The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [19]
Clementine freezes.
“… unless of course you plan on introducing me to her!” a young man with combed-back brown hair and a scruffy starter beard calls out, already laughing at his own lame joke. At twenty-nine years old, Dallas is a year younger than me and should be my junior. He’s not.
“Dallas Gentry,” he adds as if Clementine should recognize the name.
When it comes to archivists, everyone has their own specialty. Some are good with war records. Others are good with finding the obscure. But what Dallas is good at is getting his name in the newspaper. It peaked a few months back when he opened a dusty 1806 personnel folder from the War Department and found a handwritten, never-before-seen letter by Thomas Jefferson. Sure, it was dumb luck—but it was Dallas’s luck, and the next day it was his name in the Washington Post, and Drudge, and on the lecture circuit at every university that now thinks he’s the Indiana Jones of paper. To celebrate his rise, Dallas went full-on intellectual and started growing a beard (as if we need more intense bearded guys around here). The saddest part is, based on his recent promotion, it’s actually working for him, which makes me wonder if he’s the one staffing President Wallace today. But as I frantically fumble, trying to hide the dictionary under my coffee-soaked lab coat, this isn’t the time to find out.
“Listen, we’re kinda in a rush,” I say, still not facing him.
Clementine shoots me a look that physically burns. At first I don’t get it. She motions around the corner, back to the SCIF. Oh crap. Orlando’s still in there. If Dallas waltzes in on him and then connects him to what’s missing…
“I mean… no, we have plenty of time,” I tell Dallas. “Boy, your beard looks cool.”
Your beard looks cool? My God, when did I turn into Charlie Brown?
“Is that buttered rum?” Clementine jumps in, sniffing the air.
“You’re close. Cherry rum,” Dallas replies, clearly impressed as he turns toward her, staring at the piercing in her nose. It’s not every day he sees someone who looks like her in D.C. “Where’d you learn your pipe smoke?”
“My boss at the radio station. He’s been a pipe smoker for years,” she explains.
“Wait, you starting smoking a pipe?” I ask.
“Just for the irony,” Dallas teases, keeping his grin on Clementine. He honestly isn’t a jerk. He just comes off as one.
“Beecher, what happened to your coat?” a soft female voice interrupts as Dallas reaches out to shake hands with Clementine.
Just behind Dallas, I spot archivist Rina Alban, a young straight-haired brunette with bright green reading glasses perched on her head, and triple knots on her shoes. In the world of mousy librarians, Rina is Mickey. She’s ultra-quiet, ultra-smart, and ultra-introverted, except when you ask about her true love, the Baltimore Orioles. In addition, she looks oddly like the Mona Lisa (her eyes follow you also), and on most days she’s just as talkative. But not today—not the way she’s studying my bunched-up lab coat, like she can see the book that’s underneath.
“Beecher, what is that?” Rina asks again.
“Coffee. I spilled my coffee,” Clementine jumps in, restoring calm.
“Wait, you’re the one he knows from high school, right?” Dallas asks, though I swear to God I never mentioned Clementine to Dallas. That’s the problem with this place. Everyone’s doing research.
“You really shouldn’t have coffee up here,” Rina points out, less quiet than usual. I know why.
Every month, the powers that be rank us archivists in order of how many people we’ve helped. From tourists who walk in, to the handwritten letters asking us to track down a dead relative, every response is counted and credited. Yes, it helps justify our jobs, but it also adds unnecessary competition, especially after this morning, when they told us Rina was, for the fifth month in a row, number two on the list.
“By the way, Beecher, congrats on the top spot again,” Dallas says, trying to be nice.
“Top spot in what?” Clementine asks, peering down the hall and hoping to buy a few more seconds for Orlando.
“Being helpful. Don