Brad Meltzer: 'The Inner Circle' Reveals Government Secrets

Jan. 11, 2011 — -- New York Times best selling author Brad Meltzer releases his newest book "The Inner Circle," in which he reveals untold secrets about the U.S. presidency.

Read an excerpt of the book below and then check out the "GMA" Library for more great reads.

He knew the room was designed to hold secrets.Big secrets.The briefcase from Watergate was opened in a roomlike this. Same with the first reports from 9/11.He knew that this room -- sometimes called the Tank or theVault -- held presidential secrets, national secrets, and pine-boxsecrets, as in, the kinds of secrets that came with coffins.But as he stood in the back corner of the small, plain beige room,swaying in place and flicking the tip of his tongue against the back ofhis front teeth, the archivist with the scratched black reading glassesknew that the most vital thing in the room wasn't a classified file ora top-secret sheet of paper -- it was the polished, rosy-cheeked manwho sat alone at the single long table in the center of the room.He knew not to talk to the rosy- cheeked man.

He knew not to bother him.

All he had to do was stand there and watch. Like a babysitter.It was absurd, really.But that was the job.For nearly an hour now.Babysitting the most powerful man in the world: the Presidentof the United States.

Hence the secure room.

Yet for all the secrets that had been in this room, the archivistwith the scratched black-framed reading glasses had no idea whathe'd soon be asked to hide.

With a silent breath through his nose, the archivist stared at theback of the President, then glanced over at the blond Secret Serviceagent on his far right.

The visits here had been going on since President Orson Wallacewas first elected. Clinton liked to jog. George W. Bush watched baseballgames in the White House Residence. Obama played basketball.

All Presidents find their own way to relax. More bookish than most,President Orson Wallace traveled the few blocks from the WhiteHouse and came to the National Archives to, of all things, read.

He'd been doing it for months now. Sometimes he even broughthis daughter or eight-year-old son. Sure, he could have every documentdelivered right to the Oval Office, but as every Presidentknew, there was something about getting out of the house. Andso the "reading visits" began. He started with letters that GeorgeWashington wrote to Benedict Arnold, moved to classified JFKmemos, and on to today's current objects of fascination: AbrahamLincoln's handwritten Civil War notes. Back then, if there was acapital case during a court-martial, the vote of "life or death" wouldcome straight to Lincoln's desk. The President would personallydecide. So in the chaos of President Wallace's current life, therewas apparently something reassuring about seeing the odd curvesand shaky swirls in Lincoln's own handwriting.

And that, as Wallace scribbled a few personal notes on his legalpad, was a hell of a lot more calming than playing basketball.

"Four more minutes, sir," the blond Secret Service agentannounced from the back corner, clearing his throat.President Wallace nodded slightly, beginning to pack up, butnever turning around. "Is Ronnie joining us or no?"

At that, the archivist with the scratched reading glasses stoodup straight. His supervisor, Ronald Cobb, was one of PresidentWallace's oldest friends from law school. It was Cobb who usuallymanaged the visits and selected which priceless files the Presidentwould read. But with his recent diagnosis of pancreatic cancer,Cobb wasn't going anywhere for a bit.

"Mr. Cobb's at a chemo appointment, sir," the archivist explainedin a voice that seemed strained even to himself.

Again, President Wallace nodded without turning around, flippinghis legal pad shut.

It was the quick motion of the legal pad that caught the archivist'seye. For a moment, as the pale yellow pages fanned forward, hecould swear one of the brown, mottled Lincoln letters was tuckedinside.

The archivist squinted, trying to see. But from the angle he wasat, diagonally behind the left shoulder of the President, the Lincolndocument was --

No.

This was the President of the United States. He'd never . . .

No, the archivist told himself.

No. Not a chance. No.

"Before we go, I just need to hit the little vice president's room,"President Wallace said, using the joke that always got him easylaughs with donors. He stood from his seat and held his legal pad athis side.

According to current research, when faced with an awkwardsocial situation, the average person will wait seventeen secondsbefore breaking the silence.

"Mr. President," the archivist called out without even hesitating.

"I'm sorry, but --"

President Wallace turned slowly, showing off his calming grayeyes and flashing the warm, fatherly grin that had won him the governorship of Ohio as well as the White House. "Son, I just need torun to the restroom, and then we can --"

"It'll just take a second," the archivist promised.

The room was no bigger than a classroom. Before the archivistknew it, he was standing in front of Wallace, blocking the President'spath to the door. The blond agent stepped forward. Wallacemotioned him back.

"Tell me the crisis, son," the President asked, his grin still keepingeverything calm.

"I just . . . urr . . ." the archivist stammered, slowly starting to sway."I'm sure it was just an honest mistake, sir, but I think you may've accidentally . . . huhh . . . In your notepad." The archivist took a deep breath. "One of the Lincoln letters."

The President laughed and went to step around the archivist.

The archivist laughed back.

And stepped directly in front of the President. Again.

President Wallace's gray eyes slowly shrank into two black slits.

He was far too savvy to lose his temper with a stranger, but thatdidn't mean it was easy to keep that grin on his face. "Victor, I needyou to excuse us a moment."

"Sir . . ." the blond agent protested.

"Victor . . ." the President said. That's all it took.

With a click and a loud metal crunk, the metal door to the Vaultopened and Victor joined the other three agents stationed in thecorridor outside.

Staring at the archivist, the President squeezed his fist aroundthe legal pad. "Son, I want you to be very careful about what yournext words are."

The archivist craned his neck back, taking in the full height ofthe President, who was so close the archivist could see the goldeneagle and the presidential seal on Wallace's cuff links. We have a setof LBJ's cuff links in our collection , the archivist reminded himselffor no reason whatsoever. And as he looked up at the most powerfulman on the planet -- as he studied the leader of the free world -- ittook far less than seventeen seconds to give his answer.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President. But those Lincoln documents aren'tyours."

For a moment, the President didn't move. Didn't blink. Like hewas frozen in time.

There was a deep thunk from behind the archivist. The metaldoor to the room clicked open.

"I toldja, right, Mr. President?" a familiar midwestern voicecalled out as the door clanged into the wall. The archivist turnedjust in time to see his boss, Ronnie Cobb, hobble inside, faster thanusual. "I told you he'd come through. No reason to bother withBeecher."

The President smiled -- a real smile -- at his old friend and put ahand on the archivist's shoulder. "Good for you," he announced.

"I-I don't understand," the archivist said, still focused on Cobb."I thought your chemo . . ." He looked at Cobb, then the President,then back to Cobb, who was beaming like a new father. "What theheck's going on?"

"Didn't you ever see Willy Wonka?" Cobb asked as he limped afew steps closer. "The big prize goes to the one who tells the truth."

The archivist paused a moment, looking at the two men.

"What're you talking about? Why'd you mention Beecher?"

"Relax -- we've got something a lot better than a spooky chocolatefactory," President Orson Wallace said as he closed the doorto the Vault, once again keeping his Secret Service agents outside."Welcome to the Culper Ring."

There are stories no one knows. Hidden stories.

I love those stories.

And since I work in the National Archives, I find thosestories for a living. They're almost always about other people.Not today. Today, I'm finally in the story -- a bit player in a storyabout . . .

"Clementine. Today's the day, right?" Orlando asks throughthe phone from his guardpost at the sign-in desk. "Good for you,brother. I'm proud of you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask suspiciously.

"It means, Good. I'm proud ," he says. "I know what you've beenthrough, Beecher. And I know how hard it is to get back in therace."

Orlando thinks he knows me. And he does. For the past year ofmy life, I was engaged to be married. He knows what happened toIris. And what it did to my life -- or what's left of it.

"So Clementine's your first dip back in the pool, huh?" he asks.

"She's not a pool."

"Ooh, she's a hot tub?"

"Orlando. Please. Stop," I say, lifting the phone cord so it doesn'ttouch the two neat piles I allow on my desk, or the prize of mymemorabilia collection: a brass perpetual calendar where the paperscrolls inside are permanently dialed to June 19. The calendar usedto belong to Henry Kissinger. June 19 is supposedly the last day heused it, which is why I taped a note across the base of it that says,Do Not Use/Do Not Change.

"So whattya gonna say to her?"

"You mean, besides Hello?" I ask.

"That's it? Hello?" Orlando asks. "Hello's what you say to yoursister. I thought you wanted to impress her."

"I don't need to impress her."

"Beecher, you haven't seen this girl in what -- fifteen years? Youneed to impress her."

I sit on this a moment. He knows I don't like surprises. Mostarchivists don't like surprises. That's why we work in the past. Butas history teaches me every day, the best way to avoid being surprisedis to be prepared.

"Just tell me when she's here," I say.

"Why, so you can come up with something more mundane thanHello?"

"Will you stop with the mundane. I'm exciting. I am. I go onadventures every day."

"No, you read about adventures every day. You put your nose inbooks every day. You're like Indiana Jones, but just the professorpart."

"That doesn't make me mundane."

"Beecher, right now I know you're wearing your red-and-blueWednesday tie. And you wanna know why? Because it'sWednesday."

I look down at my red-and-blue tie. "Indiana Jones is still cool."

"No, Indiana Jones was cool. But only when he was out experiencinglife. You need to get outta your head and outta your comfortzone."

"What happened to the earnest you're-so-proud-of-me speech?"

"I am proud -- but it doesn't mean I don't see what you're doingwith this girl, Beech. Yes, it's a horror what happened with Iris. Andyes, I understand why it'd make you want to hide in your books.But now that you're finally trying to heal the scab, who do you pick?The safety-net high school girlfriend from fifteen years in your past.Does that sound like a man embracing his future?"

I shake my head. "She wasn't my girlfriend."

"In your head, I bet she was," Orlando shoots back. "The pastmay not hurt you, Beecher. But it won't challenge you either," headds. "Oh, and do me a favor: When you run down here, don't tryto do it in under two minutes. It's just another adventure in yourbrain."

Like I said, Orlando knows me. And he knows that when I ridethe elevator, or drive to work, or even shower in the morning, I liketo time myself -- to find my personal best.

"Wednesday is always Wednesday. Do Not Change." Orlandolaughs as I stare at the note on the Kissinger calendar.

"Just tell me when she's here," I repeat.

"Why else you think I'm calling, Dr. Jones? Guess who justchecked in?"

As he hangs up the phone, my heart flattens in my chest. Butwhat shocks me the most is, it doesn't feel all that bad. I'm not sureit feels good. Maybe it's good. It's hard to tell after Iris. But it feelslike someone clawed away a thick spiderweb from my memory, aspiderweb that I didn't even realize had settled there.

Of course, the memory's of her. Only she could do this to me.Back in eighth grade, Clementine Kaye was my very first kiss.It was right after the bright red curtains opened and she won theBattle of the Bands (she was a band of one) with Joan Jett's "I LoveRock 'n Roll." I was the short kid who worked the spotlights withthe coffee-breath A/V teacher. I was also the very first person Clementinesaw backstage, which was when she planted my first real wetone on me.

Think of your first kiss. And what it meant to you.

That's Clementine to me.

Speedwalking out into the hallway, I fight to play cool. I don't getsick -- I've never been sick -- but that feeling of flatness has spreadthrough my whole chest. After my two older sisters were born -- andall the chaos that came with them -- my mother named me Beecherin hopes that my life would be as calm and serene as a beach. Thisis not that moment.

There's an elevator waiting with its doors wide open. I makea note. According to a Harvard psychologist, the reason we thinkthat we always choose the slow line in the supermarket is becausefrustration is more emotionally charged, so the bad moments aremore memorable. That's why we don't remember all the times wechose the fast line and zipped right through. But I like rememberingthose times. I need those times. And the moment I stop rememberingthose times, I need to go back to Wisconsin and leave D.C.

"Remember this elevator next time you're on the slow line," I whisperto myself, searching for calm. It's a good trick.

But it doesn't help.

"Letsgo, letsgo . . ." I mutter as I hold the Door Close button with allmy strength. I learned that one during my first week in the Archives:When you have a bigwig who you're taking around, hold the DoorClose button and the elevator won't stop at any other floors.

We're supposed to only use it with bigwigs.

But as far as I'm concerned, in my personal universe, there's noone bigger than this girl -- this woman . . . she's a woman now -- whoI haven't seen since her hippie, lounge-singer mom moved her familyaway in tenth grade and she forever left my life. In our religiousWisconsin town, most people were thrilled to see them go.

I was sixteen. I was crushed.

Today, I'm thirty. And (thanks to her finding me on Facebook)Clementine is just a few seconds away from being back.

As the elevator bounces to a halt, I glance at my digital watch.Two minutes, forty- two seconds. I take Orlando's advice and decideto go with a compliment. I'll tell her she looks good. No. Don't focuson just her looks. You're not a shallow meathead. You can do better, Idecide as I take a deep breath. You really turned out good, I say tomyself. That's nicer. Softer. A true compliment. You really turnedout good.

But as the elevator doors part like our old bright red curtains,as I anxiously dart into the lobby, trying with every element of mybeing to look like I'm not darting at all, I search through the morningcrowd of guests and researchers playing bumper cars in theirwinter coats as they line up to go through the metal detector atsecurity.

For two months now, we've been chatting via email, but I haven'tseen Clementine in nearly fifteen years. How do I even know whatshe . . . ?

"Nice tie," Orlando calls from the sign-in desk. He points to thefar right corner, by the lobby's Christmas tree, which is (Archivestradition) decorated with shredded paper. "Look."

Standing apart from the crowd, a woman with short dyed blackhair -- dyed even darker than Joan Jett -- raises her chin, watching meas carefully as I watch her. Her eye makeup is thick, her skin is pale,and she's got silver rings on her pinkies and thumbs, making her appearfar more New York than D.C. But what catches me off guard is that shelooks . . . somehow . . . older than me. Like her ginger brown eyes haveseen two lifetimes. But that's always been who she was. She may'vebeen my first kiss, but I know I wasn't hers. She was the girl who datedthe guys two grades above us. More experienced. More advanced.The exact opposite of Iris.

"Clemmi . . ." I mouth, not saying a word.

"Benjy . . ." she mouths back, her cheeks rising in a smile as sheuses the nickname my mom used to call me.

Synapses fire in my brain and I'm right back in church, when Ifirst found out that Clementine had never met her dad (her momwas nineteen and never said who the boy was). My dad died when Iwas three years old.

Back then, when combined with the kiss, I thought that madeClementine Kaye my destiny -- especially for the three-week periodwhen she was home with mono and I was the one picked to bringher assignments home for her. I was going to be in her room -- nearher guitar and her bra (Me. Puberty.) -- and the excitement was sooverwhelming, as I knocked on her front door, right there, my nosebegan to bleed.

Really.

Clementine saw the whole thing -- even helped me get the tissuesthat I rolled into the nerd plugs that I stuffed in my nostrils. Iwas the short kid. Easy pickings. But she never made fun -- neverlaughed -- never told the story of my nosebleed to anyone

Today, I don't believe in destiny. But I do believe in history. That'swhat Orlando will never understand. There's nothing more powerfulthan history, which is the one thing I have with this woman.

"Lookatyou," she hums in a soulful but lilting voice that soundslike she's singing even when she's just talking. It's the same voice Iremember from high school -- just scratchier and more worn. Forthe past few years, she's been working at a small jazz radio stationout in Virginia. I can see why. In just her opening note, a familiartingly exhilaration crawls below my skin. A feeling like anything'spossible.

A crush.

For the past year, I'd forgotten what it felt like.

"Beecher, you're so . . . You're handsome!"

My heart reinflates, nearly bursting a hole in my chest. Did shejust --?

"You are, Beecher! You turned out great!"

My line. That's my line, I tell myself, already searching for a newone. Pick something good. Something kind. And genuine. This is yourchance. Give her something so perfect, she'll dream about it.

"So . . . er . . . Clemmi," I finally say, rolling back and forth frommy big toes to my heels as I notice her nose piercing, a sparklingsilver stud that winks right at me. "Wanna go see the Declaration ofIndependence?"

Kill me now.

She lowers her head, and I wait for her to laugh.

"I wish I could, but --" She reaches into her purse and pulls outa folded-up sheet of paper. Around her wrist, two vintage woodenbracelets click- clack together. I almost forgot. The real reason shecame here.

"You sure you're okay doing this?" Clementine asks.

"Will you stop already," I tell her. "Mysteries are my specialty."

* * *