The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [24]
Dallas and Rina.
Clementine coughs loudly from behind. I don’t turn around. So far, Khazei hasn’t even looked at her. He has no idea we’re together. Considering who we just found out her dad is, that’s probably for the better.
“Y’know he had sleep apnea, right? Always bitching about going to bed wearing one of those masks,” Khazei explains.
I’m still studying Dallas and Rina, my fellow archivists. Unlike everyone else, who’s pretty much standing behind us, the two of them are deep on the other side of the room, facing us from behind the cubicles. Like they’ve been here for a bit. Or are looking for something.
I continue to check each desk, searching for the videotape.
“One of the firefighters even said that if the stress gets high enough, you can trigger a seizure, but—” Khazei shakes his head. “When you spoke to Orlando earlier, he seem bothered or upset about anything?”
“No, he was—” I stop and look up at Khazei. He’s not wearing a grin, but I feel it. Until this moment, I’d never mentioned that I’d spoken to Orlando earlier.
Dammit.
I’m smarter than that. I need to be smarter than that. But the longer I stand here, the more I keep thinking that there’s only one possible reason Orlando died. And right now, that reason is wrapped in my lab coat and clutched by my now soaking armpit.
“I’m just trying to talk with you, Beecher. Just be honest with me. Please.”
He adds the Please to sound nice. But I’m done being suckered. Of the forty people rubbernecking around the office, I’m the one he’s decided to chat with. That alone means one of two things: Either he’s a hell of a good guesser, or he’s got something else he’s not saying.
I replay the past half hour in my head, scouring for details. But the only one I keep coming back to is Orlando’s Roman Numeral Two: If this book does belong to the President, and the President finds out we have it, he’s going to declare war on…
On us. That’s how Orlando put it.
But there is no us. Not anymore.
Orlando’s dead. And that means that whatever’s really happening here—whether it’s the President or Khazei or someone else that’s playing puppetmaster—the only one left to declare war on…
Is me.
A single bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck.
Across the way, Dallas and Rina continue to stand there, still facing us from the far end of the room. Dallas grips the top of a nearby cubicle. Rina’s right behind him. Sure, they saw us in the hallway—just outside the elevator—but that doesn’t tell them I was in the SCIF, or, more important, that I’m the one who actually has the book. In fact, the more I think about it, there’s only one way anyone could’ve known we were in there.
My brain again flips back to the video.
“Beecher, you understand what I’m saying?” Khazei asks.
When Orlando grabbed that videotape, he told us it was the best way to keep us safe—that as long as no one knew we were in there, we could still be Mark Felt. But if that tape is out there… if someone already has their hands on it… they’d have proof we were in the room and found the book, which means they’d already be aiming their missiles at—
“Were you with him all afternoon?” Khazei asks. “What time did you leave him?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just reacting to your words, Beecher. You said you were with Orlando. But if you want, take a look at your calendar… at your datebook… whatever you keep it in. My only concern is getting an accurate timeline.”
I nod at his swell of helpfulness. “Yeah… no… I’ll look at my calendar.”
“I appreciate that. Especially because…” He pauses a moment, making sure I see his smile. “… well, you know how people get.”
“How people get about what?”