The Inner Circle

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,” the guard at the sign-in desk called out as Laurent pushed his way into the lobby, bringing a frosty swirl of cold air with him.

“It’s not that bad,” Laurent said.

He meant it. Compared to the permanent gray of Ohio, the winters in D.C. were easy. But as he approached the sign-in desk, Laurent couldn’t help but think that was the only thing that was easier here.

Especially over the last few months.

“Research, or you got an appointment?” the guard asked.

“Research,” Laurent said, noticing just how bushy the guard’s eyebrows were. They definitely needed a trim, he thought, reaching for the ID Palmiotti had given him and carefully readjusting his baseball cap, which right now was the only thing protecting his face from the ceiling’s security camera.

“And your name again?”

Laurent leaned against the sign-in desk, which was built like an airline counter-so tall it came up to his chest. He never liked coming here. But as they knew, the President couldn’t get his hair cut every single day. “You don’t recognize me by now? I’m here all the time,” Laurent said as he held up the ID. “I’m Dustin Gyrich.”