The First Counsel (55 page)

"And you believe him?"

"You have any reason not to?"

"I can think of one. Starts with an N; ends with an A; her daddy's President . . ."

"I got it, Trey."

"You sure about that? If he's sleeping with Nora, he'll say anything to make you--"

"He's not sleeping with her."

"Aw, c'mon, Michael--we're right back where we started."

"Trust me on this one. We're not."

He can hear the change in my voice. There's a short pause on the other end. "You know who did it, don't you?"

"It doesn't mean anything without the proof."

This time, Trey doesn't pause. "Tell me what you need me to do."

"You sure you're up for it?" I ask. "Because it's going to be a bitch and a half to pull off."

Chapter
37

Running down my fourth flight of stairs in the concrete stairwell, I'm starting to feel sick. I don't like being this far underground. My head's throbbing; my balance is out of whack. At first, I assumed it was the repetitious pattern of my downward descent. But the closer I get to the final sub-basement, the more I start thinking about what's waiting for me at the bottom. I pass the door marked B-5 wondering if it's going to work. It all depends on her.

The stairwell ends at a metal door with a bright orange B-6 painted on it. I pull it open and step into the lowest level of the underground parking garage. Surrounded by dozens of parked cars, I check to see if she's already here. Judging by the silence, it appears I'm first.

A quick breath fills my lungs with chalky air, but as a meeting place, the garage fits the bill. Close by, yet out of sight.

A shriek of screeching tires slices through the silence. It's coming from a few floors above but echoes all the way down. As the car tears around the ramp's turns, the echo gets louder. Whoever it is, they're coming my way--and driving like a maniac. Running for a hiding spot, I dash back into the stairwell and peer through the window in the door. A forest green Saab leaps toward an open parking spot and jerks to a sudden halt. When the door opens, a parking garage attendant gets out. Finally, I exhale, wiping my face on my jacket sleeve.

The moment he leaves I hear the screeching start again--barreling down from the street level, growing louder as it goes. These guys are psychopaths. But as a black Buick careens off the ramp, it doesn't head for a parking space. Instead, it bucks to a dead stop right in front of the stairwell. As before, the door to the car swings wide open. Ah.

"Heard you want to get into my house," Nora says with a grin.

Already, she's having too much fun. "Where's the Service?"

"Don't worry--we got fifteen minutes till they realize I'm gone."

"Where'd you get the car?"

"Woman who does my mom's hair. Now, you want to continue grilling me, or do you want to be nice?"

"I'm sorry," I offer. "It's just been a hard--"

"You don't have to say it. I'm sorry too. Even if you wanted it, I shouldn't have let you leave like that." Taking a step toward me, she opens her arms.

I put a hand up and push away.

"What're you--"

"Nora, let's just save it for later. Right now, there're more important things to deal with."

"Are you still mad about Simon? I swear we--"

"I know you didn't sleep with him. And I know you'd never hurt me." Looking her straight in the eyes, I add, "I believe you, Nora."

She stares at me, weighing every word. I'm not sure what she's thinking, but she's got to know I'm all out of options. It's either this, or I dance for the police. At least here, she's still in control.

Her eyes narrow and she makes her decision. Naturally, I have no idea what it is. "Get in the car," she finally says.

Without a word, I circle around to the passenger's side and open the door.

"What're you doing?"

"You said to get in."

"No, no, no," she scolds. "Not with your face on every front page." She pushes a button on her keychain and pops the trunk. "This time, you're riding in back."

* * *

Curled up in the trunk of the First Beautician's Buick, I'm trying to ignore the damp-carpet smell. Lucky for me, there're plenty of distractions. Besides the jumper cables that I'm nervously squeezing in each hand, there's a full chess set--which I've just realized was never properly closed. As Nora ascends the circular ramp out of the garage, pawns, knights, bishops, and rooks bombard me from every direction. A knight hits me in the eye and bounces into my hand, just as a sharp right turn tells me we're back on 17th Street.

Wrapped in darkness, I try to mentally follow the path of the car, twisting and turning its way toward the Southwest Appointment Gate. There's no question she could be delivering me right to the authorities, but I think the last thing she wants is to be caught with the current "It" boy. At least, that's what I'm counting on.

Including wheelchair entrances, there're eleven different ways to get into the White House and the OEOB. The ones that involve walking require a valid ID and a stroll past at least two uniformed officers. The ones that involve driving require a bigshot and a kick-ass parking permit. I've got Nora. More than enough.

As the sound of traffic disappears behind us, I know we're close. The car slows down as we approach the first checkpoint. I expect them to stop us, but for whatever reason, they don't. Now comes the actual gate. This is the one that counts.

I roll forward as we come to an abrupt halt, grinding a few chess pieces into the carpet. There's an electric hum as Nora's window opens. I strain to hear the muffled voice of the uniformed guard. The night we went up on the roof, they never checked the trunk. Nora got in with nothing more than a wave and a smile. But in the last twenty-four hours, times have changed. I'm barely breathing.

"I'm sorry, Miss Hartson--those're the rules. The FBI asked us to check every car."

"I'm just picking up something from my mom. I'll be in and out in a--"

"Whose car is this anyway?" he asks suspiciously.

"The woman who does my mom's hair--you've seen her--"

"And where're your agents?" he adds as I shut my eyes.

"Down by the checkpoint--even they know it's only gonna take me a second. Now do you want to call them, or do you want to let me in?"

"Again, ma'am, I'm sorry. I can't--"

"They're waiting right down there."

"It doesn't matter--pop your trunk, please."

"C'mon, Stewie, do I look dangerous to you?"

No, don't flirt with him! These guys're too smart to---

There's a loud click and the car rolls forward. Nora--one; guards--nothing. We're in.

As we move up West Exec, I can't tell if there're people running across the narrow street that separates the OEOB and the White House. Even if it's empty, though, someone could easily walk out. Hoping to avoid surprises, and following my earlier instructions, Nora makes a sharp left up the concrete driveway and pulls right under the twenty-foot archway that leads to the ground floor of the OEOB. Out of sight and used mostly as a loading zone, it's more obscure than the wide-open area of the West Exec parking lot. As the car levels off, I know we're there. Nora shuts the engine and slams the door. Now comes the hard part.

She's got to time this one just right. The archway may lead through to a courtyard, but it's still physically part of the OEOB's massive hallway. Which means there're always plenty of people crisscrossing in and out of the automatic doors that're cut into the base of the arch. If I'm going to get out of here without being seen, she's going to have to wait until the hallway is clear.

Inside the trunk, I twist around on my stomach, slowly getting into position. My muscles are tensed. As soon as she opens the trunk, I'm out. I wrestle the jumper cables out of the way and brush chessmen away from my face. Nothing to trip me up. I don't hear anything, but she hasn't come to get me. There must be people nearby. That's the only reason she'd wait. As the seconds turn into a full minute, my fingers pick anxiously at the trunk carpet.

I try to prop myself up on my elbows as a minor revolt, but the space is too small. And dark. It's like a coffin. The walls of the trunk are pressing in. The silence is sickening. I hold my breath and listen closer. The final click of the engine as the car shuts down. Whispered friction as my shoe slides along the trunk's carpet. In the distance, a car door slams. Is Nora even out there? Did she leave? Oh, God, I panic as I lick a tiny pool of sweat from my top lip. She could be anywhere by now. Back in the Residence; pit stop in the Oval. All she needs is a head start to feed me to the wolves. Outside, I hear a group of footsteps approach the car. Just as quickly, they stop. They're waiting. Out there. For me. Son of a bitch.

The trunk pops open and a shot of daylight slaps me in the face. Squinting and using my forearm to block the sun, I look up, expecting to see the FBI. But the only one there is Nora.

"Let's go," she says, waving me out. She grabs my jacket by the shoulder and pulls me along.

My eyes scan the loading zone. No one's around.

"Sorry about the wait," she says. "There were a few stragglers in the hall."

I catch my breath as Nora slams the trunk. Reaching inside her shirt, she pulls a metal chain with a laminated ID badge from around her neck and tosses it to me. A bright red badge with a big white letter A on it. A for appointment; my very own scarlet letter. I quickly put it on. Now I'm just another White House guest--completely invisible. Wasting no time, I dash for the automatic doors on my right. The moment my body steps past the electronic eye, the doors swing wide. I'm in. So's Nora. Right behind me.

"So you're all set?" she asks as we stop in the hallway.

"I guess," I reply, my eyes glued to the floor.

"You sure you don't need anything else?"

I shake my head. "I think I'll be okay."

"I guess I'll see you at Trey's office," Nora adds.

"What?"

"That's the plan, isn't it? I go back and check in with the Service, then we'll meet up in Trey's office?"

"Yeah. That's the plan," I say, trying to sound upbeat. Turning around, I can't face her anymore. Better to walk away.

"Are you sure you don't want to tell me what you're looking for?" she asks hesitantly.

"I don't know if it's smart to talk about it out here."

"No, you're right." She looks around at the abandoned hallway. "Someone could overhear."

I nod in agreement.

"Good luck," she says, reaching out for my hand.

I reach back and our fingers slide together. Before I can react, she pulls me close and presses her lips against mine. I open my mouth and take one last taste. It's like cinnamon with a shot of brandy. She grabs me by the back of my head as her nails scratch the short hairs on my neck. Her breasts press against my chest; the entire world doesn't exist. And I'm once again reminded why Nora Hartson is completely overwhelming.

When she finally pulls away, she wipes her eyes. Her trembling lips are slightly open and she anxiously tucks a stray section of hair behind her ear. As a soft crinkle spreads across her forehead, the pained look on her face is the same as the night we were pulled over. Her seen-it-all eyes are fighting back tears.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Just tell me you trust me."

"Nora, I--"

"Tell me!" she pleads, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Please, Michael. Just say the words."

Once again, I take her by the hand. "I've always trusted you."

She can't help but fight back the smile. "Thank you." Wiping her eyes, she squares her shoulders and puts her mask back in place. "Clock's ticking, handsome. I'll meet you back at Trey's office?"

"That's where I'm headed," I reply, my voice trailing off.

She kisses her fingertips and slaps me on the cheek. "Stop worrying. It'll all work out." Without another word, she gets back in the car and heads down the loading ramp.

I turn away and dash for the stairs. Don't look back--it's not going to help.

* * *

Racing up the stairs, I have a clear path to Trey's office. The moment Nora's gone, though, I spin around and head downstairs. My stomach stings from lying to her, but if I'd told her the truth, she'd never have brought me in.

As I rush down to the basement of the building, the staircase narrows, the ceiling lowers, and I start to sweat. With no windows, and not a single air-conditioning unit in sight, the hallways in the basement are at least fifteen degrees hotter than the rest of the OEOB.

Rushing past the rotting concrete in what now feels like an underground sauna, I take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves. I have to duck down to avoid knocking my head against the pipes, wires, and heating ducts that hang down from the ceiling, but it doesn't slow me down. Not when I'm this close.

When Caroline died, all of her important files were confiscated by the FBI. Everything else was put here: Room 018--one of the many storage areas used by Records Management. As the bureaucratic pack-rats of the Executive Branch, they catalogue every document produced by the administration. By all accounts, it's a suck job.