The Inner Circle

64

As Tot and I wait at the guardhouse, blocked by the yellow metal antiram barrier that sticks out from the concrete, we both reach for our IDs.

“Beautiful morning,” the guard with the bright white teeth calls out, waving us through without even approaching the car.

The metal barrier churns and lowers with its usual shriek, biting into the ground. We both wave back, confused.

There’s no ID check, no bomb sweep. Yesterday, we were enemies of the state; today we’re BFFs.

The guard even adds a wink as we pass his booth and ride down to the garage. A wink.

“Something’s wrong,” Tot insists.

Of course something’s wrong. But as I mentally replay Dallas’s words from last night, my mind wanders back to a few years ago when the Archives released all the personnel records of the OSS, the early version of the CIA. Historians had estimated that there were about six thousand people who had spied for the agency back during World War II. When the records were unsealed, there were actually twenty-four thousand previously unknown spies, including Julia Child, Supreme Court Justice Arthur Goldberg, and a catcher for the Chicago White Sox.

The OSS lasted a total of three years. According to Dallas, the Culper Ring has been around for two hundred.

As Tot pulls into his parking spot, I look over my shoulder and up the ramp of the garage, where White Teeth is still watching us. And smiling.

Dallas never said it… never even hinted it… but only a fool wouldn’t think that maybe this Culper Ring has a deeper reach than I originally thought.

“Look who else is visiting,” Tot whispers, working hard to climb out of the Mustang. As I elbow open the car door and join him outside, I finally see who he’s looking at: Over by the metal door that leads inside are two men in black body armor, both of them holding rifles. Secret Service.

From the look on Tot’s face, he has no idea why they’re here.

“Think Wallace is coming back?” he whispers.

“He’s definitely coming back.”

He shoots me a look. “How do you know?”

I take a breath, repracticing what I’ve been practicing all morning. It’s one thing to play it safe-for now, while I gather info-by not mentioning Dallas and the Culper Ring. But to hide that I’ll be with the President… to hide what I know Tot’ll find out…

“I’m the one staffing him,” I say as I slam the car door and head for the Secret Service.

Limping behind me, Tot’s too smart to make a scene. But as we flash our IDs and give quick head-nods to the Service, I can tell he’s pissed.

He doesn’t say a word until we’re in the elevator.

“When’d you find out?” Tot hisses just as the doors snap shut and we ride up to our offices.

“Last night. They emailed me last night.”

His good eye picks me apart. I know what he’s thinking.

“I was trying to tell you all morning,” I add as the elevator bobs and stops at our destination. “But when you brought up this Dr. Palmiotti-Who knows, maybe being alone with the President is a good thing. Maybe he’ll make me an offer or something.”

“Make you an offer? Who gave you a stupid idea like that?”

“I–I just thought of it,” I say, still thinking about what Dallas said last night. Whatever’s been happening in that SCIF, it’s between the President and someone on staff-or at least someone with access to the room.

Tot shakes his head, stepping out on the fourth floor. I’m right behind him, but as Tot throws open the door to our office and I follow him inside, there’s a flash of movement on my right.

Like a jack-in-the-box, a head pops up from the far end of the grid of cubicles, then cuts into the main aisle. From the Mona Lisa hair, I recognize Rina immediately, but what catches me off guard… she was in my cube.

“What’re you doing!?” I call out before I even realize I’m shouting.

Rina whips around, still standing in the aisle. “What? Me?”

“You heard me…!” I say, already whipping around the corner.

Like whack-a-moles, three more heads-all of them other officemates-pop up throughout the grid. One of them is Dallas. Everyone wants to see the fuss.

Still looking shocked, Rina stands there frozen.

My cube is next to Rina’s. Yet as I race up the main aisle, Rina is standing outside her cube-not mine.

“W-What’d I do?” Rina asks. “What’s wrong?”

I step back, confused. I double-check to make sure I have it right. I know what I saw.

“Beecher, you okay?” she asks.

I glance over my shoulder. Tot must’ve seen it too. But as I turn around, Tot’s all the way by his desk, refusing to look my way. I get the picture. He’s still pissed I didn’t tell him about the President. This is my punishment: leaving me on my own.

That’s fine. I know what I saw.

From his cubicle, Dallas shoots me his own glance. He saw it too. When Rina ducked into the aisle… she moved… she must’ve moved.

Relax, Dallas says with a slow nod. Not in public.

My cell phone rings. I pick up quickly.

“Is Mom okay?” I ask my sister Sharon.

“She’s fine. Going to Jumbo’s for lunch,” my sister says. Hearing the strain in my voice, she adds, “What’s wrong there?”

“Office politics. I’ll call you later,” I say, hanging up before she can pry.

“Beecher, you sure you’re okay?” Rina asks.

“He’s fine,” Dallas tells her as he joins us in the main aisle. “He’s just having one of those mornings.”

“I can imagine,” Rina says, cupping her palms and tapping her fingers together, more than happy to be rid of any confrontation. “I mean, it’s not every day you get to staff the President, right, Beecher?”

I look back at Tot. His head’s below the sightline of his cubicle, which means he’s not even watching me anymore. The sad part is, I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

“Listen, if there’s anything you need when you’re in there,” Rina offers, “I’m happy to help. I can even stand outside in case there’re any new records the President might request.”

“Thanks, but I’m okay, Rina,” I say as I step into my cubicle and slide into my chair. On my desk, my eye immediately goes to my keyboard, which is slightly askew.

I hold my breath as I see it. My keyboard’s never askew. I keep two neat piles on my desk. Both of them look messy. Like someone’s thumbed through them.

Before I can react, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I assume it’s my sister, but as I flip it open, caller ID says: USSS.

United States Secret Service.

“Beecher here,” I say as I pick up.

“We’ve got Homerun ready to move,” an agent with a stubborn Boston accent says. “You ready for us?”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I tell him.

“You need to be there now,” he challenges.

As he hangs up on my ear, I know the mess on my desk has to wait. I quickly dart for the stairs. I’ve got bigger problems to deal with.