Graham shook his head.
“Why not?” Beverly demanded.
“Because President Walters will be here any minute and we still have a decision to make.”
I was tempted to kick him out of the office. To barricade the door, plug my ears, and drift back into dream world. But instead, I kicked my legs off the mattress and rose to my feet.
During the night, someone had entered our room and dropped off the duffel bags Hooper had packed for us. Rooting through mine, I saw clean clothes, toiletries, and my trusty machete.
I rooted around a little more, making sure no one had taken the Capitalist Curtain papers. Then I shrugged out of clothes I’d borrowed from the depository, donned my own clothing, and attached the machete sheath to my belt.
While Beverly dressed, I looked at Graham. “Any news?”
“K.J.’s people worked through the night, cleaning up the mess and disabling various systems. Good thing, too. From what I hear, there were over a dozen traps in Vault A alone.”
“What’s Cruzer doing for security?”
“Nothing. He’s still in charge, but in name only. K.J. is running the show and he’s taking a low-tech approach to things. He’s got a team of crack soldiers guarding the vault door in rotating shifts. Other troops are handling exterior security.”
Beverly slid a tight-fitting gray tank top down her curvy torso. Then she hiked a pair of black yoga pants over her curvy backside. Yoga pants were all the rage these days and with good reason. They were comfy, slimming, and could make even the biggest slouch look like a dedicated athlete.
But no one — I repeat, no one — wore them quite like Beverly Ginger.
She was, simply put, made for yoga pants and they, in turn, were made for her. They fit her curves perfectly, transforming her succulent body into something that was too good for this world. She was Beverly Ginger, athletic goddess, and it took all of my self-control not to grab hold of her right there on the spot.
She took a few seconds to smooth down her tank top. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said. “What’s this decision we have to make?”
“The president scheduled a press conference for 9:00 a.m.,” Graham replied. “He’s going to announce the new gold standard to the world and he’s hoping Cy here will be his honorary stooge.”
Ahh, yes. With everything that had happened, I’d nearly forgotten about the whole Chief Auditor thing.
Beverly looked at me. “You’re not doing it.”
I was inclined to agree. I had no desire to be a presidential puppet. But did I really have much choice in the matter? The president had made his position abundantly clear aboard Air Force One. I had to play ball if I wanted to get my hands on Justin’s military file as well as the files for the friends that had disappeared with him.
But did I really need them? Did I even need to know the truth about Justin Reed? It wouldn’t put food on my table or clothes on my back. And the person who stood to gain the most from the information — Dad — was no longer alive. Why not just let all of this go? Why not move on with my life?
I lowered my head as I burrowed deeper into my most private thoughts. Justin’s disappearance had undoubtedly shaped and molded Dad’s character and personality. Dad’s death, in turn, had a similar impact on me. His decision to commit suicide was a keystone moment in my life, one that had transformed me on every level. Even my initial foray into urban archaeology, at least on some level, had been a rebellion against his real estate business.
I thought about Dad destroying Manhattan’s skyline in order to find out what had happened to Justin. I thought about how he must’ve driven himself crazy in the process, crazy enough to commit the ultimate act of cowardice. There was no helping him now. But maybe, just maybe, knowing the truth about Justin would help me. Maybe it would help me, at long last, come to peace with Dad.
“I have to.” My mind turned to the photo of Justin I’d found on Milt’s desk. “There are answers here. And if we leave now, we’ll never get them.”
Chapter 54
“Cy!”
Dozens of heads spun in my direction as I strode into the room adjoining the vault. Flashes blazed as photographers captured the rather innocuous moment. Voices filled the air as reporters grabbed their microphones and began speaking in rapid-fire tones to large cameras.
“Yet another major surprise this morning as famed treasure hunter Cy Reed has just arrived on the scene,” a perky blonde reporter said breathlessly to her camera. “His presence adds numerous questions to a situation already brimming with them.”
She caught my eye. Dialing up the wattage, she offered me a brilliant smile. “Mr. Reed? May I have a few—”
“Thank you for your interest, Ms. Tate.” Donovan cut between me and her. “Unfortunately, Mr. Reed is required elsewhere at the moment. But he’ll be available for questions after the press conference.”
Grabbing my arm, Donovan dragged me toward the vault door. Meanwhile, reporters assailed me on all sides, shouting out a barrage of questions.
“Why are you here?”
“Mr. Reed, are you working for the administration?”
“Why did you miss the Explorers Society Awards Night? Is there any truth to the rumor that you were caught up in the riot at the time?”
Less than thirty-six hours had passed since I’d fought my way through a sea of Berserkers and police barricades. But at that moment, it seemed more like thirty-six days.
“Just ignore them,” Donovan said through gritted teeth. “Smile, wave, and ignore them.”
“Mr. Reed, could you please comment on the recent footage from the Manhattan riot?” a reporter called out. “Specifically, the multiple videos that purport to show you illegally taking charge of an NYPD water cannon and directing it at an array of Berserkers?”
“That was me, alright.” I grinned at the reporter. “Most fun I’ve had in weeks.”
A moment of stunned silence fell over the crowd. Then laughter rang out on all sides. Reporters and camera operators whooped and whistled their support.
“I told you to ignore them.” Tightening his grip, Donovan dragged me to the vault door. A couple of guards checked our credentials before stepping aside.
Donovan dragged us to compartment 3A. The door was open. President Walters and Ben stood inside the small space, chatting quietly.
They broke off their conversation as we entered the compartment. Lines crisscrossed their faces and dark bags hung from under their eyes. Even so, they managed to look fresh and excited.
“How’d you sleep?” President Walters asked.
“Like babies,” Graham replied. “It must’ve been the inflatable mattresses. Or maybe the itchy clothes. Or maybe even that government building smell. Glorious. Simply glorious.”
The president gave him a confused look. “Uh, I see.”
“Large crowd,” Beverly said, gesturing toward the adjoining room.
“Yes.” President Walters recovered quickly. “The reporters got here earlier than expected, so we’re trying to arrange a tour of the facilities for them.”
“When does the press conference begin?”
“9:00 a.m., sharp. It won’t last long. I’m going to lay down the economic reality in simple terms and then announce a series of executive orders reinstating the gold standard.” He looked at me. “Did you make up your mind about the auditor position?”
“I’m no auditor. But I suppose I could do some outside consulting if you get me the files I need.”
“Excellent.” The president grinned from ear to ear. “My speech writers have prepared some brief remarks for you to read. Nothing fancy, just—”
“I don’t give other people’s speeches.”