The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [74]
“Is that another code?” Tot asks.
“The most important code of all,” I say, remembering my time in Mr. Farris’s store. “In used bookstores, that’s the price.”
“… or in some cases, what the bookseller paid for it,” the Diamond adds, “so they know what to sell it for.”
Tot rolls this one around in his head. “So rather than some rare George Washington edition, you think this book is worth about two bucks?”
“It’s worth whatever someone will pay for it,” the Diamond says. “But if I had to guess, sure, I’m betting this is a later edition that some counterfeiter doctored up to sell in some scam during the 1800s when Washington died. We see ’em all the time. Saw another one a few weeks back at a used bookstore in Virginia,” the Diamond says. “So if I were you, I’d focus my energy on whatever book they want you to reply in.”
“Pardon?” Clementine asks.
“You telling me those aren’t library call numbers?” the Diamond challenges. “They wrote to you in this book, now you write back in another. Communicating through books. Someone’s doing the Culper Ring proud.”
I once again think of Nico as all three of us stare down at the last line of the message:
WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427
No question, they definitely look like library call numbers. “There’s only one problem—” I begin.
“—and that is, we need to find those books right now,” Tot interrupts, shooting me a long hard look. I take the hint.
But as we head for the door, I hear the song “Islands in the Stream.” Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. Tot’s phone.
“You’ve got Tot,” he answers, flipping it open. He nods, then nods again. But he doesn’t say a word. Even as he closes it.
“Daniel, thanks again for the help,” Tot finally announces, motioning me and Clementine out into the hallway.
“Don’t forget me and Rina,” the Diamond calls as we leave.
The lab’s bulletproof glass door slams shut with a cold clap, but all I hear is Tot’s quiet huffing as he shuffles back toward the elevators.
“The book that’s in those call numbers—you know which one it is, don’t you?” Clementine asks.
Tot ignores her. So do I.
“Who was that on the phone?” I ask him.
“Matthew,” Tot says.
“Who’s Matthew?”
“The guard at the front desk. With the caterpillar eyebrows. I paid him twenty bucks to keep an eye out,” Tot says as we all crowd into the waiting elevator. “Now if you move your heinie fast enough, we’re about to get our chance to finally grab Dustin Gyrich.”
44
Ping” the elevator sings in F-sharp as the doors slide open.
I race out first, darting into the hallway and heading straight toward the gray stone walls of the lobby. Behind me, Tot hobbles, trying to keep up. No surprise. He’s got nearly fifty years on me. But what is a surprise is Clementine, who starts to run and quickly loses steam. Her face is pale white like an aged porcelain doll.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Go… If he’s there… Go!” she insists.
I take the cue, picking up speed.
“He said he went into Finding Aids!” Tot calls out.
Pulling a sharp right, I cut into the mint green Finding Aids room, the same room I found Clementine in this morning, when she gave me the homemade photo of the two of us.
There’s no one at the research tables. No one at the bookshelves. For visitors, the last pull from the stacks was done hours ago. It’s too late. No one’s here.
Except for the older black man in the dark wool pea coat who’s hunched in front of the small bank of computers.
“Sir, I’m checking IDs. Can I see your ID?” I call to the man.
He doesn’t turn around.
“Sir…! Sir, I’m talking to you,” I add, now on a mad dash toward him. I reach out to grab his shoulder.
“Beecher, don’t—!” Tot shouts as he enters the room.
Too late. I tap the man hard—hard enough that he turns around and—he—
He’s a she.
“I know you didn’t just put your hands on me,” the woman barks, twisting from her seat.
“Ma’am, I-I’m sorry… I thought you were… I’m just checking IDs,” I tell her.
She flashes her badge, which says she’s a researcher from the University of Maryland. But as I scan the rest of