The Inner Circle

overcluttered living room, turned on the CD player that teetered so precariously off the edge of the bookshelf, and inserted the disc labeled Penny Maxwell’s Greatest Hits.

Penny wasn’t just Clementine’s favorite singer. Penny was Clementine’s mother-who still had nearly three hundred copies of her Greatest Hits CD stacked in the closets, under the bed, and in the trunk and backseat of the car. It was yet another of Mom’s brainstorms that brought more storm than brain. (“If you do a Greatest Hits first, it’ll sell faster because people will think they’re missing something.”) Clementine didn’t notice. For her, this was life.

Indeed, as the music began and the sly hook from the trumpet seized the air, Clementine closed her eyes, soaking in the familiar husky voice that’d been singing her to bed-with this same song, Billie Holiday’s “God Bless the Child”-since she was a baby.

Mama may have, Papa may have

But God bless the child that’s got her own

Clementine had no idea that her mom had changed the words so it was about a little girl. And had no idea that Billie Holiday had written the song after a particularly brutal argument with her own mother, over money-which is what that’s got his own really refers to. But right there, as she stood there in the living room, swaying back and forth in the pretend dance she always did with her mom after school, thirteen-year-old Clementine Kaye wasn’t sad about being alone… or having to cook dinner… or even having to fend for herself.

She was prepared. She was always prepared.

But more than prepared, she was just happy to hear her mom’s voice.

5

Today

Washington, D.C.

'I don’t see what the big disaster is,” Clementine says in the SCIF.

“Nonono-don’t touch it!” Orlando yells as I reach for the small file folder.

“What? It’s soaking wet,” I argue, snatching it, now dripping, from the coffee puddle.

“We could’ve put it back,” he says.

“It’s soaking. Look. See the soaking?” I hold up the file so he can spot the drip-drip from the corner of the manila folder. “You think I can just shove this back under the chair like nothing happened? We need to report this.”

“Lando, you there? Vault all clear?” a voice crackles through his walkie-talkie.

We all turn toward the upended wooden chair and the gaping hollow hiding spot underneath.

“Y-Yeah, perfect,” Orlando reports back through his walkie.

“Good, because company’s coming,” the voice crackles back. “Service says ten minutes till departure.”

From here, the White House is a ten-minute trip. But only three if you’re coming by motorcade.

“We need to get out of here,” I say, trying to sop up the coffee with my lab coat.

Orlando stays focused on the chair. On the side of it, just underneath the actual seat, there’s a narrow slot- like a mail slot-cut into the piece of wood that connects the left front leg with the back leg. “D’you have any idea what this-?” He shakes his head, his toothy grin long gone. “You were right. We gotta report this.”

“I take that back. Let’s think about this.”

“Beech, if someone’s using this room as a dead drop…”

“You don’t know that.”

“A dead drop?” Clementine asks.

“Like a hiding spot,” Orlando says.

Reading her confusion, I add, “It’s a place where you leave something for another person, so you don’t have to risk a face-to-face meeting. Like taping something below a mailbox, or in a hollowed-out tree, or…”

“… in a chair,” Clementine says, quickly seeing the full picture. With the narrow mail slot underneath the seat, it’d be simple to slide an item into the chair seat, then take it out through the removable hollow bottom. “So if this SCIF is used only by President Wallace, and there’s something hidden here for him…”

“Or by him,” Orlando points out.

“Don’t say that. We don’t know that. We don’t know anything,” I insist.

“And you believe those words as they leave your lips? You really think this is all just some innocent Three’s Company misunderstanding, Chrissy?” Orlando asks. “Or are you just worried that if I file an official report, your name will be permanently linked to whatever presidential bullcrap we just tripped into?”

On the corner of the file folder, a single drip of coffee builds to a pregnant swell, but never falls.

“We should open it and see what’s inside,” Clementine offers, far calmer than the two of us.

“No. Don’t open it,” I insist.

“What’re you talking about?” Orlando asks.

“You ever seen a horror movie? There’s that moment where they hear the noise in the woods and some dumbass says, Let’s go see what’s making that noise! And of course you know right there he’s number one in the body count. Well… we’re in the horror movie: At this exact moment, this little file folder is Pandora’s box. And as long as we keep it shut-as long as we don’t know what’s inside the box-we can still walk away.”

“Unless there’s a real monster in the box,” Orlando points out.

“Orlando…”

“Don’t Orlando me. This is my job, Beecher.”

“Yeah and two seconds ago you were telling me to put it back.”

“It’s still my job. I walk the halls, I check IDs-that’s why it’s called Security. Now I’m sorry if I find something in the President’s reading room, but we did. And if he or anyone else is committing a crime or sneaking classified papers in or out of this building, you really think we should just walk away and pretend we didn’t see it?”

I don’t look up, but on my right, I can see the red-lettered warning poster on the back of the closed steel door. It doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the disappointed expression on Clementine, who clearly doesn’t deal well with weakness. The way her ginger eyes drill me, she has no idea which way I’m going to vote.

I wish she knew me better than that.

I toss the damp folder toward the desk. “Just remember, when the CIA grabs us in the middle of the night and puts the black Ziplocs over our heads, this is the moment where we could’ve avoided it.” The folder hits the table with a ptttt.

Clementine doesn’t say a word. But as she takes a half-step forward, she cocks her head, like she’s seeing something brand-new on my face. I see the same on hers. I’ve known this girl since seventh grade. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her impressed.

“Beecher, it’ll take two seconds, then we can leave,” Orlando promises. “You’ll never regret doing the right thing.”

But as he peels open the folder, as he finally sees what’s hidden inside, I can already tell he’s wrong.

6

'Sweet Christmas,” Orlando mutters.

“I don’t get it. What is it?” Clementine asks, squeezing in next to me, though careful not to touch anything.

I have no such concern. From the pockets of my coffee-stained lab coat, I pull out the pair of cotton gloves all archivists carry, put them on, pick up the folder like it’s live dynamite, and open it. Inside, it’s not a top-secret memo, or the whereabouts of bin Laden, or a target list for our spy satellites.