The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [11]
She barely grins. “Already did it on the Constitution.”
“Fine, you win,” I say, stopping in the center of the hallway and leaning on the marble wainscoting. “You want to meet the President, I’ll take you to meet the President.”
She doesn’t blink. “You don’t know the President.”
“Maybe. But I know what room he goes to when he does his reading visits.”
“You do?”
“I do. Wanna see?”
She stands up straight and twists her forearm back and forth so her vintage bracelets slide from her wrist toward her elbow and her scars. “Is it far from here or—?”
“Actually, you’re standing right in front of it.”
I point over her shoulder, and she spins to find a metal door that’s painted the same color as the pale blue hallway. Easy to miss, which is the whole point. The only thing that stands out is that the square glass window that looks into the room is blocked by some black fabric. Down by the doorknob, there’s a round combination lock like you’d find on a safe.
“That’s it?” Clementine asks. “Looks like my old gym locker.”
I shake my head. “SCIFs are far safer than gym lockers.”
“What’d you call it? A skiff?”
“SCIF—Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility,” I explain, rapping the knuckle of my middle finger against the door and hearing the deep thud that lets you know just how thick it is. “C’mon, when you read a classified document, you think you just open it at your desk? People are watching from everywhere—through your windows, from listening and video devices—Big Brother doesn’t just work for us anymore. So all around the government, we’ve got rooms built and certified by the CIA.”
“Skiffs,” she says.
“SCIFs. Walls with quarter-inch metal shielding, floors with eight-inch metal plates to stop eavesdropping, no windows, copper foil in the corners to stop transmissions, bars over the vent shafts so Tom Cruise can’t lower himself on his trapeze…”
“And you have one of these SCIFs here?”
“You kidding? Our legislative guys alone have sixteen of them. Every major building in D.C.—the White House, the Capitol, every Senate and House building—if you’ve got a bigshot in the building, we’ve got a SCIF in there too. And the biggest bigshots get them in their homes. Tiny little rooms for you to read the world’s most vital secrets.”
“Can we peek inside?” she asks, rapping her own knuckle against the door.
I force a laugh.
She doesn’t laugh back. She’s not trying to pry. She means it as an honest question.
“If you can’t, no big deal,” she adds.
“No, I can… I just…”
“Beecher, please don’t make that stress face. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“No, I’m not uncomfortable.”
“Let’s go do the other stuff,” she says, already walking away.
“Oh, just take the damn girl inside already,” a deep voice echoes on our left. Up the hallway, an older black man with a caterpillar mustache heads our way carrying an oversized cup of coffee. Despite his age, he’s still got the muscular build that first got him the job as one of our uniformed security guards. But one look at his dimpled chin and big-toothed smile, and it’s clear that Orlando Williams is more pussycat than lion.
“This that girl you used to have a crush on? The one that’s gonna mend that broken heart Iris left you?” Orlando shouts even though he’s only a few steps away.
“Who’s Iris?” Clementine asks.
Every office has a loudmouth. Orlando is ours—or more specifically, mine, ever since he found out that:
a) I was from his home state of Wisconsin, and
b) I was the only archivist willing to give his brother-in-law’s boss a private tour of the Treasure Vault.
For better or worse, he’s determined to return the favor.
“Just take her inside—I won’t even put you in my floor report,” he adds, tucking his clipboard under his armpit and taking