The Inner Circle

35

Pulling into Tot’s parking spot in the basement of the Archives, I catch my breath and take a peek in the rearview. Morris the security guy thinks I don’t see him as he peers down from the top of the ramp that leads outside. Like this morning, he did the full search, including the mirror sweep underneath the car. But he’s not gonna find anything-including Clementine, who’s no longer sitting next to me.

It was easy to drop her off half a block away. It’ll be even easier to meet up inside the building. She knows where. Our Rotunda holds original copies of the Declaration of Independence, the U.S. Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. It also holds the best meeting spot for staffers to sneak their friends off the public tour and into their offices on the working side of the building-without ever having to put their names on the sign-in sheet.

It’s bad enough I’m under Khazei’s microscope. I’m not bringing Clementine-or her dad-there with me.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m playing sacrificial lamb either. Beyond a good parking spot, there’s one other thing waiting for me in the basement.

With the dictionary once again tucked into the back of my slacks, I throw the heavy car door open, climb outside, and stroll right under the eye of the security camera in the corner. It follows me all the way to the double doors that take me to the interior checkerboard floors of the building.

Within the Archives, most people think that basement offices-with no windows and no view-are the worst. But for one office in particular, the lack of sunlight is an absolute necessity.

There’s no sign out front, no room number on the wall, and if you come at it from an angle, you can tell that the glass door, with its horizontal blinds pulled closed, is bulletproof. It needs to be. Forget the vaults upstairs. Here’s where the real treasures are kept.

“Daniel, you in there?” I call out, knocking hard on the glass.

Underneath the door, it’s clear the lights are off. I know his tricks.

“Daniel, I know you’re there. I have something good for you.”

Still no response.

“It’s an old one too…”

Still nothing.

And then…

“How old?” a voice finally calls out.

“Let’s go, Howard Hughes-open the door!” I shout.

There’s a muffled click as the door swings wide, revealing Daniel “the Diamond” Boeckman, the handsomest man in the entire Archives, wearing a crisp white lab coat that I swear doesn’t have a single crease, even in the tag. It’s the same with his manicured nails, perfect tie, and immaculate brushed-back blond locks-there’s not a thread, a hair, a molecule that’s out of place. More importantly, he’s one of the best talents we have in Preservation.

“Tell me your afternoon is free,” I plead.

“Can’t,” he says. “I’ve got Dallas’s original Thomas Jefferson letter that’s going on display tomorrow.”

Clementine’s waiting. Time to go atomic.

I pull the dictionary from the back of my pants and hold it up in front of him. “Washington still beat Jefferson?” I challenge.

He studies the gutted dictionary. Ten years ago, a man in Rhode Island found an original music sheet of “The Star-Spangled Banner” folded up-and seemingly stuck-in an old family journal. Boeckman said it was a fake just by looking at the swirl in the handwriting. But that didn’t stop him from calibrating the acidity of the paper, freeing the document from the journal, and even reassembling the individual ink flakes on the page, which proved the same. When it comes to document preservation, no one’s tougher than the Diamond.

“The binding’s gorgeous. Hand-threaded,” he says, holding it in his open palm, like he’s eyeing the Gutenberg Bible. “But that doesn’t mean it belonged to GW.”

“That’s not what I’m after,” I tell him. “You ever hear of Washington using invisible ink?”

He’s about to hand the book back. He stops. “You think there’s something in here?”

“You’re the one with all the CSI chemicals. You find the answer, I’ll owe you a monster one.”

“All you archivists owe me monster ones. Without me, you’d be going to Antiques Roadshow to find out if half your stuff was real.”

He’s right. Fortunately, there’s one thing the Diamond prefers even more than credit.

“How’re things going with Rina?” I ask with a grin.

He doesn’t grin back. There’s not a person in the building who doesn’t know about his crush on my #2 officemate.

“Beecher, you don’t have half the testicles to make good on whatever inducement you’re thinking of.”

“That’s true. But that doesn’t mean I can’t put in the good word for you.”

With his free hand, he touches his perfect Windsor tie. And smiles. “You used to be one of the nice ones, Beecher. Now you’re just like all the rest.”

“Just look at the book. And the invisible ink,” I tell him, tugging open the bulletproof door and leaving him the dictionary. “Rina sits right by me.” I lower my voice. “Oh, what’s that, Rina? Oh, yes, isn’t that Daniel Boeckman handsome?”

“Tell her I’m sensitive,” the Diamond calls back as I dart into the hallway. “She was upset yesterday-y’know, with the Orlando thing. Sensitive will serve me far better.”

The bulletproof door slams with a boom, but what echoes are his words. The Orlando thing.

A man died. My friend. I still see him lying there-his skin now chalkboard gray, the bottom corner of his mouth sagging open. It was yesterday! The Orlando thing. Like we’re talking about someone who didn’t refill the coffeepot.

The thought hits even harder as I follow the basement’s white-and-gray checkerboard floor toward the elevators, just down from Orlando’s office. But it’s not until I turn the corner that the door to the Security Office opens and I spot…

My stomach lurches, like it’s being squeezed in a slipknot.

Anyone but them.