The Inner Circle

by Brad Meltzer

  He turned the corner, then paused. In the rising light, the short street was deserted. One block over, he could hear the sounds of traffic on Broadway, see the faint light from the shops. But here it was very quiet. Most of the buildings on the street were abandoned. His own building, in fact, stood beside a site where, many years before, a small riding ring for Manhattan’s wealthiest young ladies had been. The ring was long gone, of course, but in its place stood a small, unnamed service drive off the main trunk of Riverside, which served to insulate his building from traffic. The island formed by the service drive sported grass and trees, and a statue of Joan of Arc. It was one of the quieter, more forgotten places on the island of Manhattan—forgotten by all, perhaps, save him. It had the additional advantage of being roamed by nocturnal gangs and having a reputation for being dangerous. It was all very convenient.

  He slipped down a carriageway, through a side door and into a close, musty space. By feel—it was dark, with the windows securely boarded over—he made his way down a dim corridor, then another, to a closet door. He opened it. The closet was empty. He stepped inside, turned a knob in the rear wall. It opened noiselessly, revealing stone steps leading down.

  At the bottom of the steps, the man stopped, feeling along the wall until his fingers found the ancient light switch. He twisted it, and a series of bare bulbs came on, illuminating an old stone passageway, dank and dripping with moisture. He hung his black coat on a brass hook, placed his bowler hat on an adjoining hat rack, and dropped his cane into an umbrella stand. Then he moved down the passageway, feet ringing against the stonework, until he reached a heavy iron door, a rectangular slot set high into its face.

  The slot was closed.

  The man paused a moment outside the room. Then he reached into his pocket for a key, unlocked the iron door, and pushed it open.

  Light flooded into the cell, revealing a bloodstained floor and wall, chains and cuffs lying in disorganized bands of metal.

  The room was empty. Of course. He swept it with his eyes, smiled. Everything was ready for the next occupant.

  He closed the door and locked it again, then proceeded down the hall to a large subterranean room. Switching on the bright electric lights, he approached a stainless steel gurney. Atop the gurney lay an old-fashioned Gladstone bag and two journals, bound in cheap red plastic. The man picked up the top journal, turning its pages with great interest. It was all so wonderfully ironic. By rights, these journals should have perished in flames long ago. In the wrong hands, they could have done a great deal of damage. Would have done a great deal of damage, had he not come along at the right time. But now, they were back where they belonged.

  He replaced the journal and, more slowly, opened the medical valise.

  Inside, a cylindrical container of hard gray hospital plastic lay on a smoking bed of dry ice chips. The man pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he removed the container from the briefcase, placed it on the gurney, and unlatched it. He reached in, and, with infinite caution, withdrew a long, gray, ropy mass. Had it not been for the blood and matter that still adhered to the tissue, it would have resembled the kind of heavy cable that supports a bridge, the red-streaked outer lining filled with thousands of tiny, fibrous strings. A small smile curled the man’s lips, and his pale eyes glittered as he stared. He held the mass up to the light, which shone through it with a glow. Then he brought it to a nearby sink, where he carefully irrigated it with a bottle of distilled water, washing off the bone chips and other offal. Next, he placed the cleaned organ in a large machine, closed its top, and turned it on. A high whine filled the stone room as the tissue was blended into a paste.

  At timed intervals, the man consulted the pages of a notebook, then added some chemicals through a rubber bladder in the machine’s lid with deft, precise movements. The paste lightened; clarified. And then, his movements ever so careful, the man detached the ultrablender and poured the paste into a long stainless tube, placed it in a nearby centrifuge, closed the cover, and turned a switch. There was a humming noise that grew rapidly in pitch, then stabilized.

  Centrifuging out the serum would take 20.5 minutes. It was only the first stage in a long process. One had to be absolutely precise. The slightest error at any step only magnified itself until the final product was useless. But now that he’d decided to do all further harvesting here in the laboratory, rather than in the field, no doubt things would proceed with even greater consistency.

  He turned to the sink, in which sat a large, carefully rolled towel. Taking it by one edge, he raised it, letting it unroll. Half a dozen bloodstained scalpels slid into the basin. He began to clean them, slowly, lovingly. They were the old-fashioned kind: heavy, nicely balanced. Of course, they weren’t as handy as the modern Japanese models with the snap-in blades, but they felt good in the hand. And they kept an edge. Even in this age of ultrablenders and DNA sequencing machines, old tools still had their place.

  Placing the scalpels in an autoclave to dry and sterilize, the man removed the gloves, washed his hands very carefully, then dried them on a linen towel. He glanced over, checking the progress of the centrifuge. And then he moved to a small cabinet, opened it, and withdrew a piece of paper. He placed it on the gurney, beside the briefcase. On the paper, in an elegant copperplate script, were five names:

  Pendergast

  Kelly

  Smithback

  O’Shaughnessy

  Puck

  The last name had already been crossed out. Now, the man plucked a fountain pen of inlaid lacquer from his pocket. And then—neatly, formally, with long slender fingers—he drew a beautifully precise line through the fourth name, ending with a little curlicue flourish.

  EIGHT

  AT HIS FAVORITE NEIGHBORHOOD COFFEE SHOP, SMITHBACK lingered over his breakfast, knowing the Museum did not open its doors until ten. Once more, he glanced over the photocopies of articles he’d culled from back issues of the Times. The more he read them, the more he was sure the old murders were the work of Leng. Even the geography seemed consistent: most of the murders had taken place on the Lower East Side and along the waterfront, about as far away from Riverside Drive as you could get.

  At nine-thirty he called for the bill and set off down Broadway for a bracing fall walk to the Museum. He began to whistle. While he still had the relationship with Nora to repair, he was an eternal optimist. If he could bring her the information she wanted on a silver platter, that would be a start. She couldn’t stay mad at him forever. They had so much in common, shared both good and bad times together. If only she didn’t have such a temper!

  He had other reasons to be happy. Although every now and then his instincts failed him—the thing with Fairhaven was a good example—most of the time his journalist’s nose was infallible. And his article on Leng had gotten off to a good start. Now all he needed was to dig up a few personal nuggets to bring the madman to life—maybe even a photograph. And he had an idea of where to get all of it.

  He blinked in the bright fall light, inhaled the crisp air.

  Years before—during the time he’d spent writing what had started out as a history of the Museum’s superstition exhibition—Smithback had grown to know the Museum very well. He knew its eccentric ways, the ins and outs, the shortcuts, the curiosa, the hidden corners and miscellaneous archives. If there was any information about Leng hidden within those walls, Smithback would find it.

  When the great bronze doors opened, Smithback made sure he buried himself within the throngs, staying as anonymous as possible. He paid the suggested admission and pinned on his button, strolling through the Great Rotunda, gaping like all the others at the soaring skeletons.

  Soon he broke away from the tourists and worked his way down to the first floor. One of the least known, but most useful, archives in the Museum was here. Colloquially known as Old Records, it housed cabinet upon filing cabinet of personnel records, running from the Museum’s founding to about 1986, when the system was computerized and moved to a gleami
ng new space on the fourth floor and given the shiny new name of Human Resources. How well he remembered Old Records: the smell of mothballs and foxed paper, the endless files on long-dead Museum employees, associates, and researchers. Old Records still contained some sensitive material, and Smithback remembered that it was kept locked and guarded. The last time he was in here, it was on official business and he had a signed permission. This time, he was going to have to use a different approach. The guards might recognize him; then again, after several years, they might not.

  He walked through the vast Hall of Birds, echoing and empty, considering how best to proceed. Soon he found himself before the twin riveted copper doors labeled Personnel Records, Old. Peering through the crack between them, he could see two guards, sitting at a table, drinking coffee.

  Two guards. Twice the chance of being recognized, half the chance of pulling a fast one on them. He had to get rid of one.

  He took a turn around the hall, still thinking, as a plan began to take shape. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and walked out into the corridor, up the stairs, and into the huge Selous Memorial Hall. There, the usual cadre of cheerful old ladies had taken their places at the information desk. Smithback plucked the visitor’s button from his lapel and tossed it in a trash bin. Then he strode up to the nearest lady.

  “I’m Professor Smithback,” he said, with a smile.

  “Yes, Professor. What can I do for you?” The lady had curly white hair and violet eyes.

  Smithback gave her his most charming smile. “May I use your phone?”

  “Of course.” The woman handed him the phone from under the desk. Smithback looked through the nearby museum phone book, found the number, and dialed.

  “Old Records,” a gruff voice answered.

  “Is Rook on duty there?” Smithback barked.

  “Rook? There’s no Rook here. You got the wrong number, pal.”

  Smithback expelled an irritated stream of air into the phone. “Who’s on in Records, then?”

  “It’s me and O’Neal. Who’s this?” The voice was truculent, stupid.

  “ ‘Me’? Who’s ‘me’?”

  “What’s your problem, friend?” came the reply.

  Smithback put on his coldest, most officious voice. “Allow me to repeat myself. May I be so presumptuous to ask who you are, sir, and whether you want to be written up for insubordination?”

  “I’m Bulger, sir.” The guard’s gruff manner wilted instantly.

  “Bulger. I see. You’re the man I need to talk to. This is Mr. Hrumrehmen in Human Resources.” He spoke rapidly and angrily, deliberately garbling the name.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. How can I help you, Mr.—?”

  “You certainly can help me, Bulger. There’s a problem here with certain, ah, asseverations in your personnel file, Bulger.”

  “What kind of problem?” The man sounded suitably alarmed.

  “It’s confidential. We’ll discuss it when you get here.”

  “When?”

  “Now, of course.”

  “Yes, sir, but I didn’t catch your name—”

  “And tell O’Neal I’m sending someone down to review your procedures in the meantime. We’ve had some disturbing reports about laxity.”

  “Yes, sir, of course, but—?”

  Smithback replaced the phone. He looked up to find the elderly volunteer eyeing him curiously, even suspiciously.

  “What was that all about, Professor?”

  Smithback grinned and drew a hand over his cowlick. “Just a little trick on a coworker. We’ve got this running joke, see… Gotta do something to lighten up this old pile.”

  She smiled. The dear innocent, Smithback thought a little guiltily as he made a beeline back down the stairs to Old Records. On the way, he passed one of the guards he’d seen through the crack: huffing down the hall, belly jiggling as he walked, panic writ large on his face. The Human Resources office at the Museum was a notoriously feared place, overstaffed like the rest of the administration. It would take the guard ten minutes to get there, ten minutes to wander around looking for the nonexistent Mr. Hrumrehmen, and ten minutes to get back. That would give Smithback thirty minutes to talk his way inside and find what he was looking for. It wasn’t a lot of time, but Smithback knew the Museum’s archival systems inside and out. He had infinite confidence in his ability to find what he needed in short order.

  Once again, he strode down the hall to the copper doors of Old Records. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath. Raising one hand, he knocked imperiously.

  The door was opened by the remaining security officer. He looked young, barely old enough to be out of high school. He was already spooked. “Yes, how can I help you?”

  Smithback grasped the man’s surprised, limp hand while stepping inside at the same time.

  “O’Neal? I’m Maurice Fannin from Human Resources. They sent me down here to straighten things out.”

  “Straighten things out?”

  Smithback slid his way inside, looking at the rows of old metal filing cabinets, the scarred table covered with foam coffee cups and cigarette butts, the piss-yellow walls.

  “This is a disgrace,” he said.

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  Smithback drilled his eyes into O’Neal. “We’ve been doing a little looking into your area here, and let me tell you, O’Neal, we are not pleased. Not pleased at all.”

  O’Neal was immediately and utterly cowed. “I’m sorry, sir. Maybe you should talk to my supervisor, Mr. Bulger—”

  “Oh, we are. We’re having a long discussion with him.” Smithback looked around again. “When was the last time you had a file check, for example?”

  “A what?”

  “A file check. When was the last time, O’Neal?”

  “Er, I don’t know what that is. My supervisor didn’t tell me anything about a file check—”

  “Strange, he thought you knew all about the procedure. Now, that’s what I mean here, O’Neal: sloppy. Very sloppy. Well, from now on, we will be requiring a monthly file check.” Smithback narrowed his eyes, strode over to a filing cabinet, pulled on a drawer. It was, as he expected, locked.

  “It’s locked,” said the guard.

  “I can see that. Any idiot can see that.” He rattled the handle. “Where’s the key?”

  “Over there.” The poor guard nodded toward a wall box. It, too, was locked.

  It occurred to Smithback that the climate of fear and intimidation the new Museum administration had fostered was proving most helpful. The man was so terrified, the last thing he would think of doing was challenging Smithback or asking for his ID.

  “And the key to that?”

  “On my chain.”

  Smithback looked around again, his quick eyes taking in every detail under the pretense of looking for further violations. The filing cabinets had labels on them, each with a date. The dates seemed to run back to 1865, the founding year of the Museum.

  Smithback knew that any outside researchers who were issued a pass to the collections would have to have been approved by a committee of curators. Their deliberations, and the files the applicant had to furnish, should still be in here. Leng almost certainly had such a collections pass. If his file were still here, it would contain a wealth of personal information: full name, address, education, degrees, research specialization, list of publications—perhaps even copies of some of those publications. It might even contain a photograph.

  He rapped with a knuckle on the cabinet marked 1880. “Like this file. When was the last time you file-checked this drawer?”

  “Ah, as far as I know, never.”

  “Never?” Smithback sounded incredulous. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  The guard hustled over, unlocked the wall cabinet, fumbled for the right key, and unlocked the drawer.

  “Now let me show you how to do a file check.” Smithback opened the drawer and plunged his hands into the files, rifling them, stirri
ng up a cloud of dust, thinking fast. A yellowed index card was poking from the first file, and he whipped it out. It listed every file in the drawer by name, alphabetized, dated, cross-referenced. This was beautiful. Thank God for the early Museum bureaucrats.

  “See, you start with this index card.” He waved it in the guard’s face.

  The guard nodded.

  “It lists every file in the cabinet. Then you check to see if all the files are there. Simple. That’s a file check.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Smithback quickly scanned the list of names on the card. No Leng. He shoved the card back and slammed the drawer.

  “Now we’ll check 1879. Open the drawer, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Smithback drew out the 1879 index card. Again, no Leng was listed. “You’ll need to institute much more careful procedures down here, O’Neal. These are extremely valuable historical files. Open the next one. ’78.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Damn. Still no Leng.

  “Let’s take a quick look at some of the others.” Smithback had him open up more cabinets and check the yellow index cards on each, all the while giving O’Neal a steady stream of advice about the importance of file-checking. The years crept inexorably backward, and Smithback began to despair.

  And then, in 1870, he found the name. Leng.

  His heart quickened. Forgetting all about the guard, Smithback flipped quickly through the files themselves, pausing at the Ls. Here he slowed, carefully looked at each one, then looked again. He went through the Ls three times. But the corresponding Leng file was missing.

  Smithback felt crushed. It had been such a good idea.

  He straightened up, looked at the guard’s frightened, eager face. The whole idea was a failure. What a waste of energy and brilliance, frightening this poor guy for nothing. It meant starting over again, from scratch. But first, he’d better get his ass out of there before Bulger returned, disgruntled, spoiling for an argument.