tell you all morning,” I add as the elevator bobs and stops at our destination. “But when you brought up this Dr. Palmiotti—Who knows, maybe being alone with the President is a good thing. Maybe he’ll make me an offer or something.”
“Make you an offer? Who gave you a stupid idea like that?”
“I-I just thought of it,” I say, still thinking about what Dallas said last night. Whatever’s been happening in that SCIF, it’s between the President and someone on staff—or at least someone with access to the room.
Tot shakes his head, stepping out on the fourth floor. I’m right behind him, but as Tot throws open the door to our office and I follow him inside, there’s a flash of movement on my right.
Like a jack-in-the-box, a head pops up from the far end of the grid of cubicles, then cuts into the main aisle. From the Mona Lisa hair, I recognize Rina immediately, but what catches me off guard… she was in my cube.
“What’re you doing!?” I call out before I even realize I’m shouting.
Rina whips around, still standing in the aisle. “What? Me?”
“You heard me…!” I say, already whipping around the corner.
Like whack-a-moles, three more heads—all of them other officemates—pop up throughout the grid. One of them is Dallas. Everyone wants to see the fuss.
Still looking shocked, Rina stands there frozen.
My cube is next to Rina’s. Yet as I race up the main aisle, Rina is standing outside her cube—not mine.
“W-What’d I do?” Rina asks. “What’s wrong?”
I step back, confused. I double-check to make sure I have it right. I know what I saw.
“Beecher, you okay?” she asks.
I glance over my shoulder. Tot must’ve seen it too. But as I turn around, Tot’s all the way by his desk, refusing to look my way. I get the picture. He’s still pissed I didn’t tell him about the President. This is my punishment: leaving me on my own.
That’s fine. I know what I saw.
From his cubicle, Dallas shoots me his own glance. He saw it too. When Rina ducked into the aisle… she moved… she must’ve moved.
Relax, Dallas says with a slow nod. Not in public.
My cell phone rings. I pick up quickly.
“Is Mom okay?” I ask my sister Sharon.
“She’s fine. Going to Jumbo’s for lunch,” my sister says. Hearing the strain in my voice, she adds, “What’s wrong there?”
“Office politics. I’ll call you later,” I say, hanging up before she can pry.
“Beecher, you sure you’re okay?” Rina asks.
“He’s fine,” Dallas tells her as he joins us in the main aisle. “He’s just having one of those mornings.”
“I can imagine,” Rina says, cupping her palms and tapping her fingers together, more than happy to be rid of any confrontation. “I mean, it’s not every day you get to staff the President, right, Beecher?”
I look back at Tot. His head’s below the sightline of his cubicle, which means he’s not even watching me anymore. The sad part is, I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.
“Listen, if there’s anything you need when you’re in there,” Rina offers, “I’m happy to help. I can even stand outside in case there’re any new records the President might request.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay, Rina,” I say as I step into my cubicle and slide into my chair. On my desk, my eye immediately goes to my keyboard, which is slightly askew.
I hold my breath as I see it. My keyboard’s never askew. I keep two neat piles on my desk. Both of them look messy. Like someone’s thu
mbed through them.
Before I can react, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I assume it’s my sister, but as I flip it open, caller ID says: USSS.
United States Secret Service.
“Beecher here,” I say as I pick up.
“We’ve got Homerun ready to move,” an agent with a stubborn Boston accent says. “You ready for us?”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I tell him.
“You need to be there now,” he challenges.
As he hangs up on my ear, I know the mess on my desk has to wait. I quickly dart for the stairs. I’ve got bigger problems to deal with.
65
During his early days at the White House, this was Orson Wallace’s favorite part.
“Just an honor, Mr. President,” an older man with a graying goatee offered.
“So nice to meet you, Mr. President,” a woman wearing two diamond rings added.
“Thank you so much, Mr. President,” a tall woman with wide black eyes said as she reached to shake his hand.
The speech was over, the applause was still going, and as President Wallace followed his aide to the swinging doors of the hotel’s kitchen, he was riding such a swell of enjoyment, he tried to touch every outstretched hand of the insta-crowd that was now pressing so hard against the rope line.
It wasn’t the adulation that got him going. What Wallace appreciated was just… the appreciation. The simple act of people saying thank you. These days, in this economy, that kind of crowd seemed to appear less and less often.
“Thank you so much, Mr. President.”
“—just an inspiration, sir.”
“—reinvigorated all of us, Mr. President.”
“I hope you enjoyed the breakfast, Mr. President,” the chef called out as Wallace weaved back through the kitchen.
“Just fantastic. We need to have you cook at the White House,” Wallace called back, using the same compliment he saved for every chef in every hotel kitchen.
“—just want to thank you so much,” Ross the Boss chimed in, leading the final row of handshakes—the VIP goodbyes—that waited for Wallace at the far end of the service entrance and would take him to the waiting door of his armored limo.
“Hey—!” a female voice called out.
Wallace’s arm was already extended in a handshake as he finally looked up at the last person in line: a heavyset woman in a royal blue dress.
“I love you,” his sister Minnie said, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.
“You’re just saying that because I’m the President,” Wallace teased.
With a whack, Minnie rapped her pink flamingo cane against his shin.
The President was still laughing as the Secret Service agent pushed the hidden button under the door handle, which unlocked the door so he could usher Wallace into the car. And for that moment, as he ducked inside and brother and sister shared their laughter, Wallace almost forgot about where he was headed next.
Almost.
“Homerun moving,” one of the Secret Service agents whispered into his wrist, using the President’s official Service code name. “Arrival at the Archives in approximately four minutes.”
66
As I tear full speed around the corner, my shoes slide across the twelfth floor’s green terrazzo squares. If my timing’s right, I’ve still got a few minutes on the President. I need them. Especially if I want to be ready.
“I need some ID,” a calm voice announces just as I make the turn. His voice draws out each syllable so it sounds like Eye. Dee.
I know that voice.
But as I nearly plow into the man in the black body armor, I’m not focused on him or his black rifle. I don’t even see the SCIF that sits at the end of the hall. All I see are ghosts. Ghosts of myself. And Clementine. And Orlando. Forty-eight hours ago, we were standing in this same pale blue hallway, with the same marble wainscoting, studying this same room with the matching pale blue metal door. I wish it were just déjà vu. Déjà vu is easy to dismiss. But this… this is like stepping on Orlando’s grave.
A cold dread grips me, squeezing my Adam’s apple until I barely remember how to breathe. It reminds me that the only reason to search for these Plumbers—and for what they put in that dictionary—is to prove that they’re the ones who killed my friend.
“I said, ID,” the agent insists.
“Y-Yeah… sure… sorry,” I say, holding up my badge.
“Arms up,” he barks, pulling out a black-and-yellow wand that looks like a flattened flashlight. Metal detector.
Of course. He saw my name. He knows I’m staffing him. No way they’re letting me get close without making sure I’m clean.
As he waves the wand under my armpits, I blink once and see Orlando’s dimpled chin and big-toothed smile as he clutched his little coffee cup and ushered me and Clementine inside. I blink again, and there’s nothing but the empty pale blue hallway.
“Don’t be so nervous,” the Secret Service agent calls out, pinning a temporary metal clearance button on my lapel and motioning me toward the SCIF. “The President doesn’t bite. Unless he’s pissed.”
I can’t even pretend to laugh as I speedwalk up the hallway and stop at the call box that hangs on the wall. As I press the silver intercom button, a red indicator light blinks on.
“This is Beecher,” I say into the intercom. “I’m opening SCIF 12E1.” They’re the same words Orlando said to Khazei two days ago.
I wait to hear Khazei growl something back. The way he’s been watching, there’s no way I’m seeing the President without him weighing in. But to my surprise…
“You’re all set,” a female voice replies. “Moses is four minutes away,” she says, using our internal code name for him. “Enjoy.”
The intercom goes silent, and I dart for the entrance to the SCIF. As I spin the combination lock, a sting of bile burns my throat.
I step inside the vault and catch a flash of shadow moving on my left. I’m not the only one in here.
“Oh, c’mon now,” Khazei says as he slams the metal door shut and locks the two of us inside. “You really thought I’d miss this one?”
67
You shouldn’t be here,” I warn Khazei.
“Let me just say that’s one of a variety of things you’re wrong about,” he counters.
As always, he’s trying to keep me cornered. But just seeing Khazei here—just seeing his polished fingernails and his cocky grin—even I’m surprised how fast my fear gets swallowed by anger. “You’re interfering with my work. And the work of the President,” I shoot back.
“Oh, so now you and the President are a team?”
“I never said that. What I said was you were interfering.”
“Beecher, do me a favor and take a seat,” he says, pointing to the single table at the center of the room and the rolling research cart stocked with documents that sits next to it.
I stay where I am. He doesn’t seem to care.
“Beecher, I’ve thought long and hard about this. I know I can keep putting the pressure on you. I can keep huffing and puffing and trying to blow your house down. Or I can be honest with you,” he says, his voice softening to nearly a whisper.
“Before I started working here, y’know what my old job was?” Khazei asks as he leans a hand on the research cart. “I used to be a cop out in Virginia. The pay was good. The hours were bad. And the pension couldn’t even touch what I get here, which is why I made the switch. But there’s one thing I learned as a cop: Sometimes good people don’t know how to be good to themselves. Y’understand what that means?”
“It means you’ve been reading too many self-help books.”
“No, it means you have no idea how many guns are aimed at your head. So let me do you one favor and tell you what I know: I know who your girlfriend Clementine is. I know who her dad is—which explains why you’ve been trying to hide her. Sure, I don’t know why Orlando died—yet—but I do know that President Orson Wallace was scheduled to be in this room two
days ago. I know that the Secret Service did everything in their power to clear out the CSI investigative folks from being here. And I know that despite the fact that there are over two dozen other SCIFs in this building that the President could’ve picked, he for some unexplainable reason asked for this room, with you, which puts him right back in the exact same place that, less than forty-eight hours ago, was the last known location that Orlando was seen before they found him lying downstairs on the carpet with his eyes permanently open. Now I know you’re one of the smart ones, Beecher. Whatever deal you’re working with the President—”
“I’m not working any deals!” I insist.
“Then you have even bigger problems than I thought. Look up and down at that totem pole you’re stuck in. You’re the lowest man. And when it comes to presidential scandals, when that totem pole finally tips and everyone starts yelling ‘Timber,’ you know what they call the lowest man? The scapegoat,” he says, his dark eyes locked on mine.
“We’ve got Moses outside the building,” Khazei’s walkie-talkie squawks through the room.
“Beecher, I know you need a life preserver. This is me throwing you one. All you have to do is take hold.”
“Moses is in the elevator,” the walkie-talkie announces. “One minute to arrival…”
There’s a hollow knock on the metal door. Secret Service want the SCIF opened and ready. Even Khazei knows he can’t stop a request like that.
“Please, Beecher,” he says as he reaches out and twists the metal latch on the door. My ears pop from the change in pressure as the door swings inward and the vacuum seal is broken. “I’m begging you to take hold.”
It’s the last thing I hear from Khazei. Without looking back, he steps out into the hallway, where three suit-and-tie Secret Service agents motion him out of the way.
An agent with blond hair and a tiny nose joins me in the SCIF, taking a spot in the back left corner. “Thirty seconds,” he whispers to me as a courtesy. “Oh, and he’s in a good mood.”
