Khazei nods, pretending he’s not annoyed. But as I wait for the final door to close in the hallway, I notice, through the front door to my own office, a thin pointed shadow, like a scarecrow, on the opposite side of the translucent glass. From its opaque outline, it could be any of our archivists-Tot, Dallas, Rina-but after swaying there for an instant, the scarecrow backs off. Like it knows I see it listening.
“So what was it that Orlando said in his last message?” Khazei challenges.
From his tone alone, I can tell it’s his third trap. If he had the technology to know that I got Orlando’s final message, it’s just as easy for him to’ve already listened to that message. He’s just testing to see if I’ll be honest.
“Orlando just… he said he didn’t have my cell phone and that I should call him back.”
“Call him back about what?”
“Probably about what I did with some old blank letterhead I found from the Senate Judiciary Committee. It got sent over by mistake so I took one of the sheets-it was just a joke-and wrote a letter to Orlando saying he was being deported. Just dumb office stuff.”
It’s a good enough excuse delivered with good enough calm. I even used the words what I did to evoke the one unexplainable moment in Orlando’s message. What you did…
But Khazei just stands there with his starched military posture, like a giant exclamation point. I glance back at my office. The shadow of the scarecrow is still there.
“Were you in SCIF 12E1 yesterday?” Khazei finally blurts.
“E-Excuse me?”
“It’s a simple question. It requires a simple answer. Were you in or anywhere near that Vault at any point in time yesterday?”
I take a deep breath, trying hard not to look like I’m taking a deep breath. I don’t know much about Khazei, but from what I can tell of our two conversations together, he hasn’t asked a single question he doesn’t already know the answer to, or at least have a hunch on. And considering that Dallas and Rina and at least one Secret Service agent saw me around the corner from that room… and that the videotape is still unaccounted for…“12E1…” I say. “That’s the one the President does his reading in, right?”
“Beecher, at this moment, I am your friend. But if you want to make me an enemy…”
“Yeah, no… I definitely walked by the room. That’s where I saw Orlando. I was giving a tour.”
“But you’re telling me you didn’t go inside it?”
This is the moment where I can tell him the truth. I can tell him I went inside. I can tell him I didn’t do it. But as I stare at Khazei, who’s still the unmoving exclamation point, all he’s going to hear is that I was the last person alone with Orlando before he died. And once he hears that… once he can confirm that I had actual access to the book…
I shake my head. “No. Never went inside it.”
He tightens his stare.
“What?” I ask. “If you don’t believe me, go check the tape. All those rooms are wired for video, aren’t they?”
It’s a risky bluff, but right now, I need to know what’s going on. Sure, Khazei could’ve been the one who snatched that video from Orlando’s VCR. But if he planned on using it to make me the murderer, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. So either Khazei has the tape and all he cares about is the book, or he doesn’t have the tape and it’s still out there.
“Amazingly, the tape is gone-someone took it from the SCIF,” Khazei says flatly. “But thanks for the reminder. I need to tell the Service about that.”
“The Service?”
“I know. But when Orlando’s dead body showed up at the exact same time that President Wallace was entering the building… Apparently, the Secret Service doesn’t like when bodies are that close to their protectee. So lucky us, they’ve offered to help with the investigation,” he says, watching me more closely than ever. “What an opportunity, though. I’m guessing by the time they’re done, they’ll scan and alphabetize every atom, molecule-every speck of DNA-in the entire SCIF. God knows what you can find in there, right, Beecher?”
Just over his shoulder, there’s a second ding as another elevator empties a group of employees into the wide hallway.
“Oh, and by the way,” he adds as they fan out around us, “when you had your lab coat all bunched up yesterday-what was it stained with again? That was coffee, right?”
I nod and force a smile and-Morning! Hey! Morning! — wave hello to passing staffers.
“Enjoy your day,” Khazei says, heading for the waiting elevator. “I’m sure we’ll be talking again soon.”
As the elevator doors swallow him whole, I take another peek at my own office door. The scarecrow’s gone. At least I can finally catch my breath and-
No…
I run for the stairs. I almost forgot.
She’s down there right now.
22
H" old on… not yet…” the President said, holding up a single finger. Backlit by the morning sun, he studied the door to the doctor’s office, which had already closed behind his sister.
Across from him, Palmiotti sat at his desk. Underneath the door, they could see the shadows of the staffers outside.
That’s how it always was. Even in the most private parts of the White House, someone was always listening.
“So you were saying.” Palmiotti motioned to the President. “About your back problem…”
“It hurts,” Wallace insisted, still eyeing the shadows at the door. “And it’s getting worse.”
Palmiotti mulled on this. “Is it something I can take a look at personally?”
The President mulled too, once again staring out at the purposely melted snow of the Rose Garden. It took a ton of work to make something appear this undisturbed.
“Let me think on that,” he said to Palmiotti. “Right now, we’re probably better off sticking with the original treatment.”
“Mr. President…?” one of the staffers called from the hallway. Time for him to go.
“Before you run,” Palmiotti said. “Have you thought about surgery?”
The President shook his head. “Not with this. Not anymore.”
“Mr. President…?” the staffer called again. Four uninterrupted minutes. For any President, that was a lifetime.
“I’ve got a country to run,” Wallace said to his friend. “By the way, if you’re looking for a good book…” He held up the hardcover copy of a book entitled A Problem from Helclass="underline" America and the Age of Genocide by Samantha Power. “Give it a look-it won the Pulitzer Prize,” the President said, handing it to Palmiotti. Directly.
“You got it,” the doctor said to his oldest friend as he glanced down at the hardcover book. A Problem from Hell. It sure was.
“Oh, and if you see Gabriel,” Wallace called back as he headed for the door, “tell him to block out a quick drop-by in the schedule for Minnie’s conference. But I’m not staying for photos.”
“You’re a sucker, y’know that?”
The President waved an absent goodbye, not saying a word. But his point was clear.
In Wallace’s eyes, family came first.
It was a lesson not lost on Palmiotti, who knew exactly what was at risk if this current mess was what he thought. It’d be easy to walk away now. Probably smart too. The President’s foot was clearly approaching the bear trap. But after everything Wallace had done for him… everything they’d done for each other…
Family came first.
“Oh, and Stewie, you need a haircut,” the President added. “You look like dreck.”
Dr. Stewart Palmiotti nodded.
A haircut. He was thinking the exact same thing.
23
"The girl.”
“What girl?” asks the security guy with the round face and bushy eyebrows.