The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [103]
It wasn’t the adulation that got him going. What Wallace appreciated was just… the appreciation. The simple act of people saying thank you. These days, in this economy, that kind of crowd seemed to appear less and less often.
“Thank you so much, Mr. President.”
“—just an inspiration, sir.”
“—reinvigorated all of us, Mr. President.”
“I hope you enjoyed the breakfast, Mr. President,” the chef called out as Wallace weaved back through the kitchen.
“Just fantastic. We need to have you cook at the White House,” Wallace called back, using the same compliment he saved for every chef in every hotel kitchen.
“—just want to thank you so much,” Ross the Boss chimed in, leading the final row of handshakes—the VIP goodbyes—that waited for Wallace at the far end of the service entrance and would take him to the waiting door of his armored limo.
“Hey—!” a female voice called out.
Wallace’s arm was already extended in a handshake as he finally looked up at the last person in line: a heavyset woman in a royal blue dress.
“I love you,” his sister Minnie said, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.
“You’re just saying that because I’m the President,” Wallace teased.
With a whack, Minnie rapped her pink flamingo cane against his shin.
The President was still laughing as the Secret Service agent pushed the hidden button under the door handle, which unlocked the door so he could usher Wallace into the car. And for that moment, as he ducked inside and brother and sister shared their laughter, Wallace almost forgot about where he was headed next.
Almost.
“Homerun moving,” one of the Secret Service agents whispered into his wrist, using the President’s official Service code name. “Arrival at the Archives in approximately four minutes.”
66
As I tear full speed around the corner, my shoes slide across the twelfth floor’s green terrazzo squares. If my timing’s right, I’ve still got a few minutes on the President. I need them. Especially if I want to be ready.
“I need some ID,” a calm voice announces just as I make the turn. His voice draws out each syllable so it sounds like Eye. Dee.
I know that voice.
But as I nearly plow into the man in the black body armor, I’m not focused on him or his black rifle. I don’t even see the SCIF that sits at the end of the hall. All I see are ghosts. Ghosts of myself. And Clementine. And Orlando. Forty-eight hours ago, we were standing in this same pale blue hallway, with the same marble wainscoting, studying this same room with the matching pale blue metal door. I wish it were just déjà vu. Déjà vu is easy to dismiss. But this… this is like stepping on Orlando’s grave.
A cold dread grips me, squeezing my Adam’s apple until I barely remember how to breathe. It reminds me that the only reason to search for these Plumbers—and for what they put in that dictionary—is to prove that they’re the ones who killed my friend.
“I said, ID,” the agent insists.
“Y-Yeah… sure… sorry,” I say, holding up my badge.
“Arms up,” he barks, pulling out a black-and-yellow wand that looks like a flattened flashlight. Metal detector.
Of course. He saw my name. He knows I’m staffing him. No way they’re letting me get close without making sure I’m clean.
As he waves the wand under my armpits, I blink once and see Orlando’s dimpled chin and big-toothed smile as he clutched his little coffee cup and ushered me and Clementine inside. I blink again, and there’s nothing but the empty pale blue hallway.
“Don’t be so nervous,” the Secret Service agent calls out, pinning a temporary metal clearance button on my lapel and motioning me toward the SCIF. “The President doesn’t bite. Unless he’s pissed.”
I can’t even pretend to laugh as I speedwalk up the hallway and stop at the call box that hangs on the wall. As I press the silver intercom button, a red indicator light blinks on.
“This is Beecher,” I say into the intercom. “I’m opening SCIF 12E1.” They’re the same words Orlando said to Khazei two days ago.
I wait to hear Khazei growl something back. The way he’s been