The First Councel Read online

  “Are you sure this is a smart idea?” I ask as he picks up the receiver.

  “Someone’s gotta save your ass. If I’m the one talking, they can’t trace it to you”-he punches in the first three digits-“and this way, it’s not coming from your line.”

  “Screw the trace-I’m talking about the call in general. If Vaughn’s the killer, why’s he contacting me?”

  “Maybe he has a guilty conscience. Maybe he wants to make a deal. Either way, at least we’re doing something.”

  “But to call him at home… ”

  “No offense, Michael, but you asked for my help and I’m not gonna let you sit on your hands-even if Lamb can delay everything until after the election, you still have the same problems as right now. At least with Vaughn, there’s a chance of finding an answer.”

  “But what if it’s just a sucker bet? Maybe that’s the trap: They link us together, Vaughn turns state’s evidence, and bam, they send me away.”

  Trey stops dialing. Paranoia cuts both ways.

  “You know it’s possible,” I say.

  We both look down at Vaughn’s number. Sure, it’s creepy for Vaughn to reach out to me. And yeah, it’s got me thinking that there’s something else at play. But that doesn’t mean we can just solve it with a phone call.

  “Maybe you should talk to Nora,” Trey finally suggests. “Ask her again if she knows him.”

  “I already did.”

  “But you can still ask her-”

  “I told you, I already did!”

  “Stop shouting at me!”

  “Then stop treating me like a moron! I know what I’m dealing with.”

  “See, that’s where you’re wrong. You don’t know her, Michael. You don’t know anything about her-all you’ve seen are the highlight reels.”

  “That’s not true. I know lots abou-”

  “I’m not talking flirty political chitchat. I’m talking the real stuff: What’s her favorite movie? Or favorite food? How about her favorite author?”

  “Graham Greene, burritos, and Annie Hall,” I rattle back.

  “You’re trusting the old article from People magazine? I wrote those answers! Not her! They wanted funky and downtown, so I gave it to them!”

  Seeing the rising anger in each other’s eyes, we both take a moment and look over our respective shoulders. Eventually, Trey breaks the silence. “What’s this really about, Michael? Saving yourself, or saving Nora?”

  The question’s so dumb, it doesn’t deserve an answer.

  “It’s okay to want to be a hero,” he says. “And I’m sure she appreciates the loyalty… ”

  “It’s not just loyalty, Trey-if she takes a hit, I go down with her.”

  “Unless she cuts you loose and you go down alone. So here’s the news flash, my friend: I don’t care if Pam had a nice encounter in the elevator, I’m not gonna watch you get clobbered as the most likely suspect.”

  Stepping around Trey, I head back to the OEOB. “I appreciate the concern, but I know what I’m doing. I didn’t work this hard and get this far to just give up and lose it. Especially when it’s in my control.”

  “You think you’re in control?” He jumps in front of me and blocks my way. “I hate to break it to you, loverboy, but you can’t save everyone. Now, I’m not saying you should turn her in-I just think you have to pay a bit more attention to the facts.”

  “There are no facts! Whoever did this, it’s like they’ve created a whole new reality.”

  “See, there’s the mistake. However you want to delude yourself, there’re still a few eternal truths left in the universe: New shoes hurt. Khakis are evil. Bad things happen at air shows. And most important, if you’re not careful, protecting Nora is going to blow up in your f-”

  “You two doing okay?” a male voice interrupts behind us.

  We both spin around.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Simon adds. “Just wanted to say hello.”

  “Hi,” I blurt.

  “Hey,” Trey says.

  Wondering how long he’s been there, both of us start the dissection. If he knows what we’re up to, we’ll see it in his body language.

  “So who were you calling?” he asks as he slides a hand in his left pants pocket.

  “Just paging Pam,” I reply. “She was supposed to meet us for lunch.”

  Simon glances at Trey, then back at me. “And how’d your meeting go with Adenauer?”

  How’d he know about-

  “If you want, we can talk about it later,” he adds with just enough force to remind me of our deal. Simon still wants to keep this quiet-even if he has to make me look like a killer to do it. Stepping off the sidewalk, he toasts us with a cup of recently bought coffee. “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  CHAPTER 15

  I wake up Friday morning feeling like I’ve been smacked in the back of the head with a skillet. Seven days after Caroline’s death, my anxieties are raging and my eyes feel swollen shut. The week of restless sleep is finally taking its toll. Frankenstein-shuffling to the front door, I open my eyes just long enough to pick up my newspapers. It’s a couple minutes past six and I still haven’t called Trey. It’s not going to be long now.

  I take two steps toward the kitchen table and the phone rings. Never fails. I pick up without saying hello.

  “Who’s your momma?” he croons.

  I answer with an impossibly long yawn.

  “You haven’t even showered, have you?” he asks.

  “I haven’t even scratched myself yet.”

  Trey pauses. “I don’t need to hear that. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah, yeah, just tell me the news.” I pull the Post from the top of the pile and lay it flat on the table. My eyes go straight to the small headline at the bottom right of the page: “Sperm May Be Real, but Government Says Benefits Aren’t.”

  “What’s with the sperm, Trey?”

  Again, there’s a pause. “You better hope no one’s taping these calls.”

  “Just tell me the story. Is this that lady who was artificially inseminated by her dead husband’s frozen sperm?”

  “The one and only. She keeps it on ice, has herself a kid after the husband dies, and then applies for the dead husband’s Social Security benefits. Yesterday, HHS denied the request since the baby was conceived after the parent’s death.”

  “So let me guess: Now they want the White House to reevaluate the agency’s decision?”

  “Give the dog a bone,” he sings. “And believe me, this one’s a dog if ever there was one. Now it’s just a question of who’s going to get stuck with it.”

  “Ten bucks says we will.” Flipping through the rest of the paper, I add, “Anything else interesting?”

  “Depends on whether you think losing a bet is interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Jack Tandy’s media column in the Times. In an interview with Vanity Fair that hits the stands next week, Bartlett says-and I quote-‘If you can’t take care of the First Family, how can you possibly put family first?’”

  I wince at the verbal stab. “Think it’s going to stick?”

  “Are you kidding? A quote like that-I hate to say it, Michael, but that’s a winner talking. I mean, you can feel the shift. Unless the country throws a hissy fit, it’ll be in the stump speech by the next news cycle. Voters don’t like bad parents. And thanks to your girlfriend, Bartlett just got a brand-new applause line.”

  Instinctively, I reach for the Times. But when I unfold it on the table, the first thing I notice is the front photo: a nice shot of Hartson and the First Lady talking to a group of religious leaders in the Rose Garden. But in the back right corner of the picture, lurking in the last row of the crowd, is the one person without a smile: Agent Adenauer.

  I break out in an instant sweat. What the hell is he doing there?

  “Michael, you with me?” Trey yells.

  “Yeah,” I say, turning back to the receiver. “I… yeah.
”

  “What’s wrong? You sound like death.”

  “Nothing,” I reply. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Within forty-five minutes, I’m showered, shaved, and two newspapers into the day. But as I leave my apartment, I still can’t stop thinking about the photo of Adenauer. There’s not a single good reason for an FBI investigator to be that close to Hartson, and the stressing alone has made me a solid fifteen minutes late to work. I don’t have time for this, I decide. No more distractions. Heading toward the Metro, I see a homeless man carrying a squeegee. The moment we make eye contact, I realize I’m about to take another kick in the wish list.

  “Morning, morning, morning,” he says as he holds up his squeegee. He’s sporting army green camo pants and the rattiest black beard I’ve ever seen. Hanging from his pocket is an old Windex spray bottle filled with milky gray water. As he gets closer, I see he’s also wearing a worn-out Harvard Law School sweatshirt. Only in D.C. “Where’s your Porsche? Where’s your Porsche? Where’s your Porsche?” he sings, falling in step next to me.

  I’ve seen this guy before. I think it was in Dupont Circle. “Sorry, but I’m not driving,” I tell him. “Just me and the Metro.”

  “No, no, no. Not you, not you. Fancy shoes always take the car.”

  “Not today. I’m really… ”

  “Where’s your Porsche? Wh… ”

  “I told you… ”

  “… ere’s your Porsche? Where’s your Porsche?”

  Obviously, he’s not listening. For more than a block and a half, he’s at my side, running his squeegee back and forth along my imaginary windshield. To get him off my back, I reach into my pocket and pull out a dollar bill.

  “Ahhh, there he is,” Squeegee Man says. “Mr. Porsche.”

  I hand him the dollar and he finally lowers his squeegee.

  “Your change, sir,” he says pulling something from his pocket. “Vaughn says you have to talk,” he whispers. “Let’s try the Holocaust Museum. One o’clock on Monday. And don’t bring the black guy from the pay phone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He smiles and stuffs something in my hand. A folded-up sheet of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  I’m not getting an answer. He’s already moved on. Behind me, I see him approach a balding man in a pin-striped suit. “Where’s your Porsche?” he asks him, raising the squeegee.

  I turn back to the paper and open it up. It’s blank. Just a moment’s distraction.

  Over my shoulder, I look for the Squeegee Man. It’s too late. He’s gone.

  Throwing my briefcase on my desk, I check the digital screen on my office phone. Four new messages waiting. I hit the Call Log button to see who they’re from, but every one of them is an outside call. Whoever it is, they’re desperate to get in touch. My phone rings, and I jump back, startled. Caller ID reads Outside Call.

  I lunge for the receiver as quick as I can. “Hello?”

  “Michael?” a soft female voice whispers.

  “Nora? Is that-”

  “Did you see Bartlett’s quote?” she interrupts.

  I don’t answer.

  “You saw it, didn’t you?” she repeats. Her voice is shaky, and I know that tone. I heard it that day in the bowling alley. She’s worried about her dad. “What’d Trey say about it?” she asks.

  “Trey? Who cares what Trey said. How’re you?”

  She pauses, sounding confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “How’re you doing? Are you okay? I mean, no offense to your dad, but you’re the one they’re slapping around.”

  There’s another pause. This one a little longer. “I’m fine… I’m good.” There’s a change in her voice. “How’re you?” she asks, sounding almost happy.

  “Don’t worry about me. Now what were you saying about Bartlett’s quote?”

  “Nothing… nothing… just par for the course.”

  “I thought you wanted to talk abou-”

  “No. Not anymore,” she says with a laugh. “Listen, I really should run.”

  “So I’ll talk to you later?”

  “Yeah,” she coos. “Definitely.”

  By the time I get off the phone with Nora, I’m already late for Simon’s weekly meeting. Dashing out of my office, I head straight for the West Wing. “Hey, Phil,” I say as I blow by the desk of my favorite Secret Service officer.

  He shoots out of his seat and grabs me by the arm.

  “What’re you-”

  “I need to see your ID,” he says in a cold voice.

  “Are you kidding me? You know I’m-”

  “Now, Michael.”

  Pulling away, I remain calm. Reaching for the ID around my neck, I realize I’ve tucked it into the front pocket of my dress shirt. It shouldn’t matter. He’s never stopped me before.

  He gives it a quick look and lets me pass. “Thanks,” he says.

  “No sweat.” He’s just being careful, I tell myself. Approaching the elevator, I assume he’s going to make amends by opening the elevator door for me. I look over at him, but he doesn’t care. Pretending not to notice, I hit the elevator call button myself. Word’s starting to get out. It’s going to be a crappy day.

  Slinking to the back of Simon’s crowded office, I see that everyone’s in their usual places: Simon’s at the head of the table, Lamb’s in his favorite wingback, Julian’s as close to the front as possible, and Pam’s… hold it right there. Pam’s got a seat on the couch. When we make eye contact, I expect her to shrug or wink-some way to acknowledge the ridiculousness of the power shift. She doesn’t. She just sits back. At least someone’s moving up in the world.

  From the sound of things, we’re still going around the room. Julian’s up.

  “… and they still won’t budge on punitive damages. You know how stubborn Terrill’s people are-neck-high in their own bullshit and still refusing to smell it. I say we throw it to the press and leak the contents of the deal. Good or bad, it’ll at least force a decision.”

  “I have a conference call with Terrill this afternoon. Let’s see where we get then,” Simon suggests. “Now tell me what Justice said about the roving wiretaps.”

  “They’re still standing strong on it-they want to be the heroes in Hartson’s crime platform.” As he continues to explain, Julian glances my way with the most subtle of smirks. That cocky bastard. That’s my issue.

  “You assigned that project to me,” I tell Simon after the meeting. “I’ve been working on it for weeks and you-”

  “I understand you’re upset,” Simon interrupts.

  “Of course I’m upset-you ripped it away and fed it right to the head vampire. You know Julian’s going to kill it.”

  Simon reaches over and puts a soft hand on my shoulder. It’s his passive-aggressive way of calming me down. All it does is make me want to put a brick through his teeth.

  “Is it because of the investigation?” I finally ask.

  He feigns concern at that one, but he’s made his point: Keep screwing with me and I’ll take your whole life away. Piece by miserable piece. The sad part is, he can do it. “Michael, you’re under a lot of pressure right now, and the roving wiretap issues are only going to add to that. Believe me, I really am worried about you. Until this blows over, I think it’s best for you to take it easy.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I’m sure you can,” he says, taking obvious joy in watching me squirm. “And actually, there’s this one that just came in. It concerns a woman who was artificially inseminated by-”

  “I saw it. The sperm case.”

  “That’s it,” he says with a coal-black grin. “You can get the paperwork from Judy-it shouldn’t take you that long. And with Bartlett’s new focus on family, maybe this’ll turn into something big.”

  Now he’s playing with me. I can see the gleam in his eyes-he’s loving every minute of it.

  “I’ll get right on it,” I say, simulating enthusiasm. I’m not giving him this one.


  “You sure you’re okay?” he asks, once again touching my shoulder.

  I look him straight in the eye and smile. “Never been better.” Heading for the door, I concentrate on my Monday meeting with Vaughn and wonder if this isn’t about more than just a bigshot in a gay bar. Whatever he’s hiding, Simon’s slowly upping the ante. And from here on in, he’ll do anything to stop the bleeding.

  Back in my office, I can still see that haunting grin on Simon’s face. If there was a point where I saw him as a victim, it’s long gone. In fact, that’s what scares me most-even if Simon was being blackmailed, he’s taking way too much pleasure in what he’s done. Which makes me think there’s more to come.

  I have to admit, though, he’s right about one thing: Ever since the onset of this crisis, my work has taken a back seat. My call log is filled with unreturned phone calls, my e-mail hasn’t been read in a week, and my desk, with its mountains of paper, has officially become my in-box.

  In no mood to clean and even less mood to talk, I head straight for the e-mail. Scanning through the unending list of messages, I see one from my dad. I almost forgot they gave him limited access to a terminal. Opening the message, I read his quick note: “When you coming to visit?” He’s got a point with that one-it’s been over a month. Every time I go there, I leave feeling guilty and depressed. But he’s still my father. I write back my own quick response: “I’ll try this weekend.”

  After deleting over thirty different versions of the President’s weekly, monthly, and hourly schedules, I notice a two-day-old message from someone with a Washington Post return address. I assume it has to do with the census or one of my other issues. But when I open it up, it says: “Mr. Garrick-If you have some time, I’d be interested in talking with you about Caroline Penzler. Naturally, we can keep it confidential. If you can be of assistance, please let me know.” It’s signed “Inez Cotigliano, Washington Post Staff Writer.”

  My eyes go wide and I have a hard time catching my breath. With Caroline’s ties to our office and everyone in it, it’s no shock that someone was going to start looking my way. But this isn’t some conspiracy-cashew-nut Web site. This is the Washington Post.