The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [144]
As the red steel door slams shut and my phone continues to vibrate, I spin toward our destination and step through the second door, where the damp darkness of the cave has been replaced by an enormous bright white room that’s as big as an airplane hangar and as sterile as our preservation staff can possibly manage. In truth, it’s just a taller, brighter version of our stacks in D.C., filled with row after row of metal shelves. But instead of just books and archive boxes, the specially designed shelves are also packed with plastic boxes and metal canisters that hold old computer tape, vintage film, and thousands upon thousands of negatives of old photographs.
There’s a reason this stuff is here instead of in Washington. Part of it’s the cold temperature (which is better for film). Part of it’s cost (which is better for our budget). But part of it—especially the archive boxes that are locked in the security cage on my left—is what we call “geographical separation.” It’s one of the National Archives’ most vital—and least known—tasks. If there’s ever a terrorist attack that turns Washington into a fireball, we’re fully ready with the documents and paperwork to make sure our most vital institutions survive.
But as I step into the room, the only survival I’m really worried about is my own.
“You find it yet?” I call to Dallas, who’s racing up the center aisle, checking record group numbers on each row of shelves that he passes.
His only answer is a sharp right turn as he disappears down one of the far rows in back. We’re definitely close.
My phone vibrates for the fourth time, about to kick to voicemail. I have no idea if Tot knows where we are. But now that he can’t get in the way, it’d probably be smart to find out.
“Beecher here,” I answer, waiting to see how long it takes him to fish.
“Where the hell are you?” Tot asks. “I left you half a dozen messages!”
“I didn’t get them. I’m just… it’s been a crazy day.”
“Don’t. I know when you’re lying, Beecher. Where are you? Who’re you with?”
I take a moment to think about a response. Even through the phone, I swear I feel Tot’s good eye picking me apart. “Tot, you need to—”
“Are you still with Clementine? I thought she left after the cemetery.”
I pause. “How’d you know I was at a cemetery?”
“Because I’m not an idiot like the rest of the idiots you seem to be in love with!”
“Wait… time out. Did you have someone following me!?”
Before he can answer, my phone beeps. I look down and recognize the number. It’s the only person who could possibly take me away from this one.
“Tot, hold on a sec.”
“Don’t you hang up on me!”
With a click, I put him on hold.
“Mr. Harmon?” I ask the man in Presidential Records who not only helped us get into the cave but also knows exactly what document we’re looking for. “I-Is everything okay?”
“That’s my question for you,” he says, though his tone surprisingly seems softer and more helpful than usual. That’s all I need to be suspicious. “Everything going okay down there?”
“It’s… we’re fine.” I pause a moment, confused. “Is there a reason we shouldn’t be fine?”
“Not at all,” he says, back to his military matter-of-factness. “Just making sure you got there. I’d asked the Copper Mountain folks to stay a little later when I heard you lost the directions.”
“When I lost the what?”
“The directions I sent. Your secretary said—”
“My secretary?”
“The woman who called. She said you lost the directions.”
Up on my left, back in the stacks, there’s a metal thunk. The problem is, Dallas is all the way down on my right.
According to the hygrothermograph, it’s still a cool fifty-eight degrees. But suddenly the long white room feels like an oven. Clearly we’re not alone in here.
“Mr. Harmon, let me call you right back,” I say, hanging up the phone.
“Dallas, we got problems!” I shout, racing up the aisle and clicking back to Tot.
“Wait—you’re with Dallas!?” Tot asks, hearing the last bits through the phone.
“Tot, this isn’t—!”
“Beecher, you don’t know what you’re doing!”
“You’re wrong! For once, I know exactly