Read Online The President's Shadow by Brad Meltzer - Free Book Online
Authors: Brad Meltzer
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past. You must be looking for my father.”
“Nico. We have a proposition for him.”
“You keep saying we . Who’s we ?”
“Who else?” Ezra said, smiling through his slitted eyes. “The Knights of the Golden Circle.”
13
Today
Washington, D.C.
I f someone’s copycatting Oswald—” I say.
“We don’t think it’s a copycat,” A.J. interrupts. “Whoever our trumpet player is, this wasn’t an attack. He knew we’d see this. He wanted us to see this…just like he wanted Mrs. Wallace to find that arm with the penny in it.” As A.J. says the words, Wallace’s shoulders pitch in anger. I don’t care how strong Presidents have to be. No one likes having his family threatened.
“So you think whoever did this—”
“I think Nico did this—and I think Clementine’s helping,” A.J. interrupts.
“I’m not arguing with you,” I say as I pick up the photo of the trumpet player. “All I’m asking is, based on Nico’s last victim, do you think they’re after the First Lady?”
A.J. looks to Francy, who looks to Wallace, who again offers a silent nod. There’s no question of the hierarchy.
“We’re not sure. We tried moving Mrs. Wallace out of the eighteen acres first thing yesterday morning,” A.J. finally says, using the Service’s slang for the White House. “She wanted to wait for the President; they’ll both be going off-site today. In fact, we were in the midst of that when we got the call that you were suddenly at the front gate.”
“What about the medical examiner? Can they get DNA from the arm, maybe tell us who it is?”
“Beecher, if we call in the D.C. police, they work for the mayor, not us. If we call in the FBI, they’ll bring it to the press and we’ll lose control of the entire investigation.”
“You’re telling me the President can’t have his own secret—?”
“Are you paying attention?” A.J. asks. “Right now, the Rose Garden is covered with a blue tarp and a sign that says Broken Sprinkler Heads . It’ll let us preserve the integrity of our crime scene without every reporter in the country sticking their nose in the dirt while playing Woodward and Bernstein. Then, two hours from now, the Usher’s Office will announce that up on the third floor of the White House, the wallpaper in the billiard room is starting to peel, and therefore the room needs a paint-and-carpet renovation. Bringing in those workers gives us the perfect excuse to move the President and First Lady out of the White House and to a safe location until the work is complete.”
“And the press won’t think that’s suspicious?”
“The press’ll do what it does with every White House renovation: They’ll say we’re building a new secret underground bunker. But trust me, President Obama renovated the Treaty Room; Bush renovated the Briefing Room; Clinton gave us a new Music Roo m . You won’t believe what we’ve investigated here under the guise of ‘home improvements.’”
“What he’s trying to say,” the President adds as A.J. turns back to his surveillance cameras, “is that this is what the Culper Ring was designed for. It’s a small circle we’re standing in, Beecher. I’d like to keep it that way.”
It’s a flawless pitch, delivered by the flawless pitchman. Best of all, if I make nice, it’s the cleanest way for me to get what I came here for. But c’mon. When is anything ever that easy with Wallace? I know he’s full of crap. He’s always full of crap. Even worse, big bears always hide big claws.
It all comes from his hatred of the Ring: We know what he did back in college, when he used a baseball bat and car keys to put that kid into a coma. If I let him inside, it gives him a perfect chance to nuke the Culper Ring from within. But right now, h e has what I want. And I—thanks to the Ring and its ability to keep a secret—have what he wants. In this town, lifelong relationships have been built on less than that.
“You’re smart to be cautious.
“Nico. We have a proposition for him.”
“You keep saying we . Who’s we ?”
“Who else?” Ezra said, smiling through his slitted eyes. “The Knights of the Golden Circle.”
13
Today
Washington, D.C.
I f someone’s copycatting Oswald—” I say.
“We don’t think it’s a copycat,” A.J. interrupts. “Whoever our trumpet player is, this wasn’t an attack. He knew we’d see this. He wanted us to see this…just like he wanted Mrs. Wallace to find that arm with the penny in it.” As A.J. says the words, Wallace’s shoulders pitch in anger. I don’t care how strong Presidents have to be. No one likes having his family threatened.
“So you think whoever did this—”
“I think Nico did this—and I think Clementine’s helping,” A.J. interrupts.
“I’m not arguing with you,” I say as I pick up the photo of the trumpet player. “All I’m asking is, based on Nico’s last victim, do you think they’re after the First Lady?”
A.J. looks to Francy, who looks to Wallace, who again offers a silent nod. There’s no question of the hierarchy.
“We’re not sure. We tried moving Mrs. Wallace out of the eighteen acres first thing yesterday morning,” A.J. finally says, using the Service’s slang for the White House. “She wanted to wait for the President; they’ll both be going off-site today. In fact, we were in the midst of that when we got the call that you were suddenly at the front gate.”
“What about the medical examiner? Can they get DNA from the arm, maybe tell us who it is?”
“Beecher, if we call in the D.C. police, they work for the mayor, not us. If we call in the FBI, they’ll bring it to the press and we’ll lose control of the entire investigation.”
“You’re telling me the President can’t have his own secret—?”
“Are you paying attention?” A.J. asks. “Right now, the Rose Garden is covered with a blue tarp and a sign that says Broken Sprinkler Heads . It’ll let us preserve the integrity of our crime scene without every reporter in the country sticking their nose in the dirt while playing Woodward and Bernstein. Then, two hours from now, the Usher’s Office will announce that up on the third floor of the White House, the wallpaper in the billiard room is starting to peel, and therefore the room needs a paint-and-carpet renovation. Bringing in those workers gives us the perfect excuse to move the President and First Lady out of the White House and to a safe location until the work is complete.”
“And the press won’t think that’s suspicious?”
“The press’ll do what it does with every White House renovation: They’ll say we’re building a new secret underground bunker. But trust me, President Obama renovated the Treaty Room; Bush renovated the Briefing Room; Clinton gave us a new Music Roo m . You won’t believe what we’ve investigated here under the guise of ‘home improvements.’”
“What he’s trying to say,” the President adds as A.J. turns back to his surveillance cameras, “is that this is what the Culper Ring was designed for. It’s a small circle we’re standing in, Beecher. I’d like to keep it that way.”
It’s a flawless pitch, delivered by the flawless pitchman. Best of all, if I make nice, it’s the cleanest way for me to get what I came here for. But c’mon. When is anything ever that easy with Wallace? I know he’s full of crap. He’s always full of crap. Even worse, big bears always hide big claws.
It all comes from his hatred of the Ring: We know what he did back in college, when he used a baseball bat and car keys to put that kid into a coma. If I let him inside, it gives him a perfect chance to nuke the Culper Ring from within. But right now, h e has what I want. And I—thanks to the Ring and its ability to keep a secret—have what he wants. In this town, lifelong relationships have been built on less than that.
“You’re smart to be cautious.
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