The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [102]
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 thumbed 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