The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [114]
His eyes flicker back and forth. His chest rises and falls just as fast. But to his credit, Nico bites the inside of his lip and stays on track. “The very first recipient of the Purple Heart was a twenty-six-year-old named Elijah Churchill,” Nico explains. “Elijah served under someone I think you’ve heard of—Benjamin Tallmadge.”
Clementine looks my way.
“Tallmadge was the organizer of the original Culper Ring,” I say.
“Then when you look at the third name on that list—Daniel Bissell from Windsor, Connecticut—guess why his name was put in the Book of Merit? He was one of our best spies, who helped infiltrate Benedict Arnold’s own corps,” Nico says, his eyes flicking faster than ever. “And according to some, that’s the real reason the Book of Merit disappeared. It wasn’t stolen. It was hidden—by Washington himself, who collected our best men and used them to build the greatest secret corps that history never knew…”
“The Culper Ring,” Clementine says.
“I’m not asking you to believe it,” Nico says. “But even America’s secret history has its experts. Let me help you with this. You know I can help you. This is the world I know best.”
I’m tempted to argue, but we both know he’s right. When it comes to conspiracies, Nico’s got a PhD.
“Tell me what you found in the invisible ink,” Nico says. “Tell me and I’ll share what I know. If I fail, you can leave and we’re done.”
I look over at Clementine, who replies with an awkward shrug. I can’t help but agree. At this point—especially with the President’s pencil apparently being a bust, and still not knowing why Wallace brought me to that room—what do we have to lose?
From my back pocket, I unfold the photocopy of the dictionary page and slide it across the round table.
Unlike before, Nico doesn’t snatch it. He stays calm, hands again flat on the table. But as he leans forward and reads the words, I see the thick vein starting to swell on his neck.
FEBRUARY 16
26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET
WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427
There’s a loud kuh-kunk behind us. Another Diet Dr Pepper for another patient, this one a young Asian man with a dyed blond stripe running down the middle of his head like a skunk streak.
“Get away from us, Simon—this isn’t your business!” Nico growls without turning around as he covers the photocopy by pressing it against his own chest. The Asian man flips Nico the finger, then heads for the swinging doors that lead back to patients’ rooms.
Barely noticing, Nico focuses back on the photocopy. His lips move as he reads.
His lips move as he reads it again.
Over and over, he rereads the document. The vein on his neck swells larger than ever.
He finally looks up—not excited, not energized… not anything.
“I know where you need to go,” he says.
76
The barber had gloves in his pocket. But he didn’t put them on.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t cold. Out here—especially out here in the snow-covered graveyard—the weather was freezing. He was most definitely cold.
But for now, he wanted to feel it.
In fact, as he walked up the twisting concrete path of Oak Hill Cemetery, he knew that was his real problem. For too long now, especially the past few years, he hadn’t felt the cold, or fear—or most anything at all. Instead, he’d been lulled. And worst of all, he hadn’t been lulled by anyone. He’d been lulled by himself.
It was the same reason he came here today.
He knew he shouldn’t. Palmiotti would tear him apart if he found out he’d trekked all the way out here in the snow. But as he spotted the headstone that was carved in the shape of a baby swaddled in a blanket, the barber couldn’t help but think what else he’d lulled himself into.
He’d only lived in Washington a few years now. But he’d been here long enough to know where the real strings were pulled. Right now, Palmiotti was the one with the office in the White House. And the private parking spot in the White House. And the best friend who sat in the Oval Office. All the barber had was high rent on his barber chair and a set of presidential cuff links. So