The President's Shadow Page 7

  Of course he did. Marshall doesn’t miss anything. From my pocket, I pull out the agent’s orange-jeweled lapel pin that I swiped off his jacket.

  In the world of the Secret Service, every agent who guards the President wears the same-color pin so, among the dozens of people in business suits, they can easily spot each other. “A.J. was wearing one with a blue jewel,” I point out. “This one’s orange.”

  “That a problem?”

  “Last year at the Archives, we did an exhibit on the history of presidential staff. We featured these pins and all the shapes and sizes they’ve been over the years.”

  “So this orange jewel tells you something?”

  “I don’t care about the orange. I care about this,” I say, turning the pin around. On the back of the pin, there’s an engraved six-digit number. “Each pin is numbered and accounted for. When we trace it, it’ll tell us if he is who he says he is.”

  “You think he’s our missing trumpet player?”

  “The photo was too blurry. But he could be.”

  Marshall presses his burnt lips together, nodding his approval.

  “So you ready to see where he’s headed?” I add.

  Pulling out his cell phone, Marshall swipes to an app, and a map appears onscreen. A rectangle with an oval in it shows Lafayette Square. A bright green dot represents us. A red dot represents the bald Secret Service agent who’s been watching me since I first got to the White House.

  When Marshall came back into my life and helped me save the President, I invited him to join the Culper Ring. He told me no. But it didn’t stop him from asking for one of the tiny silver beacons that, during his little shoving match, I saw him tuck into the bald agent’s jacket pocket.

  It’s the simplest of Culper Ring tech. And among the most effective.

  “Can I ask you one last question?” I say to Marshall, who’s locked on his screen, watching the agent’s red beacon make its way through the park. “I know you saw me go in through the south entrance of the White House—but when A.J. brought me out, it was through the north entrance, where you seemed to be waiting. How’d you know that’s the exit I’d be coming out of?”

  “It’s the public entrance. I took a guess,” Marshall says.

  In the distance, the bald agent is long gone. On Marshall’s phone, the red beacon is racing toward 17th Street. As fast as it’s moving, he’s definitely running. “Away from the White House,” Marshall points out.

  “And away from Secret Service headquarters,” I say as we take off after him.

  I don’t care how fast you run, Andy Warhol.

  We see where you’re going.

  15

  Twenty-nine years ago

  Lawton, Oklahoma

  Some people think they know when they’re going to die. Alby White was one of them. Naturally, he wasn’t so sure of the how—whether it’d be by fire, car crash, or heart attack—but at twenty-two years old, he believed one thing: that he would die when he was young.

  Today was Alby’s first time on an airplane (which he liked). It was also his first time in first class (which he liked even more). It would also be his first time in a plane crash.

  “…should be touching down in the next ten minutes for an on-time arrival in Oklahoma,” the pilot announced, his voice calm as a grandfather’s. “Current weather shows light winds, temperature a gorgeous eighty-five degrees. Flight attendants, please prepare for arrival. Welcome to a beautiful day in—”

  “—the United States Army!” the loudmouthed Irish kid with a mop of rust-colored hair called out across the aisle. Alby had met him when they were boarding—or rather, tried to meet him. The Irish kid brushed him off, choosing to make small talk with the square-shouldered all-American recruit who was standing first in line at the boarding gate. Both looked a few years younger than Alby. Just kids out of high school. But some things never changed. Cool kids always found cool kids. And cool kids never found Alby.

  From twelfth grade, to junior high, even down to his first years in grade school, Alby had never been bullied. He was relegated to the even lower rung of unpopularity: He was ignored. Worse, he knew he was ignored. Whenever kids were reminiscing in his Minnesota school, someone would say, “I didn’t even realize you were in that class with us.”

  In Alby’s mind, that was life—until he met Teresa, the first girl who ever really noticed him. On the first day of school, pinned to her jean jacket, was a Charlie Chaplin button with two arts-and-crafts googly eyes glued to Chaplin’s face. By the tenth day of school, the button was on Alby’s chest. Teresa knew Alby was shy, but as she told him, Chaplin was proof that even the quiet ones can still be stars. Alby laughed at the sappiness. But he kept wearing the button.

  Alby’s mom had told him to be careful, but like so many small kids from a small town, he and Teresa had big plans—until right after prom, when she peed on a plastic pregnancy test and saw a plus sign. Minnesota was a liberal state. Teresa’s family wasn’t. Within four years, Alby and Teresa had two girls and a newborn. A little boy named Beecher.

  It wasn’t until one of Alby’s daughters broke her collarbone and Alby’s mother was hit with Parkinson’s that Alby thought about the army. Most jobs let you add your wife and children as dependents; the military lets you add your family and your diaper-wearing mother whose tremors are getting so bad she can no longer hold a fork. But that wasn’t Alby’s only reason for becoming an army man.

  “So off to basic training, huh?” a gate agent with a pointy face and equally pointy breasts had called out from the check-in kiosk.

  “How’d you know?” Alby asked.

  “Envelope,” the gate agent said, pointing to the wide manila envelope he was clutching to his chest. There were three other recruits on the flight. All were doing the same: all pretending to be calm; all dressed in T-shirts; all four hugging the envelopes with their enlistment orders for Oklahoma’s Fort Sill. “My brother served for two years,” the gate agent added, handing Alby a surprise upgrade to first class. “Enjoy the extra legroom.”

  As Alby said his thanks and headed down the Jetway, he felt in his pocket for the googly-eyed Chaplin button. He had brought it with him when all three of his kids were born. You better believe he was bringing it here.

  He was supposed to be sitting in the window seat on the left. Instead, the Irish kid known as Timothy Lusk slid into Alby’s seat, taking the prime spot next to his newfound friend, the all-American boy whose black hair was already buzzed in a perfect crew cut. In the game of life, there were winners and losers. Alby knew the crew cut kid was a winner. He read the name on his envelope. Nicholas Hadrian.

  “Call me Nico,” All-American said, extending a confident handshake to Alby. “Am I in your seat?”

  “He’s actually over there,” the Irish kid—Timothy—interrupted, pointing Alby across the aisle, to the window seat by himself.

  Alby was about to argue. He wanted to argue.

  But he didn’t.

  “Sorry, can I squeeze past?” the fourth and final recruit—a pale redhead with faint freckles and a worried face—whispered as he took the window seat in the row behind Alby. According to his folder, the redhead’s name was Julian, though when the plane eventually burst into flames, Alby would barely be able to remember it.

  “Once again, thank you for choosing to fly with us,” the pilot added two hours later as the plane began its final descent. “We appreciate having you on board. We’ll be on the ground momentarily.”

  Still feeling the novelty of his stomach lurching and his ears popping, Alby pressed his forehead against the window, mesmerized by the approaching Oklahoma landscape.

  “JesusMaryandJoseph,” Timothy said across the aisle. Like Alby, he had a flat midwestern accent. And like Alby, he had a young son. Named Marshall. “Our new home,” Timothy added.

  As Alby glanced over, Timothy was staring out his own window. But his seatmate—Nico—was just sitting there, perfect posture…shoulders back…his arms draped
across the armrests like they were part of his throne. At first, Alby wasn’t sure what Nico was doing. What was he looking at? Nico was staring straight ahead, a gold cross dangling from his neck and a satisfied grin on his face.

  It was a grin Alby would never forget.

  On any plane, most people need to keep themselves busy. They read a book, flip through a magazine, or do something. But as Alby looked across at Nico… Nico’s chest was out, his chin was raised, his lips curled into that contented grin. Some people are so self-assured, they don’t need anything. They can just…be. Nico’s grin was a grin of thankfulness. Of eagerness. Of confidence.

  No question, Nico was a winner. And no question, as Alby stared across the aisle, he couldn’t help but sit up straight and stick out his own chest. In high school, Alby’s history teacher had told him that every life is built like a monument. Alby had hoped that in the army, he’d put down his first piece of granite. But as his shoulders and posture sagged back down, Alby knew—he could feel it: Like his marriage, like parenthood, like everything else in his mess of a life, there’s no magical transformative moment that turns you into the person you want to—

  Ka-duuunk. The plane shook and jerked as its wheels met the runway. Alby glanced outside. The plane lurched forward, brakes biting. Bumpy landing.

  Nico opened his eyes and the Irish kid next to him offered a soft high-five. “Welcome to the rest of your life,” Nico said, whispering to himself.

  Twisting around, Alby peeked through the gap between seats, trying to make eye contact with the redheaded recruit—Julian—behind him. No luck. Julian was staring out the window. Instead, the only welcome Alby got was a cordial nod from the elderly couple sitting across the aisle diagonally behind him. Besides the four recruits, they were the only passengers in first class.

  As he smiled weakly at the couple, Alby couldn’t see what was just outside his window, off the runway. Indeed, with the plane rolling toward its gate, he never saw the silver gasoline truck—being driven at high speed by a man in the midst of an epileptic seizure—until it swerved toward the side of the plane, just below the wing. From the back right-hand side of the plane, words and screams tumbled together in that picosecond before impact.

  “LOOK OUT!” a woman shouted.

  It didn’t help.

  The crash of truck into plane sounded like metal teeth being smashed together. The impact created a ruthless shear as the truck sliced through the plane’s belly. For Alby, it was as if he were moving forward in one moment, and in the next was weightless, floating like an astronaut. Every strand of his sandy hair swayed and swerved like he was underwater. A flick of spit hovered in the air, and then, as gravity and momentum returned, he was violently jerked sideways, to the left.

  The seat belt bit tight against his side, and he opened his mouth to scream. The sound was still stuck in his throat.

  “The truck—! Gasoline!” someone yelled. “It’s gonna—!”

  An explosive burst mushroomed upward, engulfing the back half of the plane. Smoke punched though the cabin, stampeding up the main aisle in a black wave. The cockpit door stayed shut. No one came out. The screams were deafening, coming from behind them.

  In moments of crisis, the reason people say that things move in slow motion is that the brain is struggling to process too much information at once. As a result, the brain slows it all down to digest each bit of emotion, pain, and reality.

  Choking on smoke, Alby didn’t see anything in slow motion. For him, it was all happening too fast.

  He was twenty-two years old. This was it. The moment of his death. The only image in his brain was of the airline worker with the pointy breasts.

  Across the aisle, there was a metal snap. Ripping open his seat belt, Nico shot out of his seat and dashed for the front door. Alby couldn’t see much. There were sounds of kicking, pounding. Nico was trying to jimmy the latch with his fingers. There was a loud click as the lock unclenched and the door…

  A burst of daylight stabbed through the smoke, which spun in a tight swirl—a beautiful tornado—which was sucked outward from the change in cabin pressure.

  Nico jumped outside, disappearing. Right behind him, Irish Timothy was yelling as he ran full speed to the door and did the same. Barely twenty seconds had passed. There were sirens in the distance, plus a rumbling from the main cabin as the rest of the passengers fought to get free.

  Behind him, there was another click as the redheaded recruit undid his seat belt and ran to the door. “Good God! The flames!” Julian called out, staring outside. He turned back to Alby, their eyes locking. “Get out…! The gas…! You gotta get out!” With a jump, he was gone.

  Alby’s lungs burned with heat. He couldn’t see anything through the black smoke. He was clawing at his seat belt, but it wasn’t working. It was stuck. The sirens outside were screaming full blast, but nothing was louder than the screams coming from behind him, in the main cabin. Were they burning back there? He smelled gasoline and smoke.

  “Jonathan…!” the elderly woman screamed behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, through the smoke, Alby saw the older couple across the aisle. She held her husband’s shoulders, shaking him. He wasn’t moving.

  Tearing at his seat belt, Alby lifted the buckle, but the tongue of the belt wouldn’t come undone. He lifted it again. And again. The impact from the crash… Why wasn’t it working!?

  “Jonathan, please…!” the elderly woman begged.

  A well of tears blurred Alby’s eyes. He was coughing so hard from the smoke, a burst of snot shot from his nose. His lungs were burning. As he pulled on the buckle again, he couldn’t help but look at the elderly woman. She wasn’t crying anymore. Her eyes were closed. In defeat. She had given up.

  Some people think they know how they’re going to die. Thrashing in his seat, all Alby could think of was what his wife had said at the bus station. The tears were running down her face as she whispered it in his ear: She said he wasn’t coming back. The saddest part was, when the words left her lips, he knew she was right.

  Outside the window, a final black mushroom cloud belched into the air. Alby gripped the buckle with his fingertips, slowly loosening the strap and working his way out of its grip, climbing up on his seat until—

  Zzzzt.

  He had enough slack. He was free!

  Get out! he told himself.

  Frankenstein-walking into the aisle, he stumbled forward…to the front of the cabin…to the sunlight… The sound of sirens and screams was drowned out by his heartbeat, which thundered and shook his teeth. He looked back at the old couple, sitting silently in their chairs. The woman looked up at him with wide, begging ice blue eyes. Her face was the color of bone. He wanted to howl…wanted to help them, but if he did—

  “Jump!” someone yelled. It wasn’t anyone from outside. It was the voice in his head. It barely registered with Alby. Without thinking, he obeyed.

  Too frightened to jump, Alby clenched his face and took a blind step into the swirl of smoke outside.

  Tumbling from the plane, as the world went black, all he could think about was the elderly woman clutching her husband.

  16

  Today

  Washington, D.C.

  Marshall, wait!” I shout.

  He doesn’t. Sprinting full speed, he has one eye on his phone as he studies the red beacon we’ve been following for blocks now. I’m starting to breathe heavily as we search for the supposed Secret Service agent with the white eyelashes who was watching me outside the White House. But when the red beacon doubles back down H Street and makes a right on 9th, I know the pain is only starting.

  Reaching the wide berth and whizzing cars of Pennsylvania Avenue, Marshall stops running. He’s winded, but not perspiring. I used to think it was because of his military training, but the truth is whatever burned him, burned his sweat glands too. As a result, he only perspires from his back and his crotch, which means his body can’t regulate itself, which also means he can’t stand being in
the sun. But Marshall being Marshall, he doesn’t say a word. Even about who we’re chasing.

  “You think he’s here?” I call out.

  He glances again at his phone, but I don’t need a digital map to know where we are. Across the street, stretching two city blocks and guarded by enormous Corinthian columns, is the granite-and-limestone building that I’ve called home for my whole working life. The National Archives.

  “Don’t tell me he’s inside,” I say.

  “He’s not,” Marshall says, plowing across the street and weaving between cars crawling in the heavy traffic. None of them honk. Despite what people think, Washington hates conflict. As he reaches the curb, Marshall’s no longer looking at his phone. Whatever he smells, he knows where he’s going.

  “You see him?” I ask.

  Marshall picks up speed, storming for the main entrance. He definitely sees something.

  I scan the area by the revolving doors. There’s the usual mix of lingering tourists, but no one who looks like White Eyelashes.

  “Marsh, if you see him…”

  He passes the front entrance, heading toward the bus stop. The rest of the block is empty. It makes no sense. On his phone, the red beacon’s still blinking.

  I look down. There’s no subway running below us. I look up, checking the columns and windows that face this side of Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Still barreling forward, Marshall stops at the limestone statue that sits to the left of the main Archives entrance. The sculpture shows a young woman looking up from the pages of an open book.

  Wedging his foot into the base, Marshall scales the front of the statue and reaches upward. Patting along the woman’s carved toes, he picks up something. Tweezed between his thumb and pointer-finger is a small silver beacon. Our beacon.

  “Eyelashes found it?” I ask.

  “He didn’t just find it, Beecher. He knew where to return it.” Motioning back at the building, he adds, “This guy knows exactly who you are, Beecher.”

  “Then why’d he ask to see our IDs?”