The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [50]
“What can I do to you?” Laurent asked as his client sat in the barber chair. “Shave or haircut?”
“How about both?” Dr. Stewart Palmiotti replied, leaning forward and tossing the fat hardcover book he was carrying onto the glass shelf that sat just below the mirror. “I think we’re gonna need the extra time.”
“As you wish,” the President’s barber said, reaching for a hot towel as the President’s doctor tilted his head back.
Every barber has one haircut he’ll never forget.
And some barbers have more than one.
26
The cobblestone Italian street was still damp from the overnight rain, and as the small, slender man stood there, he enjoyed the reflective view it created on Via Panisperna. Like a whole different universe, he thought, taking in the upside-down view of Sant’Agata dei Goti, the fifth-century church that now appeared—like magic—below his feet.
He’d been standing by the side door waiting for a while now, but he wasn’t worried. In all their time coming here, she’d never stood him up. He knew she wouldn’t start now. Not with what was about to happen.
“You look nervous,” Lenore called out as she turned the corner and marched up the bumpy stone driveway.
“Not nervous,” the man said. “Excited.”
“You don’t look excited. You look nervous.”
The man smiled to himself, knowing better than to argue with Lenore, a woman well trained, from Princeton all the way up to the White House, in the fine art of arguing.
“If I weren’t a little nervous, I’d be insane,” the man said with a laugh.
Shoving hard on the carved wooden double doors, he pushed his way inside and winced as the hinges shrieked. But there was something instantly calming about being back here, especially that smell: the damp wood and the rosewater candles.
“The smell reminds you of your mother, doesn’t it?” Lenore asked.
Ignoring the question—and the slamming doors behind him—the slender man headed straight for the source of the smell, the ancient iron rack filled with the white rose prayer candles.
“She had that smell on her when you were little,” Lenore continued. “When you went to church in Wisconsin.”
The man couldn’t help but smile. In this world, there was nothing scarier than trusting someone. But there was also nothing more rewarding.
“They were good memories,” he said as he picked up an unlit candle, dipped it into the flame, and whispered a silent prayer for his mother. Two years ago, for a prayer like this, he would’ve bobbed his head sixteen times before saying amen. He would’ve pulled out two eyelashes, setting them perpendicular in his palm until they formed a miniature cross. But today, as he looked up toward the intricate stained glass window… Nico Hadrian was better.
And so was former First Lady Lenore Manning.
Even though she’d been dead for two years now.
“Nico, let’s go—they want you in the day room,” the tall orderly with the sweet onion breath called out.
Peering over his shoulder, Nico looked across his small bare room at St. Elizabeths Hospital. He looked past his single bed and the painted dresser that held his Bible and the Washington Redskins calendar. Italy was gone, and there was no one there except for Sweet Onion Breath.
“Please tell me you’re not talking to no imaginary friends,” the orderly pleaded. “You do, I gotta report it, Nico.”
Nico cranked his small smile into a kind, wider one. He’d made the mistake of honesty once. He wouldn’t make it again. “You know I don’t do that anymore.”
He was mostly right. After his escape and capture, when he was finally returned to St. Elizabeths, it took Nico four months before he stopped picking off his own fingernails, determined to punish himself for what he’d done. To be manipulated like that—to be so lost in the religious spirit—to kill in the name of God. By now, the doctors were thrilled with his progress. They gave him mail privileges, even access to the grounds. For the past two years, Nico had fought back to his own level of normalcy.