The Inner Circle by Brad Meltzer Page B

you also), and on most days she’s just as talkative. But not today—not the way she’s studying my bunched-up lab coat, like she can see the book that’s underneath.
    “Beecher, what is that?” Rina asks again.
    “Coffee. I spilled my coffee,” Clementine jumps in, restoring calm.
    “Wait, you’re the one he knows from high school, right?” Dallas asks, though I swear to God I never mentioned Clementine to Dallas. That’s the problem with this place. Everyone’s doing research.
    “You really shouldn’t have coffee up here,” Rina points out, less quiet than usual. I know why.
    Every month, the powers that be rank us archivists in order of how many people we’ve helped. From tourists who walk in, to the handwritten letters asking us to track down a dead relative, every response is counted and credited. Yes, it helps justify our jobs, but it also adds unnecessary competition, especially after this morning, when they told us Rina was, for the fifth month in a row, number two on the list.
    “By the way, Beecher, congrats on the top spot again,” Dallas says, trying to be nice.
    “Top spot in what?” Clementine asks, peering down the hall and hoping to buy a few more seconds for Orlando.
    “Being helpful. Don’t you know that’s what Beecher’s best at?” Dallas asks. “He even answers the questions that get emailed though the National Archives website, which no one likes answering because when you email someone back, well, now you got a pen pal. It’s true, you’re walking with the nicest guy in the entire building—though maybe you can teach him how to help himself,” Dallas adds, thinking he’s again making nice.
    Doesn’t matter. By now, Orlando should be long gone from the SCIF. Nothing to worry about. But as Clementine steps between me and Rina, Rina isn’t staring at me. Her eyes are on my coat.
    “Clear the hallway,” a deep baritone calls out. I turn just as two uniformed Secret Service agents exit from the nearby staircase. On my left, the lights above the elevator tell us it’s back on the ground floor. The sirens are louder than ever. Here comes Moses.
    Without a word, one of the agents motions to Dallas and Rina, who head back around the corner. Question answered. Rina and Dallas are the ones staffing Wallace in the SCIF.
    I go to push the button for the elevator. The taller Secret Service agent shakes his head and points us to the staircase. Until the President’s in place, that’s the only way down.
    “What happened to your coat?” the agent asks, pointing to the brown Rorschach blots.
    “Coffee,” I call back, trying to look relaxed as I head for the waiting stairs.
    “Beecher, just say it,” Clementine says as soon as we’re out of sight. “Tell me!”
    I shake my head, speedwalking us back through the musty stacks. I’m tempted to run, but as the motion sensor lights pop on above us, I’m reminded of the very best reason to stay calm. The sensors are the Archives’ way of saving energy, but all they do is highlight us for the videocameras in the corner of each stack. And unlike the videotape Orlando swiped from the room, these beam right back to the Security Office.
    “You sure this is right?” Clementine asks as we reach a section where the lights are already on. Like we’ve been here before.
    “Of course it’s right,” I say, squinting at the record group locator numbers at the end of the row on our left. I pause a moment. A moment too long.
    “You’re lost, aren’t you?”
    “I’m not lost.”
    She studies me, strong as ever. “Beecher…”
    “I’m not. Yes, I’m turned around a little. But I’m not lost,” I insist.
    “Listen, even if you are, it’s okay,” she says with no judgment in her voice. But as she looks away, she starts… chuckling.
    “You’re laughing?”
    “I-I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head, unable to hide it. The worst part is, she’s got a great laugh—a laugh from deep in her stomach, not one of those fake