The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [104]
“You’re all set,” a female voice replies. “Moses is four minutes away,” she says, using our internal code name for him. “Enjoy.”
The intercom goes silent, and I dart for the entrance to the SCIF. As I spin the combination lock, a sting of bile burns my throat.
I step inside the vault and catch a flash of shadow moving on my left. I’m not the only one in here.
“Oh, c’mon now,” Khazei says as he slams the metal door shut and locks the two of us inside. “You really thought I’d miss this one?”
67
You shouldn’t be here,” I warn Khazei.
“Let me just say that’s one of a variety of things you’re wrong about,” he counters.
As always, he’s trying to keep me cornered. But just seeing Khazei here—just seeing his polished fingernails and his cocky grin—even I’m surprised how fast my fear gets swallowed by anger. “You’re interfering with my work. And the work of the President,” I shoot back.
“Oh, so now you and the President are a team?”
“I never said that. What I said was you were interfering.”
“Beecher, do me a favor and take a seat,” he says, pointing to the single table at the center of the room and the rolling research cart stocked with documents that sits next to it.
I stay where I am. He doesn’t seem to care.
“Beecher, I’ve thought long and hard about this. I know I can keep putting the pressure on you. I can keep huffing and puffing and trying to blow your house down. Or I can be honest with you,” he says, his voice softening to nearly a whisper.
“Before I started working here, y’know what my old job was?” Khazei asks as he leans a hand on the research cart. “I used to be a cop out in Virginia. The pay was good. The hours were bad. And the pension couldn’t even touch what I get here, which is why I made the switch. But there’s one thing I learned as a cop: Sometimes good people don’t know how to be good to themselves. Y’understand what that means?”
“It means you’ve been reading too many self-help books.”
“No, it means you have no idea how many guns are aimed at your head. So let me do you one favor and tell you what I know: I know who your girlfriend Clementine is. I know who her dad is—which explains why you’ve been trying to hide her. Sure, I don’t know why Orlando died—yet—but I do know that President Orson Wallace was scheduled to be in this room two days ago. I know that the Secret Service did everything in their power to clear out the CSI investigative folks from being here. And I know that despite the fact that there are over two dozen other SCIFs in this building that the President could’ve picked, he for some unexplainable reason asked for this room, with you, which puts him right back in the exact same place that, less than forty-eight hours ago, was the last known location that Orlando was seen before they found him lying downstairs on the carpet with his eyes permanently open. Now I know you’re one of the smart ones, Beecher. Whatever deal you’re working with the President—”
“I’m not working any deals!” I insist.
“Then you have even bigger problems than I thought. Look up and down at that totem pole you’re stuck in. You’re the lowest man. And when it comes to presidential scandals, when that totem pole finally tips and everyone starts yelling ‘Timber,’ you know what they call the lowest man? The scapegoat,” he says, his dark eyes locked on mine.
“We’ve got Moses outside the building,” Khazei’s walkie-talkie squawks through the room.
“Beecher, I know you need a life preserver. This is me throwing you one. All you have to do is take hold.”
“Moses is in the elevator,” the walkie-talkie announces. “One minute to arrival…”
There’s a hollow knock on the metal door. Secret Service want the SCIF opened and ready. Even Khazei knows he can’t stop a request like that.
“Please, Beecher,” he says as he reaches out and twists the metal latch on the door. My ears pop from the change in pressure as the door swings inward and the vacuum seal is broken. “I’m begging you to take hold.”
It’s the last thing I hear