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him, he’d bury me and the Culper Ring.”
    A.J. goes to say something, but Francy again cuts him off. More important, she doesn’t flinch at the mention of the Ring. “Beecher, I know what your group is capable of. For decades… ”
    “For centuries,” I correct her.
    “… the Ring’s been a trusted weapon for those who have held this office. But I also know you and the President don’t exactly see eye to eye. I don’t know why; I don’t care why. That’s your business. But what’d you think was going to happen when you got here? That you’d sneak inside, and the President would give you a tour of the Oval?”
    “Not at all. I assumed that once I handed over my ID, my name would be keyed to some notification system, which it was. Then it’d notify someone the President trusted, like A.J, which it did. And then, I figured that whenever that person came to get me, they’d take me someplace private (though I didn’t think it’d be some makeshift hideaway in the subbasement), and that we could sit down and talk like human beings.”
    “I couldn’t agree more. We want the same darn thing.”
    “You sure about that? Because the way it looks to me, the President of the United States is hiding one of his most trusted staffers in a secret subbasement that’s clearly designed to be tucked away from every other person on staff. The only logical explanation is that you’re dealing with some nasty bit of news that the President is hoping will go away. Like me. So. If Wallace wants to get rid of me, he can give me my file and send me on my way.”
    Across from me, Francy and A.J. share another silent glance. It lasts a second too long.
    “He’s listening right now, isn’t he?” I blurt.
    They don’t respond.
    I scan the ceiling, the rolling cart that’s filled with cloth napkins, even the top of the tablecloth-pressing machine. There’s not a single security camera in sight. No surveillance. No microphones. But for some reason, Francy and A.J. are still standing there silent.
    “ Wallace, I know you hear me! ” I call out at the ceiling. “ Tell me why you wanted my father’s file! ”

7
    T he President can’t hear you,” A.J. says.
    “You know how I know you’re lying?” I ask. “Because you’re talking.” Shouting toward the ceiling, I add, “ I know you hear me! If you’re trying to use my father — ! ”
    “Beecher, please,” Francy pleads. “Have you opened a paper this morning? We’ve got a Cabinet member pulled over for a DUI, zinc shortages threatening U.S. Steel, plus this governor in South Carolina who’s blaming Wallace for his high electricity rates during the long winter—and that’s just this morning . He’s the President of the United States. He doesn’t have time to eavesdrop on—”
    “So was it you , then? Someone asked for my father’s military file. The Plankholder files,” I say, pointing to two nearby tables, both of them covered with files. “They told me someone here requested it. I want to know why.”
    Francy’s eyes slide toward A.J., then back to me. “And that’s why you came here?”
    “Why else would I come here?”
    A.J. turns back to the TV with the four video feeds. Every minute or so, the four feeds shift, presenting views from four new cameras. The ones he’s staring at now are all exterior shots, including one that shows all the tourists walking along 16th Street and another that shows a close-up of one of the front gates. He’s looking for something. Or someone. “You’re telling me you don’t know about the garden?” A.J. challenges.
    Francy holds up a hand, shooting A.J. a stony glare. As she turns, it’s the first time I notice that like A.J., Francy’s wearing a Secret Service earpiece. I don’t care what they say: The President’s listening. And giving instructions. If the leader of the free world is making time for this, I’ve got bigger problems than even I thought.
    “So this visit isn’t Culper Ring business?”