The Inner Circle

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.

65

During his early days at the White House, this was Orson Wallace’s favorite part.

“Just an honor, Mr. President,” an older man with a graying goatee offered.

“So nice to meet you, Mr. President,” a woman wearing two diamond rings added.

“Thank you so much, Mr. President,” a tall woman with wide black eyes said as she reached to shake his hand.

The speech was over, the applause was still going, and as President Wallace followed his aide to the swinging doors of the hotel’s kitchen, he was riding such a swell of enjoyment, he tried to touch every outstretched hand of the insta-crowd that was now pressing so hard against the rope line.

It wasn’t the adulation that got him going. What Wallace appreciated was just… the appreciation. The simple act of people saying thank you. These days, in this economy, that kind of crowd seemed to appear less and less often.

“Thank you so much, Mr. President.”

“-just an inspiration, sir.”

“-reinvigorated all of us, Mr. President.”

“I hope you enjoyed the breakfast, Mr. President,” the chef called out as Wallace weaved back through the kitchen.

“Just fantastic. We need to have you cook at the White House,” Wallace called back, using the same compliment he saved for every chef in every hotel kitchen.

“-just want to thank you so much,” Ross the Boss chimed in, leading the final row of handshakes-the VIP goodbyes-that waited for Wallace at the far end of the service entrance and would take him to the waiting door of his armored limo.

“Hey-!” a female voice called out.

Wallace’s arm was already extended in a handshake as he finally looked up at the last person in line: a heavyset woman in a royal blue dress.

“I love you,” his sister Minnie said, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.

“You’re just saying that because I’m the President,” Wallace teased.

With a whack, Minnie rapped her pink flamingo cane against his shin.

The President was still laughing as the Secret Service agent pushed the hidden button under the door handle, which unlocked the door so he could usher Wallace into the car. And for that moment, as he ducked inside and