The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [158]
“Sir, this isn’t—”
“Victor.” That’s the end. Argument over.
Without another word, the two agents leave the doctor’s office, shutting the door behind them. But it’s Wallace who rounds the desk, crosses behind me, and locks the office door with a hushed clunk.
At first, I thought he brought me here because of what happened to Palmiotti. But I’m now realizing it’s one of the only places in the White House where he can guarantee complete privacy.
With him behind me, I keep my eyes on Palmiotti’s desk, where there’s a small box that looks like a toaster. A little screen lists the following names in green digital letters:
POTUS: Ground Floor Doctor’s Office
FLOTUS: Second Floor Residence
VPOTUS: West Wing
MINNIE: Traveling
Doesn’t take a medical degree to know those’re the current locations of the President, First Lady, Vice President, and Minnie. I’d read that Wallace made the Secret Service take his kids’ names off the search grid. There was no reason for staff to know where they were at any minute. But he clearly left Minnie on. It’s been twenty-six years since the President’s sister tried to kill herself. He’s not taking his eyes off her.
Otherwise, the office is sparse, and the walls—to my surprise—aren’t filled with photos of Palmiotti and the President. Palmiotti had just one, on the desk, in a tasteful silver frame. It’s not from the Oval or Inauguration Day. No, this is a grainy shot from when Palmiotti and Wallace were back in… from the early-eighties hair and the white caps and gowns, it has to be high school graduation.
They can’t be more than eighteen: young Palmiotti on the left; young Wallace on the right. In between, they’ve both got their arms around the real star of the photo: Wallace’s mother, who has her head tilted just slightly toward her son, and is beaming the kind of toothy smile that only a mom at graduation can possibly beam. But as Mom stretches her own arms around their waists, pulling them in close, one thing’s clear: This isn’t a presidential photo. It’s a family one.
With the door now locked, the President moves slowly behind me, heading back toward the desk. He’s silent and unreadable. I know he’s trying to intimidate me. And I know it’s working.
But as he brushes past me, I spot… in his hand… He’s holding one of those black oval bulbs from the end of a blood pressure kit.
As he slides back into his chair, I don’t care how cool he’s trying to play it. This man still lost his oldest—and perhaps only—real friend today. He lowers his hands behind the desk and I know he’s squeezing that bulb.
“If it makes you feel better, we’ll find her,” he finally offers.
“Pardon?”
“The girl. The one who took the file…”
“Clementine. But whattya mean we’ll find—?” I stop myself, looking carefully at Wallace. Until just this moment, he had no idea that Clementine was the one who had the file.
His gray eyes lock on me, and I realize, in this depth of the ocean, just how sharp the shark’s teeth can be.
“Is that why you brought me here? To see if I was the one who still had the file?”
“Beecher, you keep thinking I’m trying to fight you. But you need to know—all this time—we thought you were the one who was blackmailing us.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know that. And that’s the only reason I brought you here, Beecher: to thank you. I appreciate what you did. The way you came through and worked so hard to protect Dallas and Dr. Palmiotti. And even when you found the rest… you could’ve taken advantage and asked for something for yourself. But you never did.”
I stare at the President, who knits his fingers together and gently lowers them in prayer style on the desk. He’s not holding the blood pressure bulb anymore.
“Can I ask you a question, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Is that the same speech you gave to Dallas?”
“What’re you talking about?” the President asks.
“The polite flattery… the moral back-pat… even the subtle hint you dropped about the advantages