The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [95]
With a flick of the dial, Tot turns the radio to his favorite country music station. If Dallas is right, and Tot’s in with the Plumbers—though I’m absolutely unconvinced he’s in with the Plumbers—this is the moment he’ll try to gain trust by offering me another bit of helpful advice.
“So guess what else I found last night while I was waiting for you?” Tot asks as we join the morning traffic on Rockville Pike.
From his pocket, he takes out his own photocopy of the message that was in the dictionary:
FEBRUARY 16
26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET
WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427
“Get ready to thank me, Beecher. I think I know what happened on February 16th.”
59
You know who’s the greeter this morning, right?” asked the President’s young aide, a twenty-seven-year-old kid with a strict part in his brown hair.
In the backseat of the armored limousine, President Wallace didn’t bother to answer.
Outside, there was a loud crunk, like a prison cell being unlocked. Through the Cadillac’s green bulletproof glass, the President watched as one of the suit-and-tie Secret Service agents pressed a small security button underneath the door handle, allowing them to open the steel-reinforced door from the outside.
As Wallace knew, at any event, the first face he saw was always a super-VIP—someone with enough tug to wrangle the job of greeter. But in this case, as the door cracked open and revealed a heavyset woman in a navy blue dress, he knew this greeter was a familiar one.
“You’re late,” his sister Minnie barked.
“I’m always late. That’s how I make an entrance,” Wallace shot back, quickly remembering why he should’ve canceled this appearance.
Minnie flashed the largest half-smile that her stroke allowed, and then, like the nuns at their old school, rapped her flamingo-headed cane against her brother’s polished shoes. “C’mon, I got people waiting.”
With his big strides, it took no time for the President to make his way past the throngs of agents to the loading dock that led into the back entrance of the Capital Hilton. Barely a few steps down the sparse concrete hallway, Wallace heard the click-clack of Minnie’s cane as she fought to speed-limp behind him. It’d been a while since they walked together. He slowed down—but he knew his sister too well. Even without the limp, she was forever trying to keep up.
“They tell you to thank Thomas Griffiths?” Minnie asked her brother.
“He knows about Thomas,” the young aide called out, barely half a step behind them.
“What about Ross? You need to make a big deal. He’s the one I answer to. Ross the Boss.”
“He knows Ross too,” the aide challenged as the smell of fresh croissants wafted through the air. Passing through a set of swinging doors, they followed the agents to their usual shortcut. Presidents don’t arrive through front doors. They arrive through hotel kitchens.
“Just please… make him feel important,” Minnie begged.
“Minnie, take my word on this one,” the President said, nodding polite nods and waving polite waves to all the kitchen staff who stopped everything to turn and stare. “I know how to make people feel important.”
“This way, sir,” a short agent announced, pointing them to the left, through a final set of swinging doors. From the dark blue pipe-and-drape that created faux-curtains around the doorway, Wallace knew this was it. But instead of being in the main ballroom, he found himself in a smaller reception room filled with a rope line of at least two dozen people, all of them now clapping as he entered. Truth be told, he still loved the applause. What Wallace didn’t love were the two private photographers at the front of the reception line.
“A photo line?” the aide hissed at Minnie.
“These are our top scientists—you have no idea how much they’ve done for brain injuries,” Minnie pleaded.
“You said one photo… with just the executive director,” the aide told her.
“I didn’t agree to any photos,” the President growled. Palmiotti was right. When it came to Minnie, he was a sucker.
“Sir, I apologize,