The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [70]
“Or someone has information for President Wallace,” Tot points out.
“Or that. That’s fine,” I say. “Either way, maybe this is how they share it.”
“Okay—that’s a theory—I can see that. But if it’s really that earth-shattering, why not just bring it directly to the President?”
“Look at the results: Dustin Gyrich comes in here, then—kaboom—World War I. Another visit, then—kaboom—Hiroshima. This isn’t small stuff. So for Gyrich to be back yesterday, there’s clearly something big that—”
“Wait. Hold on. Say that again,” Tot interrupts.
“Clearly something big?”
“Before that…”
“For Gyrich to be back yesterday?”
“We never checked, did we?” Tot asks.
“Checked what?”
“Gyrich’s visit. We know the dictionary was on hold for him yesterday, but we never checked if Gyrich actually physically came into the building…”
I see where he’s going. If Gyrich was here, if he checked in as a researcher and signed the log, we’ve got the possibility of having him on video, or at the very least fingerprints that can tell us who he really—
“Clemmi, c’mon…” I call out, already starting to run.
Clementine doesn’t move. She’s still flipping through the pull slips—the slips that every visitor has to fill out to look at a particular volume or box of documents—scanning each one like she’s reading a prescription bottle.
“Clemmi!” I call again.
Nothing.
I dart to the desk and grab at the pile of photocopies. “C’mon, we can read this after—”
Her arm springs out, desperately clutching the pages. She’s practically in tears. “Please, Beecher. I need to know.”
Within seconds, she’s back to scanning the documents.
Over her shoulder, I check the dates of the pull slips, trying to get context. July 7, July 10, July 30—all of them from ten years ago. What the hell happened in July ten y—?
Oh.
“You’re looking for Nico, aren’t you?” I ask.
She flips to another sheet.
At the NASCAR track. Ten years ago. That’s when Nico took the shots at President—
“Please tell me they didn’t know about that,” I say.
She shakes her head, unable to look up at me. There’s only so many punches this poor girl can take in one day. “They didn’t,” she says, her voice shaking as she nears the end of the pull slips.
“That’s good, right? That’s good.”
“I-I-I guess,” she says. “I don’t even know if I was hoping for it or not… but if this Culper Ring knew about all those other parts of history… I… I dunno. I just thought they might—”
“Clemmi, it’s okay,” I tell her. “Only a fool wouldn’t’ve checked. It’s completely—”
“You don’t have to say it’s normal, Beecher. Searching to see if some secret two-hundred-year-old group knew about the day your father tried to murder the President… We’re a little far from normal.”
I know she’s right, but before I can tell her, I feel the vibration of my phone in my pocket. Caller ID tells me it’s the one call I’ve been waiting for. Extension 75343. The Preservation Lab downstairs.
“You ready for it, Beecher?” Daniel the Diamond asks before I can even say hello.
“You were able to read it?” I say.
“It’s invisible ink, not the Rosetta Stone. Now you want to come down here and see what’s written in this book or not?”
40
Andre Laurent hated hats.
He always hated them—even on a day like today, when the late afternoon winds were galloping down from the Capitol, barreling full force as they picked up speed in the wide canyon created by the buildings that lined Pennsylvania Avenue. Sure, a hat would keep him warm. But as Andre Laurent knew—as any barber knew—a hat did only one thing: ruin a good day’s work.
Still, as Laurent leaned into the wind, fighting his way up the block toward the huge granite building, he never once thought about removing his red Washington Nationals baseball cap.
He knew its benefits, especially as he made a final sharp right, leaving the wind tunnel of Pennsylvania Avenue and heading under the awning that led to the automatic doors of the National Archives.
“Looks like Dorothy and Toto are flying around out there,