The Inner Circle

47

The archivist had to make one stop first.

With Beecher now gone, it wouldn’t take long.

Just a quick moment to duck back into Finding Aids and head for the one… two… three… fourth bookshelf on the right. The archivist glanced back, but knew no one was here. That’s why they picked this room in the first place.

The President was always so focused on the SCIF. And that made sense. The SCIF was secure. The SCIF was perfect.

Until yesterday, when it wasn’t.

Reaching for the top shelf, the archivist shoved aside the black binders and went right for the book. A Problem from Hell.

From a pocket, the archivist took out a small plastic bottle about the size of a shot glass with a triangular nipple on top. The nipple was actually a sponge. The archivist flipped to the copyright page of the book, turned over the small bottle, and let the liquid mixture that was inside the plastic bottle soak into the triangular sponge. With a quick few brushes, the archivist painted the page.

Within seconds, small green handwriting revealed itself.

The archivist read it fast, already knowing most of it. But at the end…

The archivist nodded. When it came to Beecher… and this woman Clementine… That’s exactly what had to happen.

The words faded back to nothingness as the archivist slapped the book shut and headed through the lobby, out into the cold of Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Taxi!”

A black-and-yellow cab bucked to a stop.

“Where you going tonight?” an older cabbie with a round nose and thick bifocals asked, handing the archivist a laminated card as he slid inside.

“What’s this?” the archivist said.

“My mission statement.”

Sure enough, the laminated card said: To take you to your destination in an environment that is most pleasing to you. Underneath was a listing of all the local radio stations.

Only in D.C. Everyone’s a damn overachiever.

“Just turn the corner up here,” the archivist said. “I’m waiting for some friends-they’re in a light blue Mustang.”

“Y’mean like that one?” the cabbie asked, pointing through the windshield as the classic car, with Beecher and Clementine inside, climbed up the security ramp and made a sharp right into traffic.

“That’s the one. Beautiful automobile, huh?”

“Y’want me to follow it? Like the movies?” the cabbie asked.

“You can stay back a bit. Even if you lose them,” the archivist said, holding A Problem from Hell on the seat, “I already know where they’re going.”