The Inner Circle Read Online Free PDF Page B

That’s it? ” Clementine asks. “Looks like my old gym locker.”
    I shake my head. “SCIFs are far safer than gym lockers.”
    “What’d you call it? A skiff?”
    “SCIF—Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility,” I explain, rapping the knuckle of my middle finger against the door and hearing the deep thud that lets you know just how thick it is. “C’mon, when you read a classified document, you think you just open it at your desk? People are watching from everywhere—through your windows, from listening and video devices—Big Brother doesn’t just work for us anymore. So all around the government, we’ve got rooms built and certified by the CIA.”
    “Skiffs,” she says.
    “SCIFs. Walls with quarter-inch metal shielding, floors with eight-inch metal plates to stop eavesdropping, no windows, copper foil in the corners to stop transmissions, bars over the vent shafts so Tom Cruise can’t lower himself on his trapeze…”
    “And you have one of these SCIFs here?”
    “You kidding? Our legislative guys alone have sixteen of them. Every major building in D.C.—the White House, the Capitol, every Senate and House building—if you’ve got a bigshot in the building, we’ve got a SCIF in there too. And the biggest bigshots get them in their homes. Tiny little rooms for you to read the world’s most vital secrets.”
    “Can we peek inside?” she asks, rapping her own knuckle against the door.
    I force a laugh.
    She doesn’t laugh back. She’s not trying to pry. She means it as an honest question.
    “If you can’t, no big deal,” she adds.
    “No, I can … I just…”
    “Beecher, please don’t make that stress face. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
    “No, I’m not uncomfortable.”
    “Let’s go do the other stuff,” she says, already walking away.
    “Oh, just take the damn girl inside already,” a deep voice echoes on our left. Up the hallway, an older black man with a caterpillar mustache heads our way carrying an oversized cup of coffee. Despite his age, he’s still got the muscular build that first got him the job as one of our uniformed security guards. But one look at his dimpled chin and big-toothed smile, and it’s clear that Orlando Williams is more pussycat than lion.
    “This that girl you used to have a crush on? The one that’s gonna mend that broken heart Iris left you?” Orlando shouts even though he’s only a few steps away.
    “Who’s Iris?” Clementine asks.
    Every office has a loudmouth. Orlando is ours—or more specifically, mine, ever since he found out that:
    a) I was from his home state of Wisconsin, and
    b) I was the only archivist willing to give his brother-in-law’s boss a private tour of the Treasure Vault.
    For better or worse, he’s determined to return the favor.
    “Just take her inside—I won’t even put you in my floor report,” he adds, tucking his clipboard under his armpit and taking a deep swig from his coffee cup.
    “Orlando, I appreciate the kindness, but would you mind just—”
    “ What? I’m trynna help you here—show her your love of… adventure.” Turning to Clementine, he says, “So he tell you about his wedding photographer days?”
    “Orlando…” I warn.
    “You were a wedding photographer?” Clementine asks.
    “After college, I moved here hoping to take photos for the Washington Post . Instead, I spent three years doing weddings in Annapolis. It was fine,” I tell her.
    “Until he got the chance to help people directly and then he came here. Now he’s our hero.”
    Clementine cocks a grin at Orlando. “I appreciate the unsubtle hype, but you do realize Beecher’s doing just fine without it?”
    Orlando cocks a grin right back. He likes her. Of course he does.
    “Will you c’mon?” Orlando begs, focused just on her. “The President’s not scheduled here until”—he looks at his watch—“ya got at least an hour, even more if he’s late. Plus, the cart with his files isn’t even in