Free The President's Shadow by Brad Meltzer Page B

here’s someone in the Service who decided that the best use of his time was taking my picture as A.J. led me inside.
    “Let’s see some ID! Both of you!” the bald agent barks. He’s younger than both of us.
    As I hand him my ID, I spot the orange-jeweled Secret Service pin on the lapel of his jacket.
    “Take it easy. We’re on the same side,” Marshall says coldly, pulling out his own driver’s license plus the government ID that he uses when he breaks into a public facility and gets questioned. “Next time, though, maybe you should identify yourself a little earlier,” Marshall adds, getting face-to-face with him. “Otherwise, you may get your arm broken.”
    “I was going to say the same about your neck,” the bald agent replies.
    Within seconds, they’r e chest to chest, dueling egos. Most people look away when they’re this close to Marshall. Andy Warhol doesn’t seem to be bothered.
    “Okay, everyone put your macho away,” I interrupt, pushing them apart and stepping between them. For a moment, Marshal l pushes back, looking for a skirmish. But just as quickly, he lets it go.
    The bald agent stands there, studying our IDs. Eventually, h e has no choice. “Next time, thin k about where you are,” he warns, motioning to the White House and tossing back my ID. Without another word, he follows the path back through the park.
    We both stand there, watching him from behind.
    He’s headed toward 17th Street.
    “You don’t think he’s Secret Service, do you?” I eventually ask.
    Marshall doesn’t answer. “I saw you steal his pin, Beecher.”
    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 sam e -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 nort
h
entrance , where you seemed to be waitin g . 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, th e bald agent is long gone. On Marshall’s phone, th e red beacon is racing toward 17th Street. As fast as it’s moving,