Free The President's Shadow by Brad Meltzer Page A

up-front about the arm?”
    “Like I said, he’s not up-front about anything. But you should’ve seen the First Lady’s face. It’s a severed arm. They didn’t even like looking at the photo. Plus when Wallace was talking about his wife finding it…the rage in his voice… There’re some things even a scumbag politician won’t lie about.”
    Marsh is still eyeing the bald tourist. “Do you know the real secret of how Presidents become Presidents?” Before I can answer, he explains, “It’s because they’re good at getting people to do things for them. In fact, they’re not just good at it. They’re maestros. Virtuosos. To get that title of President, you need thousands of people doing thousands of different things, all for your benefit. It’s a massive churning machine . And y’know what feeds that machine?” he asks. “People like you , Beecher. It’s fed with your life, and your family, and your reputation. Because when things go wrong…and they always go wrong…the President isn’t allowed to have that skunk smell around him. So when that happens, he doesn’t just replace you. He crumples you up, tosses you out back, and…chomp goes the woodchipper.”
    “You have a very graphic view of politics.”
    “A realistic view. You need to be smart here.”
    “I am being smart. You think I don’t see the magical coincidences? This arm just happens to have a penny in it that just happens to come from our dads’ unit? The woodchipper isn’t just coming, Marshall. It’s already here. Whoever set this up—whether it’s Nico, Clementine, or whoever they’re working with at the White House—I know they’re waiting to grind us, and by they , I mean Wallace too. He’ll take our help and throw us in the trash faster than anyone.”
    “But the way you’re talking, the President has you—”
    “Wallace doesn’t have me doing anything. I’m exactly where I want to be. The only way I’m finding out what happened to our dads is by being right by his side. So you tell me which is smarter: walking away with nothing, or ducking a few spinning blades while we pick his pocket?”
    Marshall stands there, unreadable as ever.
    “So what do we do about him ?” I ask, motioning to the bald tourist.
    Marshall doesn’t hesitate. Forever fearless, he turns around and marches straight at the tourist. “You!” he calls out. “Can I help you with something?”
    The tourist looks our way, confused. “ Me? ”
    “Don’t insult us,” Marshall warns. “I saw you on the south side of the White House, then I saw you here. So. For the last time,” he adds, plowing at the man. “ Can I help you with something? ”
    The bald man’s confused look shifts to anger. He’s short and muscular, built like a rugby player, with the crooked nose to prove it. But as we get closer, the most haunting parts of his face are his slitted eyes and stark white eyelashes. He looks like the ghost of Andy Warhol.
    He reaches for something from his chest pocket.
    If that’s a gun…
    Marshall’s all over him. He grips the bald man’s wrist. With a squeeze, Marsh goes for the same pressure point that made my arm numb. But without even batting a white eyelash, the bald man whips his arm free and jams a thumb into Marsh’s neck.
    “Hkkkk!” Marshall gasps, grabbing his own throat and stumbling backward. I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. Not even Marshall.
    “Secret Service!” the man announces, pulling out his wallet and flashing a badge.
    I shouldn’t be surprised. For years, the Service has used the same trick as Disney World, dressing their agents as tourists so they can blend in and eavesdrop on the crowd. But as I look over at Marshall, he’s bent over, more pissed than ever. His eyes narrow at the agent. He sees something he doesn’t like. I don’t blame him. It’s been barely ten minutes since I left the basement hideout where the President told me there was a rotten apple in the Service. And suddenly,