The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [25]
On the back of my neck, my single drop of sweat swells into a tidal wave as I start to see the new reality I’m now sitting in. Until this moment, I thought the worst thing that could come from that videotape was that it made me look like a book thief. But the way the picture’s suddenly been repainted, that’s nothing compared to making me look like a murderer.
“Make way, people! Coming through!” the paramedics call out, shoving the stretcher and slowly rolling Orlando’s body back toward the reception desk.
The crowd does the full Red Sea part, clearing a path.
But as we all squeeze together, I once again eye Orlando’s cubicle, searching his messy desk, scanning the papers fanned across the floor, and scouring the office for—
There.
I didn’t look for it before—didn’t know it was that important—back in the corner, just outside his cubicle. Right where Dallas and Rina were first standing.
There’s a black rolling cart, like you see in every A/V department, with a small TV on top. But I’m far more interested in what’s underneath.
I push forward, trying to fight through the crowd as it squeezes back, bleeding into other cubicles to make way for the stretcher.
“Easy!” a middle-aged woman in full security uniform snaps, shoving me back with a shoulder.
It’s just the shove I need. On the lower shelf of the A/V cart sits an ancient bulky VCR. Like the one upstairs, it’s a top-loader. Unlike the one upstairs, the basket that holds the tape is standing at full attention, already ejected.
And empty.
No. It can’t be empty! If someone has it… I bite down hard, swallowing the thought. Don’t assume the worst. Maybe Orlando hid it. Maybe it’s still—
I feel another shove from in front of me. It nearly knocks me on my ass.
“Move, people! Show some respect!” one of the paramedics shouts.
With a final swell, the crowd packs extra-tight, then exhales and loosens its grip, dissipating as the stretcher leaves the room. Within seconds, there are coworkers everywhere, whispering, talking, the gossip already starting to spread.
Fighting for calm, I search for Dallas and Rina. They’re gone. I turn around, looking for Khazei. He’s gone too.
But I hear him loud and clear.
Of all the people in this room, he came straight to me. And while I still don’t know if Khazei’s threatening me for the book, or just investigating the loss of an employee, based on the intensity of his questions, one thing is clear: The book… the video… the President… even Orlando… There are multiple rings on this bull’seye—and right now, every one of those rings is tightening around my neck.
12
It was late when Dr. Stewart Palmiotti’s phone began to ring. It was late, and he was comfortable. And as he lay there, toasty under his overpriced down comforter and protected from the December cold, he was perfectly happy to feel himself slowly swallowed by his current dream, a piano dream involving old childhood Italian songs and the pretty girl with the bad teeth who he always sees at the supermarket deli counter.
But the phone was ringing.
“Don’t pick it up.” That’s what his ex would’ve said.
That’s why she was his ex.
This wasn’t just some random call. From the ring—high-pitched, double chirp—this was the drop phone. The phone that could go secure with the flip of a switch. The phone with the gold presidential seal on the receiver. The phone that was installed in his house two years ago. By the White House Communications Agency. And the Secret Service.
The drop phone was about to ring again, but as Palmiotti knew, only a schmuck lets the drop phone ring twice.
“Dr. Palmiotti,” he answered, sitting up in bed and looking out at the late-night snow that had already blanketed his street in Bethesda, Maryland.
“Please