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We haven’t done much to earn your trust,” the President adds. I know it’s his job, but sometimes I forget how uncanny he is at reading people. And mobilizing them.
    “Beecher, have you ever heard of the Courtyard Café?” he adds.
    I shake my head.
    “During the Cold War, when the Russians had their nukes aimed at us—and we at them—the exact bull’s-eye for their missiles was actually a small shack, a little hot dog stand, in the center courtyard of the Pentagon. It’s called the Courtyard Café. Of course, it’ s no surprise they were aiming at the Pentagon, but for years, we wanted to know: Why’d the Russians pick that little shack? And are you ready for the answer? It’s because on all their satellites, every single day, they’d see our top generals going in and out of that building. In and out, in and out. Moscow spent millions studying it, eventually deciding it was the entrance to an underground briefing area below the Pentagon. But all these years later, you know the real reason those generals kept heading for that shack? Because that café had cheap coffee and the best hot dogs.”
    “So sometimes a hot dog is just a hot dog?” I ask.
    “Or sometimes, when someone says they can use your help, they really are just looking for your help,” the President says, glancing down at the empty plate that had hel d his lemon square. It’s now covered by the photo of the flattened penny that came from Nico’s unit. My father’s unit.
    They’re the ones who know how my dad really died. And why.
    “When those files…the Plankholder files…get pulled from storage, I want them. I need to see them,” I insist. “If you want my help, you need to promise me that.”
    “I understand. You know so much about history, but you don’t know anything about your own,” the President says. “No matter what you think, though, we all want the same thing,” he adds, trying to be reassuring.
    It doesn’t help. I don’t trust him. Not a bit. But right now, if I want my father’s files and want to know how they’re tied to this buried arm, there’s only one way to get them. Does that bring its own risks? For sure. Though aligning myself with the President also brings unique opportunities, especially when it comes to showing the world who he really is. Under Tot, the Culper Ring was eviscerated. This is our chance to rebuild, to make it more effective than ever. The Ring deserves no less than that.
    In my hands, I’m still holding the photo of the trumpet player in profile. It’s blurred so much, I can’t even tell if it’s a he or she, much less their hair color. But I still read body language. “That’s not Nico. Or Clementine.”
    “For all we know, it’s someone they hired to sneak inside,” Francy says.
    “Or maybe Nico and Clementine have nothing to do with this,” I say.
    “You really believe that?” the President asks. “After all Nico’s talks of destiny, and history, and how God chose him to kill a President? Three weeks ago, Clementin e went to visit him; within two hours, h e escaped and disappeared. Now, what a surprise, we’ve got body parts showing up in the White House. C’mon, Beecher, there’s coincidence and then there’s—”
    “Francy, check this out,” A.J. announces, waving her over to the TV.
    Francy joins him quickly, both their faces glowing white as they lean toward the monitor with the surveillance camera feeds. For a full thirty seconds, they just stand there. A.J. hits a few buttons on a keyboard so only one of the four camera angles is now showing onscreen.
    “You may want to look at this,” A.J. says, turning back to us.
    “Not now,” the President scolds.
    “I didn’t mean you , sir. I meant him ,” A.J. says. He’s pointing at me.
    “We’ve definitely got a problem,” Francy adds, her reading glasses swaying as she taps a finger on the TV.
    Onscreen, across the street from the White House, a lone figure lingers by the front gate on Pennsylvania