The First Counsel (46 page)

As he pulls away, I'm speechless.

"I can still help you, Michael. You have my word."

"But if I--"

"Why don't you think about it overnight?" he suggests. He's not changing his deadline, but I still need to stall--until after my noon meeting with Vaughn.

"Can I at least have until the end of the day tomorrow? There's one last thing I want to ask Nora about. If I'm right, you'll understand. If I'm wrong and it doesn't come through--you can slap a big red ribbon on me and I'll personally hand myself to the press."

He takes a moment to think about it. A promise with actual results. "Five o'clock tomorrow," he finally says. "But remember what I told you--Vaughn's just looking for another sucker. As soon as you're in harm's way, he's going to duck out."

I nod as he heads for the door. "I'll see you at five o'clock."

"Five o'clock it is." He's about to leave when he turns around, his hand still on the doorknob. "By the way," he says. "What'd you think of Nora on Dateline?"

My stomach sinks as he pulls tight on the noose. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. She was pretty good, huh? You'd never know they were in the margin of error--it was like she was holding the whole family together."

I study his eyes, trying to read between the lines. There's no reason for him to bring up poll numbers. "She's strong when she needs to be," I say.

"So I guess that means she doesn't need much protection." Before I can respond, he adds, "Of course, maybe I have it backwards. These media things always make it look like more than it is, don't you think?" With a knowing nod, he turns back to the anteroom, flips off the light switch, and leaves the room. The door slams behind him.

Alone in the dark, I replay Adenauer's last words. Even if we're both still missing a few pieces, he's got enough to make a picture. That's why he's made his decision: No matter what I do, for me, it's over. The only question now is who I'm going to drag down with me.

* * *

I wait a full minute after he leaves before I go for the door myself. Regardless of what the schedule says, when it comes to trips, almost nothing moves on time. If they're running late, I can still catch her. Following my usual path, I tear toward the West Wing. But as soon as I hit the night air, I know I'm cutting it close. There's no Marine guard standing under the light outside the West Lobby. The President's not in the Oval. Rushing full speed through the West Colonnade, I fly into the Ground Floor Corridor. As I run, I hear clapping and cheering echoing through the hallway. In the distance, there's the chug of a steam train. First slow, then fast. Faster. As it picks up speed, it's pulsing. Whirring. Humming. The helicopter.

Halfway down the hallway, I make a sharp right into the Dip Room and crash head-on with the last person I expect to see at a departure.

"Where're you heading?" Simon asks, sounding unsurprised.

My jaw tightens. I can't help but picture him and Nora in the backseat. Still, I fight it down. "To watch the departure."

"Since when are you such a tourist?"

I don't answer. I need to hear it from her. Turning away, I step around him.

He seizes me by the arm. It's a tight grip. "You're too late, Michael. You can't stop it."

I pull away. "We'll see."

Before he can respond, I push forward, shoving open the doors of the South Portico. On the driveway, a small crowd of twenty-five is still cheering. Remnants of the post-Dateline celebration. On the South Lawn, Marine One is about to take off. I have to squint against the swirling winds, but I still see the fat army-green copter lift off the ground. As my tie and ID are whipped over my shoulder, the force of the wind from the spinning blades crashes against my chest like a wave. Behind bulletproof glass, and in his armor-lined seat, the leader of the free world waves goodbye to us. Two seats back, Nora's caught up in a conversation with her brother. I lift my chin and watch their ascent. Simon's right. There's no way to stop it. It's out of my control. In a heartbeat, the helicopter's lights go off, and the First Family disappears in the black sky. With nothing left to cheer for, the crowd starts to disperse. And I'm left standing there. Alone. Back to a world of one.

* * *

"This is stupid," I say as the waitress delivers a pitcher of beer to our table.

"Don't talk to me about stupid," Trey says, pouring himself a glass. "I was there today--I saw it myself. The best thing now is to plan your way out."

As he says the words, my eyes are locked on the waitress who's clearing the table next to us. Like the crane in the old carnival game, she lowers her arm and lifts all the important stuff: glassware, menus, a dish of peanuts. Everything else is trash. With a sweep of her arm, empty bottles and used napkins are brushed into the busboy's plastic bin. With one quick move, it's gone. That's what she did--after the fun, jettisoned the trash. Still, I refuse to believe it. "Maybe Vaughn had it wrong. Maybe when Nora gets back--"

"Wait a minute, you're gonna give her a chance to explain? After what she did tonight . . . Are you out of your head?"

"It's not like I have a choice."

"There're plenty of choices. Whole shopping-carts-ful of them: Hate her, despise her, curse her, scorn her, pretend you're nature and abhor her like a vacuum--"

"Enough!" I interrupt, my eyes still locked on the waitress. "I know what it looks like . . . I just . . . We don't have all the facts."

"What else do you need, Michael? She's sleeping with Simon!"

My chest constricts. Just the thought of it . . .

"I'm serious," he whispers, looking suspiciously at the tables around us. "That's why Caroline got killed. She found out the two of them were doing the horizontal Electric Slide, and when she started blackmailing them, they decided to push back. The only problem was, they needed someone to blame."

"Me," I mutter. It certainly makes sense.

"Think about the way it played out. It wasn't just a coincidence that you wound up in the bar that night; it was a setup. She took you there on purpose. The whole thing--losing the Service, pretending to be lost, even taking the money--that was all part of their plan."

"No," I whisper, pushing myself away from the table. "Not like that."

"What're you--"

"C'mon, Trey, there's no way they knew the D.C. police were going to pull us over for speeding."

"No, you're right--that was pure chance. But if you didn't get pulled over, she would've planted it in your car. Think about it. They set Vaughn up and make it look like you let him in the building. Then when Caroline shows up dead the next morning, between Vaughn and the money, you've got the smoking gun."

"I don't know. I mean, if that's the case, then why haven't they turned me in? I've still got the 'gun.' It's just in police custody."

"I'm not sure. Maybe they're worried the cop'll identify Nora. Maybe they're waiting until after the election. Or maybe they're waiting for the FBI to do it on their own. Five o'clock tomorrow."

We sit in silence and I stare at my beer, studying its rising bubbles. Eventually, I look up at Trey. "I still have to speak to her." Before he can react, I add, "Don't ask me why, Trey--it's just . . . I know you think she's a whack-job--believe me, I know she's a whack-job--but underneath . . . you've never seen it, Trey. All you see is someone you work for--but behind all the tough-stuff posturing and all the public-face nonsense, in a different set of circumstances, she can just as easily be you or me."

"Really? So when was the last time we did Special K in the bowling alley?"

"I said underneath. There's still a girl underneath."

"See, now you're sounding like Mithridates."

"Who?"

"The guy who survived an assassination attempt by eating a little bit of poison every day. When they finally put it in his wine, his body was immune to it."

"And what's so bad about that?"

"Pay attention to the details, Michael. Even though he survived, he still spent every day eating poison."

I can't help but shake my head. "I just want to hear what she says. Your theory's one possibility; there're plenty of others. For all we know, Pam's the one who--"

"What the hell is wrong with you? It's like you're on permanent autopilot!"

"You don't understand . . ."

"I do understand. And I know how you feel about her. Hell, even forgetting Nora, I still have my own questions about Pam--but take a step back and put on your rational pants. You're trusting Nora and Vaughn--two complete strangers you've known less than a month--and questioning Pam, a good friend who's been by your side for two years. Please, Michael, look at the facts! Does that make any sense to you? I mean, today alone . . . what're you thinking?"

My eyes drop back to my beer. I don't have an answer.

* * *

Early Friday morning, I tear through all four newspapers, checking to see if Adenauer kept his word. The Herald has a short piece on some of the conspiracy theories that're starting to develop around Caroline's death, but that's to be expected. More important, Hartson bounced up six points in the polls, a giant leap that takes him out of the margin of error. It's not hard to see why. The front photo in the Post is a shot of the whole family on Dateline. On the far right, Nora's laughing at her mother's joke. Just another day in the life.

Beyond that, as far as I can tell, it's all okay. Nothing by Inez. Nothing by anyone. Now all I have to do is the hard part. According to the schedule, they should be landing any minute. I tighten my tie and pull it extra tight. Time to see Nora.

* * *

Once the Secret Service waves me in, I head straight to her bedroom on the third floor. I stop at her door, my hand poised to knock. Inside, I hear her talking to someone, so I lean in close. But just as I do, the door flies open and there's Nora, radiant in a tight black T-shirt and jeans, cradling a cell phone to her ear, and grinning at me for all of a split second.

"I don't care if he raises two million," she shouts into the phone. "I'm not going to dinner with his son!" As I step in, she puts up her pointer finger and gives me the "one more minute" sign.

Based on the schedule, this must be about yesterday's donor receptions. When we first met, she told me it's always like this after the fund-raisers. Every letch with a checkbook starts calling in favors. For the President, they're usually business requests. For Nora, they're personal.

"What the hell is wrong with these people?" she says into the phone, continuing to pace. She gestures me to the daybed, to sit down. "Why can't they buy a Humvee and some Ralph Lauren furniture like everyone else?" With a swing of her arm, she adds, "Tell them the truth. Tell them I think Daddy's little stock baron is a roach and that . . ." She pauses, listening to the person on the other line. "I don't care if he went to Harvard--what the hell does that--" She cuts herself off. "Y'know what? That actually does matter. It matters a lot. Do you have a pencil, because I just figured out what you should say. Are you writing this down? When you get his parents back on the line, tell them that while I am keenly excited by the prospect of having their son cop a feel while sticking his tongue in my ear, I regret that I will not be able to make it. Indeed, while a student at Princeton, I took a vaginal oath that forbids me to date two types of people: First, men from Harvard. And second"--here she starts shouting--"sons of self-important, pretentious, trumpeteering parents who think that just because they know how to get preview-night seats at the trendiest restaurant-of-the-moment, the entire free world must have a price tag on it! Sadly, their darling Jake qualifies for both! Sincerely yours, Nora. P.S.--You're not hot shit, the Hamptons are overrated, and no matter what the maitre d' says, he hates you too!" Glaring furiously at the receiver, she shuts off the phone.

"Sorry about that," she says to me, still breathing heavily.

I'm breathing heavily myself and can hardly hear over the thump of my own heartbeat. "Nora, I have something impor--"

Once again, the phone rings.

"Damn!" she shouts, grabbing it. "Yes . . . ?"

As Nora grudgingly agrees to another round of fund-raiser appearances, my eyes roll over to the two framed letters on her nightstand. The first one's in bright red crayon and reads, "Dear Nora: You're hot. Love, Matt, age 8." The other reads, "Dear Nora: Fuck 'em all. Your friends, Joel & Chris." Both are dated during the first months of her father's administration. When everything was fun.

"You've got to be kidding," she says into the phone. "When? Yesterday?"

Listening, she walks across the room toward an antique desk and rifles through a pile of newspapers on top. As she pulls out one of them, I see that it's the Herald. "What page?" she asks. "No, I got it right here. Thanks--I'll call you later."

Putting down the phone, she thumbs through the paper and finds what she's looking for. A wide smile breaks over her face. "Have you seen this?" she asks, shoving the paper in my face. "They asked a hundred fifth-graders if they wanted to be me. Guess how many said yes?"

I shake my head. "We'll talk about it later."