The Inner Circle

by Brad Meltzer

  “But we all know this isn’t about the President. Even for you, it’s never been about you. It’s about her, isn’t it, sir? Forget the press… the public… forget everyone. We wouldn’t still be talking if you weren’t worried about something. And to me, that only thing you’re worried about is—if I start doing the cable show rounds and say your sister’s accident was actually an attempted suicide out of guilt for what she did to Eightball—”

  “Beecher, I will only say this once. Don’t threaten me. You have no idea what happened that night.”

  “The barber told me. He told me about the vacuum hose—and the tailpipe of the Honda Civic.”

  “You have no idea what happened that night.”

  “I know it took you four hours before you found her. I know how it still haunts you that you couldn’t stop it.”

  “You’re not hearing me, Beecher,” he says, lowering his voice so that I listen to every syllable. “I was there—I’m the one who found her. You. Have. No. Idea. What. Happened. That. Night.”

  His burning intensity knocks me back in my seat. I look at the President.

  He doesn’t look away. His baggy eyes narrow.

  I replay the events… The barber… Laurent said it took four hours before they found Minnie that night. That Palmiotti was the one who pulled her from the car. But now… if Wallace says he’s the one who found her first…

  You have no idea what happened that night.

  My skin goes cold. I replay it again. Wallace was there first… he was the first one to see her unconscious in the car… But if Palmiotti is the one who eventually pulled her out… Both things can be true. Unless…

  Unless Wallace got there first, saw Minnie unconscious, and decided that the best action…

  … was not to take any action at all.

  You have no idea what happened that night.

  “When you saw her lying there… you didn’t pull her out of the car, did you…?” I blurt.

  The President doesn’t answer.

  The bitter taste of bile bursts in my throat as I glance back at the silver picture frame. The family photo.

  The one with two kids in the family.

  Not three.

  “You tried to leave her in that smoke-filled car. You tried to let your own sister die,” I say.

  “Everyone knows I love my sister.”

  “But in that moment, after all the heartache she caused… If Palmiotti hadn’t come in, you would’ve stood there and watched her suffocate.”

  Wallace juts out his lower lip and huffs a puff of air up his own nose. But he doesn’t answer. He’ll never answer. Not for what they did to Eightball. Not for hiding him all these years. Not for any of this.

  I was wrong before.

  All this time, I thought I was fighting men.

  I’m fighting monsters.

  “That’s how you knew you could trust Palmiotti with anything, including the Plumbers. He was there for your lowest moment—and the truly sick part is, he decided to stay even though he knew you would’ve let your sister die,” I say. “You belong together. You ditched your souls for each other.”

  There’s a flash on the digital screen that lists the First Family’s location. In a blink, Minnie’s status goes from:

  MINNIE: Traveling

  to

  MINNIE: Second Floor Residence

  Now she’s upstairs.

  “No place like home,” Wallace says, never once raising his voice. He turns directly at me, finally undoing the prayer grip of his hands. “So. We’re done now, yes?”

  “We’re not.”

  “We are. We very much are.”

  “I can still find proof.”

  “You can try. But we’re done, Beecher. And y’know why we’re done? Because when it comes to conspiracy theories—think of the best ones out there—think of the ones that even have some semblance of proof… like JFK. For over fifty years now, after all the Jack Ruby and Lee Harvey Oswald stories… after all the witnesses who came forward, and the books, and the speculation, and the Oliver Stones, and the annual conventions that still happen to this very day, you know what the number one theory most people believe? The Warren Commission,” he says dryly. “That’s who the public believes—the commission authored by the U.S. government. We make a great bad guy, and they all say they hate us. But at the end of every day, people want to trust us. Because we’re their government. And people trust their government.”

  “I bet you practiced that monologue.”

  “Just remember where you are: This is a prizefight, Beecher. And when you’re in a prizefight for a long time—take my word on this—you keep swinging that hard and you’re only gonna knock yourself out.”

  “Actually, the knockout already happened.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Just remember where you are, Mr. President. Look around. By the end of the week, this office will be empty. The photo in the silver frame will be, I’m guessing, slipped inside Palmiotti’s coffin. Your doctor’s gone, sir. So’s your barber. Your Plumbers are finished. Goodbye. All your work did was get two loyal men killed. So you can try to pretend you’ve got everything exactly where you want it, but I’m the one who gets to go home for the rest of my week—while you’re the one at the funerals, delivering the eulogies.”

  “You have nothing. You have less than nothing.”

  “You may be right. But then I keep thinking… the whole purpose of the Plumbers was to take people you trust and use them to build a wall around you. That wall protected you and insulated you. And now that wall is gone,” I say. “So what’re you gonna do now, sir?” Standing from my seat and heading for the door, I add, “You have a good night, Mr. President.”

  116

  St. Elizabeths Hospital

  Third floor

  Nico didn’t like card games.

  It didn’t matter.

  Every few months, the doctors would still have a new pack of playing cards delivered to his room. Usually, they were cards from defunct airlines—both TWA and Piedmont Air apparently gave out a lot of free playing cards back in the day. But Nico didn’t know what the doctors’ therapeutic goal was. He didn’t much care.

  To Nico, a card game—especially one like solitaire—could never be enjoyable. Not when it left so much to chance. No, in Nico’s world, the universe was far more organized. Gravity… temperature… even the repetition of history… Those were part of God’s rules. The universe definitely had rules. It had to have rules. And purpose.

  So, every few months, when Nico would receive his playing cards, he’d wait a day or two and then hand them back to the orderlies, or leave them in the day room, or, if they found their way back to him, tuck them into the cushions of the couch that smelled like urine and soup.

  But tonight, at nearly 10 p.m. in the now quiet main room, Nico sat at one of the Plexiglas tables near the nurses’ station and quietly played a game of solitaire.

  “Thanks for being so patient, baby,” the heavy nurse with the big hoop earrings said. “You know how Mr. Jasper gets if we let him sit in his diaper too long.”

  “Oooh, and you’re playing cards so nice,” the nurse crooned, making a mental note and clearly excited for what she’d inevitably be telling the doctors tomorrow.

  It wasn’t much. But Nico knew it mattered. The hospital was no different than the universe. Everything had rules. And the number one rule here was: If you don’t please the nurses, you’re not getting your privileges.

  It was why he didn’t complain when they let someone else feed the cats tonight. Or when Rupert brought him apple juice instead of orange.

  Nico had been lucky earlier today. When he approached that car—the one with the barber and the blasphemous wrists—he was worried the blame would be put on him.

  It wasn’t. And he knew why.

  Whoever had burned Beecher—whoever had caused all that pain—the last thing they wanted was Nico’s name all over this. If that had happened, a real investigation would’ve bee
n started.

  The ones who did this… They didn’t want that.

  In the end, it didn’t surprise Nico. But it did surprise him that, when it came to that investigation, they had the power to stop it.

  Right there, Nico knew what was coming next.

  “I see you put Randall’s Sprite cans in the recycling—cleaned up his crackers too,” the nurse added. “I know you’re sucking up, Nico—but I appreciate it. Now remind me what you’re waiting for again? Your mail?”

  “Not mail,” Nico said. “My phone. Any new phone messages?”

  The nurse with the hoop earrings gripped a blue three-ring binder from the shelf above her desk and quickly flipped to the last pages.

  Nico could’ve snuck a look at the book when she wasn’t there.

  But there were rules.

  There were always rules.

  And consequences.

  “Lemme see… according to this…” she said as her chubby finger skated down the page. “Nope. Sorry, baby. No calls.” Snapping the book shut, she added, “Maybe tomorrow.”

  Nico nodded. It was a good thought. Maybe it’d be tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or even the day after.

  But it was going to happen. Soon.

  Nico knew the rules.

  He knew his purpose.

  Beecher would be coming back. He definitely would.

  It might take him a month. Or even longer. But eventually, Beecher would want help. He’d want help, and he’d want answers. And most of all, he’d want to know how to track down Clementine—which, if Nico was right about what was in her, was the only thing Nico wanted too.

  Shoving his way back through the swinging doors and still thinking of how his daughter had misled him, Nico headed back to his room.

  Soon, he and Beecher—George Washington and Benedict Arnold—would again be working together.

  Just like the universe had always planned.

  117

  The White House

  Second-Floor Residence

  Where’s he, upstairs?” Minnie asked a passing aide who was carrying the newest stack of autographed items, from personal letters to a red, white, and blue golf ball, that the President had just finished signing.

  “Solarium,” the aide said, pointing up as Minnie headed for the back staircase that would take her the rest of the way.

  Minnie always loved the Solarium, which sat above the Truman Balcony on the top floor of the White House and had the best view of the Mall and the Washington Monument.

  But Minnie didn’t love it for the view. Or because it was the one casual room in the entire Residence. She loved it because it reminded her of home. Literally.

  Lined with old family photos from when she and the President were kids, the narrow hallway that led up and out to the Solarium rose at a surprisingly steep incline. Even with her pink flamingo cane, it was tough for Minnie to navigate. But she still stared as she passed each old photograph—the one when she and ten-year-old Orson are smiling with all the chocolate in their teeth… the one with Orson proudly holding his first cross-country running trophy… and of course, the one right after she was born, with her mother placing baby Minnie for the first time in her brother’s arms. Back then, the side of her face was covered with skin lesions. But little Orson is smiling down, so proud to be the new big brother. Wallace had personally made sure that picture made the list.

  “Don’t you dare do that,” Minnie called out to her brother, rapping her cane against the floor. As she entered the room, which was decorated with casual sofas, she saw the problem.

  With his back to her, the President stood there, hands in his pockets as he stared out the tall glass windows at the bright glow of the Washington Monument.

  “Don’t do that,” she warned again, knowing him all too well.

  “You know this was the room Nancy Reagan was in when they told her the President had been shot?” her brother announced.

  “Yeah, and I know from the last time you were all upset and moody, it’s also the room where Nixon told his family he was going to step down. We get it. Whenever you start staring out at the monuments or talking about other Presidents, you’re in a piss mood. So just tell me: What’s it this time? What’s in your craw?”

  He thought about telling her that Palmiotti was dead. It’d be on the news soon enough—complete with the story of how the doctor was blackmailed and lured down to the caves by the criminal Clementine. But Wallace knew that his sister was still riding the high of the morning’s charity event.

  “Actually, I was just thinking about you,” Wallace replied, still keeping his back to her as Minnie hobbled with her cane toward him. “Today was really nice.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” Minnie said, smiling the half-smile that the stroke allowed. “Thanks again for coming and doing the speech. It made the event…” She paused a moment, trying to think of the right word. Her brother had heard all of them.

  “It felt good to have you there,” she finally said.

  The President nodded, still standing there, staring out at the snow-covered Mall. From behind, Minnie playfully tapped his leg with the head of the flamingo cane. “Make room,” she added, forcing him aside. With a sisterly shove, Minnie stepped close to him so they were standing shoulder to shoulder, two siblings staring out at the stunning view.

  “It was fun being there. I mean, for me too,” the President admitted.

  “You should do it more often then. We have a fund-raiser next month out in Virginia,” Minnie said.

  Wallace didn’t reply.

  “Orson, I’m kidding,” Minnie added. “But I did mean what I said before: Having you there… I probably don’t say this enough, but—”

  “Minnie, you don’t have to say anything.”

  “I do. And you need to hear it. I just want you to know… my whole life… I appreciate everything you’ve given me,” she said, motioning out at the monuments and the Mall. “You’re a good brother.”

  The President nodded. “You’re right. I am.”

  Minnie rapped him with her pink cane, laughing. But as she followed her brother’s gaze, she realized Wallace wasn’t staring out at the Washington Monument. He was staring down, at the paved path of the South Lawn, where two Secret Service agents were walking a blond staffer—he looked like all the other young aides—down toward the southeast security gate.

  “Who’s that?” Minnie asked.

  The President of the United States stared and lied again. “Nobody important.”

  118

  I know they want to throw me out.

  They want to grab me by the nape of my neck and heave me into the trash, like they do in old comic strips.

  But as the two Secret Service agents walk me down the paved path that borders the South Lawn, I stay two steps ahead of them. Still, I feel how close they are behind me.

  “Taxis won’t stop here,” the agent with the round nose says as we reach the black metal pedestrian gate and wait for it to open. “Go down a block. You’ll be better off.”

  “Thanks,” I say without looking back at them.

  From the security shed on my right, the female uniformed agent never takes her eyes off me. She pushes a button and a magnetic lock pops.

  “Have a safe night,” the agent with the round nose adds, patting me on the back and nearly knocking me through the metal gate as it swings open. Even for the Secret Service, he’s far too physical. “Hope you enjoyed your visit to the White House.”

  As I rush outside, the gate bites shut, and I fight the cold by stuffing my hands in my pockets. To my surprise, my right pocket’s not empty. There’s a sheet of paper—feels like a business card—waiting for me.

  I pull it out. It’s not a business card. It’s blank. Except for the handwritten note that says:

  15th and F.

  Taxi will be waiting.

  I glance over my shoulder at the agent with the round nose. His back is already turned to me as he follows his partner back to the mansion. He doesn�
��t turn around.

  But I know he wrote that note.

  I look down, rereading it again: 15th and F Street. Just around the corner.

  Confused, but also curious, I start with a walk, which quickly becomes a speedwalk, which—the closer I get to 15th Street—quickly becomes a full-out run.

  As I turn the corner, I’m shoved hard by the wind tunnel that runs along the long side of the Treasury building. At this hour, the street is empty. Except for the one car that’s parked illegally, waiting for me.

  It doesn’t look like a cab.

  In fact, as I count the four bright headlights instead of the usual two, I know who it is—even without noticing the car’s front grille, where the chrome horse is in mid-gallop.

  It’s definitely not a cab.

  It’s a Mustang.

  I take a few steps toward the pale blue car. The passenger window is already rolled down, giving me a clear view of Tot, who has to be freezing as he sits so calmly inside. He ducks down to see me better. Even his bad eye is filled with fatherly concern.

  Just the sight of him makes it hard for me to stand. I shake my head, shooting him a silent plea and begging him not to say I told you so.

  Of course, he listens. From the start, he’s been the only one.

  “It’ll be okay,” he finally offers.

  “You sure?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t answer. He just leans across the passenger seat and opens the door. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”

  * * *

  119

  Fourteen years ago

  Sagamore, Wisconsin

  Beecher… customer at buyback!” Mr. Farris shouted from the back office of the secondhand bookshop.