The First Counsel (31 page)

With no one to talk to, I sit and wait until the door once again swings open. Simon enters the room and everyone's quiet. As soon as we make eye contact, I look away. He doesn't. Instead, he heads straight toward me and smacks a thick file folder against my chest. "Welcome back," he growls.

I look down at the folder, then back at everyone else in the room. Something's wrong. He's too smart to lose his temper in front of a crowd.

"You whined for it; you got it," he adds.

"I don't even know who--"

He turns and walks away. "They're voting on it Wednesday. Enjoy."

Confused, I read the tab on the folder: "Roving Wiretaps." Inside, I see all my old research. I don't believe it--I'm back on the case.

Looking up, I search for a friendly face to share the news with, but there's only one person looking my way. The person who walked in right behind Simon. Lawrence Lamb. He offers a warm smile and soft nod. That's all he needs to say. Chalk one up for Nora.

* * *

"Are you sure Simon's okay with this?"

"He shouldn't have taken you off the case in the first place," Lamb says matter-of-factly as we walk back to his office. Moving with the forcefulness of a man who's always in demand, Lamb somehow still manages to never look rushed. Like the double-Windsor knot in his tie and his cufflinked shirt, he's permanently set on high-sheen polish; the type of man who, when he's in the airport, still looks put together even after a four-hour flight.

Trailing behind him, I'm a complete mess. "But what if Simon--"

"Stop worrying about it, Michael. It's yours. Celebrate."

Passing his secretary's desk, I realize he's right. The thing is, old habits die hard. As we step into his office, I take a seat in front of his desk.

"I don't know what you did, but whatever it is, Nora's happy," he explains. "That alone grants you three wishes."

"Is this my first?"

"If it is, here're the other two." He opens a file folder on his desk and hands me two documents. The first is a single-page memo from the FBI. "They finished investigating two people on Friday, and three more over the weekend," he explains. "All of them appointees--all of them apparently innocent--which brings the total to ten. Only five more suspects to go."

"So they still haven't gotten to mine?"

"Best for last," he says as he cleans his reading glasses with a monogrammed hankie. "It shouldn't be long now."

"What about getting an advance look at the last five names? Is there any way to do that?"

"Why would you . . . ? Oh, I see," he interrupts himself. "Whoever is still on the list--that'll tell us who else was potentially involved."

"If Caroline had their files, she had their secrets."

"Not a bad thought," Lamb agrees. "Let me make a few calls. I'll see what I can do." As he makes a note to himself, the phone rings and he quickly picks it up. "This is Larry," he announces. "Yes, he's right here. I got it . . . I heard you the first fifteen times." There's a short pause. "Don't yell at me! Did you hear me? Stop already!" After a quick goodbye, he hangs up and turns my way. "Nora says hello."

Unreal--Nora puts the word out, and suddenly, I'm at the top of Lamb's dance card. It's amazing what a dozen summers splashing around together can do.

Flipping through the second document, I see that it's a fifty-page computer printout. "Is this wish number three?"

"That depends how you define 'wish.' What you hold in your hands is the official WAVES record on the day Caroline was killed. According to the record, Patrick Vaughn was cleared in at exactly 9:02 A.M."

"By me."

"By you. And he left at 10:05. You know how it works, Michael--once he had that Appointment ID around his neck, he could've wandered through the OEOB for a full hour. And according to the Secret Service, the request to let him in was placed from an internal phone right after you arrived at 8:04 that morning."

"But I never--"

"I'm not saying you made the request--I'm just telling you what the records show."

Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I replay the facts in my head. "So as soon as I walked in that morning, Simon placed the call."

"They probably watched you walk in the front door. Do you remember anyone in the hallway?"

I pause to think about it. "The only one I saw was Pam, who told me about the early meeting."

"Pam, eh? Well, I guess it is a lot for Simon to pull off by himself."

"Wait a minute--Pam would never--"

"I'm not saying she's involved--I'm just saying be careful. You're dancing on dangerous ground."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He pauses a moment. There's something he's not saying.

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

"You tell me--ever heard of a Post reporter named Inez Cotigliano?"

"The one who did the FOIA request."

Lamb shoots me a look. "How'd you know that?"

"Pam had a copy."

Sitting up in his seat, he makes a quick note to himself.

"Is something wrong with that?"

He ignores the question.

"Was she not supposed to have one?"

"Michael, it took us four days to examine those WAVES records and realize you let Vaughn in the building. According to the Secret Service, Inez has been asking about those same records since the day after Caroline died. One day. It's like she knew--or someone told her."

"So you think Pam--"

"All I'm saying is pay attention. If Inez's even half as ambitious as she seems to be, it's not going to take her long to find Vaughn. Or you."

My stomach drops. I'm running out of time. "How long do I have?"

"See, there's the problem," Lamb says, his calm voice for the first time sounding uneasy. "You keep forgetting that this isn't just about you." Pausing, he gives me that same anxious look from before.

"Did something happen?" I ask.

He runs his hand against the grain of his still-recent shave. "They called me, Michael. They called me twice."

"Who did? The reporter?"

"The FBI," he says coldly.

I don't say a word.

"Your friend Adenauer wanted to know if she's doing drugs."

"How'd they--?"

"C'mon, son, they see you let Vaughn in the building; and then you're dating Nora . . . All they want now is the last piece of the triangle."

"But she doesn't know Vaughn."

"That's not the question!" he says, raising his voice. Just as quickly, he clears his throat and calms himself down. Family always makes it emotional. "Tell me the truth, Michael. Is Nora doing drugs?"

I stop.

He stays perfectly still. I've seen him use this same tactic before--an old lawyer trick--let the silence drag it out of you.

I sit back in my chair, trying to look unfazed. Is she doing drugs? "Not anymore," I say without flinching.

Across the desk, he nods to himself. It's not the kind of answer you can argue with, and to be honest, I don't think he wants anything more than that. There's a reason no one takes notes in the White House. When it comes to subpoenas and FBI questions, the less you know, the better.

"So what're you going to tell the FBI?" I eventually ask.

"Same thing I told them last time: That even though I know they're hungry to catch the biggest fish in the pond, they damn well better be careful before they start making accusations at the principals."

The principals. The only ones around here worth saving. "I guess that takes care of her part of the problem."

"Her part of the . . . ? Michael, have you been paying attention? We've got an incumbent President who's only nine points ahead in a reelection race where, as pathetic as it sounds, the most resounding issues are the escapades and adventures of his daughter--your girlfriend. On top of that, we've got the FBI closing in and dying to make the big kill. So if you get sucked down by this investigation, and you give even the slightest impression that Nora's involved--let me put it this way--you don't want to hand Bartlett that ammunition."

"I'd never say a thing."

"I'm not saying you would. I'm just making sure you understand the consequences." He leans forward on his desk, staring straight at me. Then he looks away, unable to hold the pose. It's not just unease in his voice. After two calls from the FBI, it's fear.

Feeling the two-ton weight he just dropped on my shoulders, I rephrase the original question. "So how long do you think we have?"

"That depends on how persistent this reporter Inez is. If she's got a source, I'd say you've got until the end of the week. If she doesn't . . . well, we're doing our best to stall."

End of the week? Oh, God.

"You okay?" he asks.

I nod and climb to my feet.

"Are you sure?" The tone in his voice catches me off guard. He's actually worried about me.

"I'll be fine," I tell him.

He doesn't believe it, but there's nothing left to say. Of course, that doesn't stop him from trying. "If it's any consolation, Michael, she does care about you. If she didn't, you wouldn't be presenting the decision memo."

"What're you talking about?"

"For the roving wiretaps. Didn't you see the list?"

I open the file folder and check for myself. Sure enough, it's in there--next to the word "Participants" are my initials: M.D.G. The wide grin that flushes my cheeks reminds me how long it's been between smiles. I'm not just writing this memo. For the first time in my life, I'm briefing the President.

* * *

By the time I get back to my office, I'm in a full-fledged sweat. If Lamb's right, it's only a matter of days. The race is on. If I don't beat Inez to Vaughn and the money . . . Instinctively, I look at the clock on my wall. Not much longer. Luckily, I've got something to pass the time.

My ego keeps telling me it's the single greatest thing that's ever happened to me, but deep down, my brain knows I'm completely unprepared. Two days from now, I'm going to sit across the desk from the President. And the only thing I can think to say is, "Nice office."

I flip on my computer and grab the wiretap folder, but before I can even open it up, I'm interrupted by the ringing of my phone.

"This is Michael," I say.

"Hey, Mr. Hot Shot. Just returning your call."

I immediately recognize the condescending tone. Officer Rayford from the D.C. police. "How's everything going?" I ask, struggling to sound upbeat.

"Don't yank my chain, boy. I'm not in the mood. If you want your money, I've got a new phone number for you."

On the corner of the folder, I write down the number. "Is that Property Division?"

"In your wet dreams. I transferred it over to Financial Investigations. Now you're the pimple on their ass."

"I don't understand."

"As long as it's suspicious, we've got a right to hold it--and last I checked, driving late at night with ten grand in cash is still suspicious."

"So what do I have to do now?"

"Just prove it's yours. Bank account, cashed check, insurance policy--show 'em where it came from."

"But what if--"

"I don't want to hear it. As far as I'm concerned, it's someone else's problem." With that, he hangs up.

Lowering the receiver, I'm once again back to Inez. If Simon wants to, he can point her to the money. That's his trump card. Mine, God willing, is a drug dealer named Patrick Vaughn. Looking at my watch, I see it's almost time.

Pulling my jacket from the coat-rack, I head for the door. As I step into the anteroom, though, I'm surprised to see Pam still at the small desk outside my office. "Phone go out again?"

"Don't ask," she says as I pass behind her. "Where you headed?"

"Just over to Trey's."

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just going to grab some coffee--maybe steal some Ho-Hos from the vending machines."

"Have fun," she says as the door shuts behind me.

* * *

"Can I talk to you for a second?" I ask as I poke my head in Trey's office.

"Good timing," he says as he hangs up his phone. "C'mon in."

I stay by the door and motion in the direction of his other two officemates. He knows the rest. "Want to take a lap?" he asks.

"That'd be best."

Without a moment's hesitation, Trey follows me out the door. We take the stairs to the second floor. It goes without saying--no one takes a lap on his home court.

Heading up the hallway, I keep my eyes on the checkered black-and-white marble floor. In the OEOB, life is always a chess match.

"What's going on?" we both ask simultaneously.

"You first," he says.

Trying to look unconcerned, I check over my shoulder. "I just wanted to make sure we were set with Vaughn."