The First Counsel (42 page)

Next to the podium is the object of everyone's attention: an enormous vanilla-frosted sheet cake with an uncanny likeness of the First Lady drawn in different colored icings. To the right of the cake, behind a long velvet rope, is the Dateline team, collecting footage for tonight's intro. In front of them are two men with cameras. White House photographers. Damn, Trey's ruthless. Get a slice of cake; have your picture taken with Mickey and Minnie. In the final months before the election, they want us all to look like family. Family first.

Ignoring the photo-op, I step deeper into the crowd. I need to find Pam. I elbow my way through the sea of fellow staffers, searching for her blond hair.

Without warning, the mob begins to rumble. The cheers start up front and work their way to the back. In one sudden rush, the whole group presses forward. Clapping. Shouting. Whistling. The First Family's here.

With the President on her right and Nora and Christopher on her left, Susan Hartson greets the crowd as if she's surprised by the two hundred people on her lawn. As always, there's a velvet rope that separates them from the staff, but the President shakes every hand that's extended over it. Wearing a red-striped tie and a light blue shirt under his standard navy suit, he looks more relaxed than I've ever seen him. Behind him, the First Lady is beaming with requisite joy, followed by Christopher, who's wearing the same color shirt as his dad but without the tie. Nice touch. Finally, bringing up the rear, in a tasteful black skirt, is Nora. She's carrying a birthday present with red, white, and blue wrapping paper. As they move toward the podium, three TV crews, including the Dateline team, capture the moment. It's a brilliant event. Everyone--the staff, the Hartsons, all of us--we're one big happy family. As long as we stay on our side of the rope.

* * *

Truly, the definition of "tone deaf" is a herd of White House staffers singing "Happy Birthday" at the top of their lungs. By the time we're done with the song, I'm about a quarter way through the crowd. Still no Pam.

"Time for presents," the President announces. On cue, Christopher and Nora step up to the podium. For this, I stop.

She stands in front of us with a convincing smile. A month ago, I would've believed it. Today, I'm not even close to fooled. She's miserable up there.

Brushing his dark hair from his eyes and approaching the microphone with adolescent pride, Christopher lowers it to his height. "Mom, if you'd join us . . ." he says. As the First Lady steps forward, Nora leans awkwardly into the mike. "This is a present from me, Chris, and Dad," she begins. "And since we didn't want you to return it, we decided that I'd be the one to pick it out." The crowd fills in the sitcom laugh track. "Anyway, this is from us to you."

Nora picks up the red, white, and blue box that I know she didn't wrap and hands it over. But as the First Lady peels off the wrapping paper, something happens. There's a new expression on Nora's face. Her eyes dance with nervous excitement. This isn't part of the script. It's no longer Nora and the First Lady. It's just a daughter giving her mom a birthday present. The way Nora's bouncing on her heels, she's dying for Mom to like it.

The moment the box is opened, the crowd oooohs and ahhhhs. The TV crews pull in for the close-up. Inside is a handmade gold bracelet studded with tiny sapphires. Taking it out, Mrs. Hartson's first reaction--the first thing she does--is pure instinct. In slow motion, she turns to Dateline's camera with a radiant look and says, "Thank you, Nora and Chris. I love you."

* * *

Almost an hour and a half later, I'm back in my office, attempting to sort through the nightly pile of mail. I beeped Pam two more times. She hasn't answered. Trying to squash the migraine that's ricocheting through my skull, I open my top drawer and finger through my collection of medicines: Maalox, Sudafed, cetirizine . . . always prepared. I grab a plastic bottle of Tylenol and fight with the childproof lid. In no mood to get water, I tilt my head back and swallow them on the spot. They don't go down easily.

"C'mon, campers, it's time for a sing-along!" Trey shouts as he kicks open the door to my office. "Spell it out, Annette! Who's the leader of the club that's made for you and me? T-R-E Y-Y-Y Y-Y-Y-Y-Y!"

"Can't stop with the Disney references, can you?"

"Not when they're this good. And, boy, is this Kingdom Magic! Did you see how well that event went over? Already on CNN. Cued up for the nightlies. Nancie's predicting front page of the Style section. And in less than an hour--live on Dateline. Can I get any better? No! No, sir, I cannot!"

"Trey, I'm thrilled that you and your necromancers were able to brainwash half the nation, but please . . ." I stare at my pencil cup and lose my thought. It's all unimportant.

"Don't give me that pouty face," he scolds, taking a seat in front of my desk. "What's wrong?"

"I just . . . I don't know. The whole event left a bad taste in my mouth."

"It's supposed to leave a bad taste--that's how you know it's good! The more syrup, the better. It's what America eats for breakfast."

"It wasn't just the sappy parts. You saw when she got the present. Nora picked out a beautiful gift for her mother. And what does the First Lady do? She thanks the camera instead of her daughter."

"I swear, right there, I cried."

"It's not funny, Trey. It's pathetic."

"Can you please jump off the high horse? We both know the real reason you're cranky."

"Stop telling me how to feel! You're not the master of my thought process!"

Silently sitting back in his seat, he gives me a second to calm down. "Don't take it out on me, Michael. It's not my fault you didn't find Pam."

"Oh, so you're not the one who crowded two hundred wannabes behind the vanilla-frosted Pied Piper?"

"It wasn't frosting; it was icing. There's a difference."

"There's no difference!"

"There could be a difference--we just don't know it."

"Stop fucking around, Trey! You're starting to piss me off!"

Rather than shout back, he gives me the rub. It's a medium one, done more as a way to restrain himself. A lesser friend would head for the door. Trey stays right where he is.

Eventually, I look across the desk. "I didn't mean to . . ."

He lowers his gaze to his lap and pulls something from his belt. His pager's going off.

"Anything important?" I ask.

"One hour till Dateline--they want me over there to do the run-through."

I nod, and he heads for the anteroom.

"When I get back, we'll sit down and figure it out," he offers.

"Don't worry," I say. "I'll be okay."

Stopping at the door, Trey turns around. "I never said you wouldn't."

* * *

I give Pam another half-hour to answer two more pages. She doesn't. At this point, I should call it a night, but instead, I flip on CNN for one last look at today's news. All day, the lead story's been the Dateline interview, but as the picture blooms into focus, I'm staring at a clip from today's Bartlett rally. Wherever it is, the place is going crazy--jumping, shouting, screaming with excitement and home-painted signs. When a graphic comes on that reads MIAMI, FLORIDA, I almost fall over. Hartson's home state. That's a ballsy move by Bartlett, but it looks like it's paying off. Not only is he getting press for the confrontation, but compared to last week, his music's louder, his crowd's bigger, and, as the anchorwoman says, "When it was all over, he stayed and shook hands for almost a full hour." Now I know we're in trouble. Candidates only stay when the getting's good.

Flicking off the TV, I decide to head over to the Dip Room, where Trey's Dateline opus is getting ready to roll. Whatever else Bartlett's up to, tonight's interview is still the biggest game in town. So why watch it on TV when Trey can clear me in to see it in person? Besides, after what Nora said earlier, she can use the support.

From the west end of the Ground Floor Corridor, I see that, as usual, I'm not the only one who had the idea--a small crowd of staffers is already gathering. Going live in the White House is no small task, and the way everyone's running around, it's got its usual circus feel. Peering over the shoulder of the guy in front of me, I get my first look at the set.

With the room's wallpaper--nineteenth-century landscapes of North America--as the warm-fuzzy backdrop, the whole thing's set up around two sofas and an antique chair. But instead of the cold, wood-back sofa that's usually in the Dip Room, they've replaced it with two plush, comfy sofas that, if memory serves, are from the second floor of the Residence. It's gotta look like a real family. No one--not the parents, not the kids--sits alone.

Surrounding the makeshift living room are five separate cameras that're set up in a wide semicircle--the twenty-first-century firing squad. Beyond the cameras, on the other side of the reams of black wiring that zigzag across the floor, the President and Mrs. Hartson are schmoozing with Samantha Stulberg and a stylish, late-thirties woman dressed all in black and wearing a headset. The producer. Hartson lets out a hearty laugh--he's putting in his final bid to keep the interview on soft focus. I look at my watch and realize they have a full ten minutes to go. This is big for him. If it weren't, he'd never be down here this early.

In the background, amid the sound people, cameramen, and makeup artists, I spot Trey talking on the phone. Looking anxious and almost panicked, he walks over to Nora's brother, Christopher, who has taken his seat on the sofa. It's not until Trey starts whispering in his ear that it hits me. The President, Mrs. Hartson, Christopher, their staff, the TV crew, the producer, the interviewer, the satellite experts . . . everyone's here. Everyone but Nora.

Finished with Christopher, Trey gingerly tiptoes behind the First Lady and taps her on the shoulder. As he pulls her aside, I can't hear what he's saying. But the First Lady's face says it all. For one slight, barely noticeable nanosecond, she lapses into a red rage, then--just as quickly--it's back to a smile. She knows those cameras are on her; there's a guy with a handheld taping for a local newscast. She has to keep it cool. Still, I can read the growl on her lips from here.

"Find her."

Holding his head high, Trey walks calmly out of the room, shoving his way past us. No one really pays much attention--they're all watching POTUS--but as soon as Trey sees me, he shoots me that look. That this-is-gonna-cause-me-sexual-dysfunction-I'm-so-scared look. I leave the crowd and fall in right behind him. The farther he gets down the hallway, the faster he goes.

"Please tell me you know where she is," he whispers, still in speed walk.

"When was the last time you--"

"She said she was going to the bathroom. No one's seen her since."

"So she went to the--"

"That was a half hour ago."

I stare silently at Trey. As we blow through the doors to the West Colonnade, he starts to run. "Have you checked her room?" I ask.

"That's who I was on the phone with. The guards by the elevator said she never went upstairs."

"What about the Service? Have you notified them?"

"Michael, I'm trying to convince a fifteen-person Dateline crew and one hundred million viewers that Hartson and his family are Ozzie-Harriet clones. If I tell the Service, it'll be a manhunt. Besides, I called my friend at the Southeast Gate--according to him, Nora hasn't left the grounds."

"Which means she's either in the OEOB or on the first two floors of the mansion."

"Do me a favor and check your office," Trey says.

"I was just there. She's not--"

"Just check it!" he hisses, his forehead covered with beads of sweat.

As we enter the West Wing, Trey darts for the Oval. I keep going--taking off for the OEOB and checking my watch. Eight minutes to go. Turning around to run backwards, I ask, "How long is the--"

"There's a one-minute intro, thirty seconds for credits, and two minutes of B-roll footage from the birthday party." His voice is shaking. "Michael, you know the numbers. If this turns into a crisis . . ."

"We'll find her," I say as I start to run. "I promise."

Chapter
27

I throw open the door to the anteroom and it slams into the wall. "Nora? Are you here?"

No answer.

I keep going, flinging open the door to my office. "Nora?" Again there's no response. I check for myself. Couch, desk, fireplace, couch. Nowhere in sight. Seven minutes to go.

Spinning around, I race through Julian's and Pam's offices. "Nora?" Julian's is empty. So is Pam's--though her light is on. That's means she's still in the . . . No, not now. If Nora's not here and she's not upstairs, where could she . . . ? Yeah. Maybe.

Tearing back into the hallway, I run full speed to the exit, burst out onto West Exec, and descend the stairs in a few large jumps. But as I squeeze past Simon's car in the parking lot, I don't head for the usual entrance under the awning. Instead, I snake around to the north side of the mansion, along the length of the West Wing, past the kitchen, and into the tradesmen's entrance. My blue pass gets me past the guard, and I take a sharp left, down toward the one place we've never been interrupted.