The Inner Circle Read online

  “Get to the part about the pro ball,” Tot tells him.

  “That is the part,” the Diamond insists. “Basic invisible inks require a heating process. You heat the paper, you crack the code. But to foil the British, Washington and his Culper Ring started playing with a chemical process.”

  “Wait… What was that?” Clementine asks.

  “The chemical process?”

  “No—before that,” she says.

  “She means the Culper Ring,” I jump in. I know where she’s going. She wants to know how much of Nico’s ramblings were right. “So the Culper Ring were the ones who used this?”

  “Of course,” the Diamond says. “I assume you know what the Culper Ring is, yes?”

  We all nod.

  “Then you know the whole purpose of the Ring was to help Washington communicate his most vital secrets. In fact, invisible ink is just the start of it: The Culper Ring had their own codes and ciphers… they made sure no one used their real name… they would only write on the back of the fifteenth sheet of paper. That’s why when William Casey took over the CIA—”

  “We know the story. About the statue,” I tell him. “They’re the best spies ever. We got it.”

  “I don’t think you do. As small a group as the Culpers were, they had a huge hand in winning the Revolution for us. And their best value came from the fact that all the vital documents were handwritten letters. So when Washington’s orders kept getting intercepted over and over, he asked his Culper Ring to do something about it.”

  “Cue invisible ink.”

  “But not just any ink,” the Diamond points out. “And this is the part that’s brilliant. Instead of using heat, they would do the writing with a chemical that would disappear, which they called the agent. And then when you were ready to read it, you’d use a completely separate chemical, which they called the reagent.”

  “And that makes the writing reappear,” Tot adds.

  “Simple, right? Agent and reagent,” the Diamond says. “As long as you keep the second chemical away from your enemy, they can never figure out what you’re writing. So as you surmised, Washington and the Culper Ring would put their messages right into the first few pages of common books.”

  The Diamond points to the dictionary, and I can hear Nico’s words in my head. Not everything can be seen so easily.

  “They used books because no one would search for messages in there,” Tot says.

  “That was part of it. They also used books because they needed good-quality paper for the chemicals of the invisible ink to work best,” the Diamond points out. “Back then, the paper that was in common pocket books like old pamphlets, almanacs…”

  “… and dictionaries,” Clementine says.

  “… and dictionaries,” the Diamond agrees, “was cheaper than good paper imported from England.” Sliding on a pair of cotton gloves, he carefully reaches over and removes the dictionary from my grip, laying it face-open on the lab table.

  “The one snag is, if you have a two-hundred-page dictionary, how’re you supposed to know what page to apply the reappearing chemicals to?” he adds, flipping through the blank pages that are all slightly browned, but are basically indistinguishable from each other. “No surprise, the Culper Ring had a way around that one.”

  Tugging at the first piece of tissue paper, the Diamond once again reveals the book’s handwritten inscription:

  Exitus

  Acta

  Probat

  “When it came to Washington’s messages,” he explains, “they knew to read between the lines.”

  I look at Tot, still lost.

  “I’m not being metaphorical,” the Diamond says. “That’s where we get the phrase from. Do it: Read between the lines.”

  From the nearest developing tray, he pulls out a small square sponge no bigger than a matchbox. With a surgeon’s touch, he gently dabs the wet sponge onto the page.

  From the paper’s textured fibers, faded light green letters rise, blooming into view and revealing the message that I’m now starting to think was intended for the President of the United States:

  Exitus

  FEBRUARY 16

  Acta

  26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET

  Probat

  WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427

  “Jiminy Crackers,” Clementine whispers, her voice cracking. Her face is pale.

  “Curiouser and curiouser, eh?” the Diamond asks, clearly excited.

  The only one silent is Tot. I see the way he’s looking at the message. He sees it too.

  If these numbers are right…

  We just jumped down a brand-new rabbit hole.

  42

  The guard at the sign-in desk studied the barber’s ID, then looked back at Laurent.

  This was the moment Laurent hated. If something were to go wrong, this is when it would happen.

  The guard stood there, his cheeks just starting to puff.

  Laurent tried to smile, but it felt like his whole body was flattening. Like the inside of his chest was now touching the inside of his back. He wasn’t a spy. He wasn’t made for this. In fact, the only reason he agreed to do it was… Dr. Palmiotti thought it was because the President of the United States asked personally. But it wasn’t about the office.

  It was about the man. A man Laurent knew since Wallace was a boy. A man who asked Laurent to move to Washington, and to whom Laurent made a promise. And while some people don’t put high priority on such things in Washington, D.C.… back in Ohio, and in so many other places… there’s something to be said about keeping your word.

  “Here you go, Mr. Gyrich,” the guard with the overgrown eyebrows announced, handing back the ID and waving the barber toward the X-ray machine.

  As the conveyor belt began to whirl, Laurent filled a plastic bin with his keys, his cell phone, and of course the book he was carrying: A Problem from Hell.

  It rolled through the machine without a hitch, and within seconds the barber was on his way. “Thanks again,” he called to the guard.

  “Anytime,” the guard replied. “Welcome to the Archives. And happy hunting to you.”

  * * *

  43

  February 16th,” Clementine reads from the page. “Should we know that date?”

  I shake my head at her. Not here.

  “That’s the date they found King Tut,” the Diamond jumps in.

  “Pardon?” I ask.

  “How do you even know that?” Tot challenges.

  “I looked it up. Before you got here,” the Diamond explains, pointing down at the now revealed message on the front page of the dictionary:

  Exitus

  FEBRUARY 16

  Acta

  26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET

  Probat

  WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427

  “I couldn’t find anything noteworthy on the twenty-six years ago part, but looking at just February 16th—that’s the date the silver dollar became U.S. legal tender, and Howard Carter found Pharaoh Tutankhamen. Otherwise, it’s pretty much a quiet day in history.” Reading our reactions—and our silence—the Diamond adds, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”

  “You’re not prying. Not at all,” Tot says, forcing a dash of thankfulness into his voice. “We just found this book mixed in with some old files from the early sixties, and we figured if someone scribbled in there, it might be fun to see what they were writing about.”

  The Diamond stares directly at Tot, unafraid of his blind eye.

  “Do you have any idea how invisible ink works?” the Diamond asks.

  “You just told us how it works,” Tot shoots back.

  “I did. I gave you a crash course. But if I gave you the full course, I’d also tell you that if the invisible ink sits for too long—if a few decades go by and we apply the reagent chemicals—that writing reappears in a color that’s pale brown. Like a chestnut. Your writing here is pale green,” he says, pointing down to the dictionar
y. “That’s fresh ink—and by the brightness of the color, I’m wagering something that’s been written in the last week or so.”

  Still pale as can be, Clementine looks at me. I look at Tot.

  “Daniel, listen…” Tot begins.

  “Nope. Not listening. Not butting in. I already told Beecher: I don’t want your problems, and I don’t want to be mixed up in whatever you’re mixed up in. He needs my help, I’ll give it to him. But don’t treat me like an idiot, Tot. It makes you look pompous. And besides, it’s insulting.”

  “I apologize,” Tot says.

  “Apology accepted,” the Diamond replies as he hands me back the dictionary. “Though by the way, I can tell you right now: No way this book ever belonged to George Washington.”

  “But the motto…”

  “Exitus acta probat never appeared as just three words on a page. Never. Not once in his collection. Trust me, I’ve verified over thirty books for Mount Vernon. Whenever Washington used the motto, it appeared with the full coat of arms, including the eagle, and the stripes, and the three stars. And even if that weren’t the case, I also found this…”

  He flips to the inside back cover of the dictionary. In the bottom right corner, the characters “2--” are written in light pencil. I didn’t even notice it before.

  “Is that another code?” Tot asks.

  “The most important code of all,” I say, remembering my time in Mr. Farris’s store. “In used bookstores, that’s the price.”

  “… or in some cases, what the bookseller paid for it,” the Diamond adds, “so they know what to sell it for.”

  Tot rolls this one around in his head. “So rather than some rare George Washington edition, you think this book is worth about two bucks?”

  “It’s worth whatever someone will pay for it,” the Diamond says. “But if I had to guess, sure, I’m betting this is a later edition that some counterfeiter doctored up to sell in some scam during the 1800s when Washington died. We see ’em all the time. Saw another one a few weeks back at a used bookstore in Virginia,” the Diamond says. “So if I were you, I’d focus my energy on whatever book they want you to reply in.”

  “Pardon?” Clementine asks.

  “You telling me those aren’t library call numbers?” the Diamond challenges. “They wrote to you in this book, now you write back in another. Communicating through books. Someone’s doing the Culper Ring proud.”

  I once again think of Nico as all three of us stare down at the last line of the message:

  WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427

  No question, they definitely look like library call numbers. “There’s only one problem—” I begin.

  “—and that is, we need to find those books right now,” Tot interrupts, shooting me a long hard look. I take the hint.

  But as we head for the door, I hear the song “Islands in the Stream.” Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. Tot’s phone.

  “You’ve got Tot,” he answers, flipping it open. He nods, then nods again. But he doesn’t say a word. Even as he closes it.

  “Daniel, thanks again for the help,” Tot finally announces, motioning me and Clementine out into the hallway.

  “Don’t forget me and Rina,” the Diamond calls as we leave.

  The lab’s bulletproof glass door slams shut with a cold clap, but all I hear is Tot’s quiet huffing as he shuffles back toward the elevators.

  “The book that’s in those call numbers—you know which one it is, don’t you?” Clementine asks.

  Tot ignores her. So do I.

  “Who was that on the phone?” I ask him.

  “Matthew,” Tot says.

  “Who’s Matthew?”

  “The guard at the front desk. With the caterpillar eyebrows. I paid him twenty bucks to keep an eye out,” Tot says as we all crowd into the waiting elevator. “Now if you move your heinie fast enough, we’re about to get our chance to finally grab Dustin Gyrich.”

  44

  Ping” the elevator sings in F-sharp as the doors slide open.

  I race out first, darting into the hallway and heading straight toward the gray stone walls of the lobby. Behind me, Tot hobbles, trying to keep up. No surprise. He’s got nearly fifty years on me. But what is a surprise is Clementine, who starts to run and quickly loses steam. Her face is pale white like an aged porcelain doll.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Go… If he’s there… Go!” she insists.

  I take the cue, picking up speed.

  “He said he went into Finding Aids!” Tot calls out.

  Pulling a sharp right, I cut into the mint green Finding Aids room, the same room I found Clementine in this morning, when she gave me the homemade photo of the two of us.

  There’s no one at the research tables. No one at the bookshelves. For visitors, the last pull from the stacks was done hours ago. It’s too late. No one’s here.

  Except for the older black man in the dark wool pea coat who’s hunched in front of the small bank of computers.

  “Sir, I’m checking IDs. Can I see your ID?” I call to the man.

  He doesn’t turn around.

  “Sir…! Sir, I’m talking to you,” I add, now on a mad dash toward him. I reach out to grab his shoulder.

  “Beecher, don’t—!” Tot shouts as he enters the room.

  Too late. I tap the man hard—hard enough that he turns around and—he—

  He’s a she.

  “I know you didn’t just put your hands on me,” the woman barks, twisting from her seat.

  “Ma’am, I-I’m sorry… I thought you were… I’m just checking IDs,” I tell her.

  She flashes her badge, which says she’s a researcher from the University of Maryland. But as I scan the rest of the room, there’s no sign of… of… of anyone.

  Including Dustin Gyrich.

  It doesn’t make sense. The guard saw him come here. For him to move that fast… It’s like he knew we were coming. But the only ones who knew that were—

  “Who’s calling you?” Tot asks.

  I spin around to see Tot standing next to Clementine. In her hand, her phone is vibrating.

  She looks down to check the number. “It’s my job—they probably want to know if I’m coming in tomorrow,” she explains. “Why?”

  “Why aren’t you picking it up?” Tot pushes.

  “Why’re you using that tone with me?”

  “Why aren’t you picking it up?”

  Clearly annoyed, and looking paler than ever, Clementine flips open her phone and holds it to her ear. She listens for a few seconds and then says, “I’ll call you back, okay?” Reading Tot’s reaction, she asks, “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Tot challenges, making sure she hears that challenge in his voice.

  “Just say it,” she pushes back.

  He shakes his head.

  “So now you don’t believe me?” she asks, holding out the phone to him. “You wanna speak to them? Here—speak to them.”

  “Listen, everyone’s had a long day,” I jump in.

  “And don’t give me that evil eye stare you give everyone else,” she says, still locked on Tot. He walks over to the main check-in desk. She follows right behind him. “Beecher’s been in my life long before he’s been in yours. I’ve been helping him since the moment this started—and what?—now you think I’m tipping off Gyrich or something?”

  “Those are your words, not mine,” Tot says.

  “But they can just as easily be applied to you,” Clementine shoots back. “Oh that’s right—I almost forgot you got that magic phone call three minutes ago that sent us racing up here. What a perfect time for Gyrich to check in and say, ‘All’s clear.’ I’m telling you now, you hurt my friend, and I’ll make sure the world knows who you are.”

  I wait for Tot to explode, but instead, he stares down at a red three-ring binder that sits open on the main desk.

  Of course. The binder…

  “Beecher…” Tot says.

 
I fly to the desk.

  “What?” Clementine asks. “What is it?”

  Ignoring her, Tot flips back one page, then flips forward to the current one.

  “Every day, this room is staffed by us—by archivists,” I explain. “We’re on call for an hour or two each day so when visitors come in, we can help them with their research. But more important, the supervisor who runs this room marks down the exact time each of us gets here, just so she knows who’s staffing the room at any particular moment.”

  “And of the fifty archivists in this building, look who was the very last one who was in here today—according to this log, barely ten minutes ago,” Tot says, stabbing his crooked finger at the last name on the sheet.

  4:52 p.m.—Dallas Gentry.

  My coworker. And officemate. And along with Rina, the one other person staffing President Wallace yesterday when he was arriving in the SCIF.

  45

  Six minutes ago

  When he was cutting hair, Andre Laurent put no premium on speed.

  His focus was accuracy. Precision. Giving the client exactly what he wanted. Or at the very least, convincing the client that whatever he gave them was exactly what they wanted.

  But this was different.