coming.”
As I turn on H Street, my destination’s halfway down the block: the tan-brick, nine-story building. There’re no food trucks allowed around here. No trash cans either, so no one can leave a bomb. Plus, the y don’t keep a sign out front. They don’t want anyone knowing what’s in there.
“I appreciate the concern, Mac. But I’ve known Marshall my whole life—”
“No, you knew him in junior high. Then you both grew up, and he happened to come back into your life, oh that’s right, just as you were getting involved with us.”
“Now you’re simplifying.”
“Beecher, I’ve had seventy-two birthdays. I appreciate the emotional tug and swell of youth that comes from seeing an old childhood friend, but let me tell you what Tot would tell you—”
“That I don’t know this man anymore. I’ve heard the speech.”
“Then start listening to it,” she says as I reach the front of the brick building and spy the eye-in-the-sky security cam hidden under the overhang. “This isn’t just about you. Every time you invite Marshall inside, you’re also giving him a free look at us .”
She won’t say it out loud, but I know who us is. The Culper Ring.
As I open the glass door and step into the dark lobby, there’s no ignoring the shiny silver writing in giant block letters along the brushed silver wall:
WORTHY OF TRUST AND CONFIDENCE
I turn away, preferring my metaphors a bit more subtle.
“Mac, I will never, ever do anything to hurt what you and Tot have built.”
“You’re missing the point. This was built two hundred years ago, long before the two of us. And you want to know why it’s lasted this long?” She pauses to make sure I’m listening. “Because from the very first days that George Washington put it together, he had two rules: First, even he wasn’t allowed to know everyone in the organization. That way, n o one person could ever take us all down. And second, when you get tapped for membership, you put the needs of the organization before your own.”
She pauses again, leaving me staring at the word TRUST on the lobby’s silver wall. On my right, tw o burly men with thick military necks pull off their IDs and hide them in their jacket pockets as they’re about to leave the building. In most of D.C., people keep their IDs on as a way to professionally brag. Here , they take them off, so no one knows where they work.
“Beecher, during my early years in the military, I was lucky enough to work with three different astronauts. All three of them made it to the moon,” Mac explains. “And the thing about being an astronaut is they train their whole life to do this one thing. Then when it’s over, they all react the same way: The moment they leave the moon, they know they’re never going back again. Even worse, they know they can’t talk to anyone about it since no one can truly appreciate the full scope of what they’ve seen. It’s the same here. If you’re committed to the mission, we’ll give you a breathtaking, once-in-a-lifetime view. But like those astronauts, you need to understand: It’s a lonely view.”
I think of Tot lying there in the hospital over these past few weeks. Besides me, Mac, and two coworkers who dropped off cookies shaped like little Declarations of Independence, he hasn’t had a single visitor.
“It’ll save your life,” Mac says in my ear. “Speaking of which, you think I don’t see where you’re headed right now? That’s a dangerous fight you’re picking.”
I hadn’t told her where I was going, but I’m not surprised. She’s always watching.
“ You Beecher White? ” a man with a flat nose calls out from the security booth across the lobby. He’s behind thick ballistics glass—bulletproof and bombproof—in a seat that makes him a full two heads taller so he can look down at me. Better view to see whether I’m hiding a weapon.
“They’ll never let you in,” Mac warns.
Usually she’s right. On a daily basis, every
As I turn on H Street, my destination’s halfway down the block: the tan-brick, nine-story building. There’re no food trucks allowed around here. No trash cans either, so no one can leave a bomb. Plus, the y don’t keep a sign out front. They don’t want anyone knowing what’s in there.
“I appreciate the concern, Mac. But I’ve known Marshall my whole life—”
“No, you knew him in junior high. Then you both grew up, and he happened to come back into your life, oh that’s right, just as you were getting involved with us.”
“Now you’re simplifying.”
“Beecher, I’ve had seventy-two birthdays. I appreciate the emotional tug and swell of youth that comes from seeing an old childhood friend, but let me tell you what Tot would tell you—”
“That I don’t know this man anymore. I’ve heard the speech.”
“Then start listening to it,” she says as I reach the front of the brick building and spy the eye-in-the-sky security cam hidden under the overhang. “This isn’t just about you. Every time you invite Marshall inside, you’re also giving him a free look at us .”
She won’t say it out loud, but I know who us is. The Culper Ring.
As I open the glass door and step into the dark lobby, there’s no ignoring the shiny silver writing in giant block letters along the brushed silver wall:
WORTHY OF TRUST AND CONFIDENCE
I turn away, preferring my metaphors a bit more subtle.
“Mac, I will never, ever do anything to hurt what you and Tot have built.”
“You’re missing the point. This was built two hundred years ago, long before the two of us. And you want to know why it’s lasted this long?” She pauses to make sure I’m listening. “Because from the very first days that George Washington put it together, he had two rules: First, even he wasn’t allowed to know everyone in the organization. That way, n o one person could ever take us all down. And second, when you get tapped for membership, you put the needs of the organization before your own.”
She pauses again, leaving me staring at the word TRUST on the lobby’s silver wall. On my right, tw o burly men with thick military necks pull off their IDs and hide them in their jacket pockets as they’re about to leave the building. In most of D.C., people keep their IDs on as a way to professionally brag. Here , they take them off, so no one knows where they work.
“Beecher, during my early years in the military, I was lucky enough to work with three different astronauts. All three of them made it to the moon,” Mac explains. “And the thing about being an astronaut is they train their whole life to do this one thing. Then when it’s over, they all react the same way: The moment they leave the moon, they know they’re never going back again. Even worse, they know they can’t talk to anyone about it since no one can truly appreciate the full scope of what they’ve seen. It’s the same here. If you’re committed to the mission, we’ll give you a breathtaking, once-in-a-lifetime view. But like those astronauts, you need to understand: It’s a lonely view.”
I think of Tot lying there in the hospital over these past few weeks. Besides me, Mac, and two coworkers who dropped off cookies shaped like little Declarations of Independence, he hasn’t had a single visitor.
“It’ll save your life,” Mac says in my ear. “Speaking of which, you think I don’t see where you’re headed right now? That’s a dangerous fight you’re picking.”
I hadn’t told her where I was going, but I’m not surprised. She’s always watching.
“ You Beecher White? ” a man with a flat nose calls out from the security booth across the lobby. He’s behind thick ballistics glass—bulletproof and bombproof—in a seat that makes him a full two heads taller so he can look down at me. Better view to see whether I’m hiding a weapon.
“They’ll never let you in,” Mac warns.
Usually she’s right. On a daily basis, every
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