The First Counsel Page 3

  I turn to the door just in time to see Simon leave. I take another look around the bar. Pool table. Video screen. Along the wall by the restrooms. The guy in the denim shirt is gone too.

  Nora responds like a lightning bolt. She grabs my hand and starts pulling. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “We should follow him.”

  “What? Are you nuts?”

  She’s still pulling. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

  “Fun? Stalking your boss is fun? Getting caught is fun? Getting fired’s f—”

  “It’ll be fun and you know it. Aren’t you dying to know where he’s going? And what was on the paper?”

  “My guess is he got the address for a nearby motel, where Simon and his denim-man can play Buy Me a Blowjob to their heart’s content.”

  Nora laughs. “Buy Me a Blowjob?”

  “I’m making a few assumptions—you know what I mean.”

  “Of course I know what you mean.”

  “Good. Then you also know there’s nothing gained from a little gossip.”

  “Is that what you think? That I’m in it for the gossip? Michael, think about it for a second. Edgar Simon is the White House Counsel. Lawyer to my father. Now if he gets caught with his lasso out, who do you think’s going to be publicly embarrassed? Besides Simon, who else do you think is going to take the black eye?”

  Reference number five hits me where it hurts. Reelection’s only two months away and Hartson’s having a hard enough time as it is. Another black eye’ll start the jockeying.

  “What if Simon’s not in it for the sex?” I ask. “What if he was meeting here for something else?”

  Nora stares me down. Her let-me-drive eyes are working overtime. “That’s the best reason of all to go.”

  I shake my head. She’s not talking me into this.

  “C’mon, Michael, what’re you gonna do—sit around here and spend the rest of your life playing what-if?”

  “Y’know what—after everything else that happened tonight, sitting here is more than enough.”

  “And that’s all you want? That’s your big goal in life? To have enough?”

  She lets the logic sink in before she goes for the kill. “If you don’t want to follow, I understand. But I have to go. So give me your keys and I’ll be out of your way.”

  No question about it. She’ll be gone. And I’ll be here.

  I pull the keys from my pocket. She opens her hand.

  I once again shake my head and tell myself I won’t regret it. “You really think I’m going to let you go alone?”

  She shoots me a smile and darts for the door. Without pause, I follow. The moment we get outside, I see Simon’s black Volvo pull out from a spot up the street. “There he goes,” I say.

  We run down the block in a mad dash for my Jeep. “Throw me the keys,” she says.

  “Not a chance,” I reply. “This time, I drive.”

  CHAPTER 2

  It takes a couple of blocks of speeding to regain sight of Simon’s car and his “Friend of the Chesapeake” Virginia license plate. “Are you sure that’s him?” Nora asks.

  “It’s definitely him.” I drop back and put about a block between us. “I recognize the plates from West Exec.”

  Within a few minutes, Simon’s woven his way through Adams Morgan and is heading up 16th Street. Still a block behind him, we hit Religion Row and pass the dozens of temples, mosques, and churches that dot the landscape.

  “Should we get closer?” Nora asks.

  “Not if we want to be inconspicuous.”

  She seems amused by my answer. “Now I know how Harry and Darren feel,” she says, referring to her Secret Service agents.

  “Speaking of which, do you think they put out an APB on you? I mean, don’t they call this stuff in?”

  “They’ll call the night supervisor and the agent in charge of the House detail, but I figure we’ve got about two hours before they make it public.”

  “That long?” I ask, looking at my watch.

  “Depends on the incident. If you were driving when we took off, they’d probably treat it as a kidnapping, which is the primary threat for a First Family member. Beyond that, though, it also depends on the person. Chelsea Clinton got a half hour at the most. Patti Davis got days. I get about two hours. Then they go nuts.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean, nuts? Is that when they send out the black helicopters to hunt us down?”

  “There’re already trying to hunt us down. In two hours, they’ll put us on the police scanners. If that happens, we make the morning news. And every gossip columnist in the country will want to know your intentions.”

  “No—no way.” Since we met, my encounters with Nora have been limited to a reception, a bill-signing ceremony, and the Deputy Counsel’s birthday party—all of them White House staff events. At the first, we were introduced; at the second, we spoke; at the third, she asked me out. I think there’re only ten people on this planet who would’ve refused the offer. I’m not one of them. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for the magnifying glass. As I’ve seen so many times before, the moment you hit that glare of publicity is the exact same moment they burn your ass.

  I look back at my watch. It’s almost a quarter to twelve. “So that means you have an hour and a half until you become the pumpkin.”

  “Actually, you’re the one who becomes the pumpkin.”

  She’s right about that one. They’ll eat me alive.

  “Still worried about your job?” she asks.

  “No,” I say, my eyes locked on Simon’s car. “Just my boss.”

  Simon puts on his blinker, makes a left-hand turn, and weaves his way onto Rock Creek Parkway, whose wooded embankments and tree-shaded trails have favorite-path status among D.C. joggers and bike riders. At rush hour, Rock Creek Parkway is swarming with commuters racing back to the suburbs. Right now, it’s dead-empty—which means Simon can spot us easily.

  “Shut off the lights,” Nora says. I take her suggestion and lean forward, straining to see the now barely visible road. Right away, the darkness leaves an eerie pit in my stomach.

  “I say we just forget it and—”

  “Are you really that much of a coward?” Nora asks.

  “This has nothing to do with cowardice. It just doesn’t make any sense to play private eye.”

  “Michael, I told you before, this isn’t a game to me—we’re not playing anything.”

  “Sure we are. We’re—”

  “Stop the car!” she shouts. Up ahead, I see Simon’s brake lights go on. “Stop the car! He’s slowing down!”

  Sure enough, Simon pulls off the right-hand side of the road and comes to a complete stop. We’re about a hundred feet behind him, but the curve of the road keeps us out of his line of vision. If he looks in his rearview mirror, he’ll see nothing but empty parkway.

  “Shut the car off! If he hears us . . .” I turn off the ignition and am surprised by the utter silence. It’s one of those moments that sound like you’re underwater. Staring at Simon’s car, we float there helplessly, waiting for something to happen. A car blows by in the opposite direction and snaps us back to the shore.

  “Maybe he has a flat tire or—”

  “Shhhhh!”

  We both squint to see what’s going on. He’s not too far from a nearby lamppost, but it still takes a minute for our eyes to adjust to the dark.

  “Was there anyone in the car with him?” I ask.

  “He looked alone to me, but if the guy was lying across the seat . . .”

  Nora’s hypothesis is interrupted when Simon opens his door. Without even thinking about it, I hold my breath. Again, we’re underwater. My eyes are locked on the little white light that I can see through the back window of his car. In silhouette, he fidgets with something in the passenger seat. Then he gets out of the car.

  When you stand face-to-face with Edgar Simon, you can’t miss how big he is. Not in height, but in presence.
Like many White House higher-ups, his voice is charged with the confidence of success, but unlike his peers, who’re always raging over the latest crisis, Simon exudes a calmness honed by years of advising a President. That unshakable composure runs from his ironing-board shoulders, to his always-strong handshake, to the perfect part in his perfectly shaded salt-and-pepper hair. A hundred feet in front of us, though, all of that is lost in silhouette.

  Standing next to his car, he’s holding a thin package that looks like a manila envelope. He looks down at it, then slams the door shut. When the door closes, the loss of the light makes it even harder to see. Simon turns toward the wooded area on the side of the road, steps over the metal guardrail, and heads up the embankment.

  “A bathroom stop?” I ask.

  “With a package in his hand? You think he’s bringing reading material?”

  I don’t answer.

  Nora’s starting to get fidgety. She unhooks her seatbelt. “Maybe we should we go out and check on—”

  I grab her by the arm. “I say we stay here.”

  She’s ready to fight, but before she can, I see a shadow move out from the embankment. A figure steps back over the guardrail and into the light.

  “Guess who’s back?” I ask.

  Nora immediately turns. “He doesn’t have the envelope!” she blurts.

  “Lower your voi—” I fall silent when Simon looks our way. Nora and I are frozen. It’s a short glance and he quickly turns back to his car.

  “Did he see us?” Nora whispers. There’s a nervousness in her voice that turns my stomach.

  “If he did, he didn’t react,” I whisper back.

  Simon opens the door and gets back in his car. Thirty seconds later, he pumps the gas and peels out, leaving a cloud of dust somersaulting our way. He doesn’t put his lights on until he’s halfway up the road.

  “Should we follow him?” I ask.

  “I say we stay with the envelope.”

  “What do you think he has in there? Documents? Pictures?”

  “Cash?”

  “You think he’s a spy?” I ask skeptically.

  “I have no idea. Maybe he’s leaking to the press.”

  “Actually, that wouldn’t be so bad. For all we know, this is his drop-off.”

  “It’s definitely a drop-off,” Nora says. She checks over her shoulder to make sure we’re alone. “What I want to know is what they’re picking up.” Before I can stop her, she’s out the door.

  I reach to grab her, but it’s too late. She’s gone—running up the road, headed for the embankment. “Nora, get back here!” She doesn’t even pretend to care.

  I start the car and pull up alongside her. Her pace is brisk. Determined.

  She’s going to hate me for this, but I don’t have a choice. “Let’s go, Nora. We’re leaving.”

  “So leave.”

  I clench my teeth and realize the most obvious thing of all: She doesn’t need me. Still, I give it another go. “For your own sake, get in the car.” No response. “Please, Nora, it’s not funny—whoever he dropped it for is probably watching us right now.” Nothing. “C’mon, there’s no reason to—”

  She stops in her tracks and I slam on the brakes. Turning my way, she puts her hands on her hips. “If you want to leave, then leave. I need to know what’s in the envelope.” With that, she climbs over the guardrail and heads up the embankment.

  Alone in the car, I watch her disappear. “See you later,” I call out.

  She doesn’t answer.

  I give her a few seconds to change her mind. She doesn’t. Good, I finally say to myself. This’ll be her lesson. Just because she’s the First Daughter, she thinks she can—There it is again. That pain-in-the-ass title. That’s who she is. No, I decide. Screw that. Forget the title and focus on the person. The problem, however, is it’s impossible to separate the two. For better or worse, Nora Hartson is the President’s daughter. She’s also one of the most intriguing people I’ve met in a long time. And much as I hate to admit it, I actually like her.

  “Dammit!” I shout, pounding the steering wheel. Where the hell is my spine?

  I rip open the glove compartment, pull out a flashlight, and storm out of the car. Scrambling up the embankment, I find Nora wandering around in the dark. I shine the light in her face and the first thing I see is that grin. “You were worried about me, weren’t you?”

  “If I abandoned you, your monkeys would kill me.”

  She approaches me and pulls the flashlight from my hands. “The night’s young, baby.”

  I glance down at my watch. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  Up the hill, I hear something move through the brush and quickly realize that Simon could’ve been meeting someone up there. Someone who’s still here. Watching us. “Do you think . . .”

  “Let’s just find the envelope,” Nora says, agreement in her voice.

  Cautiously walking together, we zigzag up the embankment, which is overflowing with trees. I look up and see nothing but jagged darkness—the treetops hide everything from the sky to the parkway’s lamps. All I can do is tell myself that we’re alone. But I don’t believe it.

  “Shine it over here,” I tell Nora, who’s waving it in every direction. As the flashlight rips through the night, I realize we’re going to have to be more systematic about this. “Start with the base of each tree, then work your way upward,” I suggest.

  “What if he stuffed it high in a tree?”

  “You think Simon’s the tree-climbing type?” She has to agree with that one. “And let’s try to do this fast,” I add. “Whoever he left it for—even if they’re not here now, they’re going to be here any minute.” Nora turns the flashlight toward the base of the nearest tree and we’re once again encased in underwater silence. As we move up the hill, my breathing gets heavier. I’m trying to look out for the envelope, but I can’t stop checking over my shoulder. And while I don’t believe in mental telepathy or other paranormal phenomena, I do believe in the human animal’s uncanny and unexplainable ability to know when it’s being watched. Racing to the top of the embankment, it’s a feeling I can’t shake. We’re not alone.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Nora asks.

  “I just want to get out of here. We can come back tomorrow with the proper—” Suddenly, I see it. There it is. My eyes go wide and Nora follows my gaze. Ten feet in front of us, at the base of a tree with a Z carved into it, is a single manila envelope.

  “Son of a bitch,” she says, rushing forward. Her reaction is instantaneous. Pick it up and rip it open.

  “No!” I shout. “Don’t touch . . .” I’m too late. She’s got it open.

  Nora shines the flashlight down into the envelope. “I don’t believe it,” she says.

  “What? What’s in there?”

  She turns it upside down and the contents fall to the ground. One. Two. Three. Four stacks of cash. Hundred dollar bills.

  “Money?”

  “Lots of it.”

  I pick up a stack, remove the First of America billfold, and start counting. So does Nora. “How much?” I ask when she’s done.

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Me too,” I say. “Times two more stacks is forty thousand.” Noticing the crispness of the bills, I again flip through the stack. “All consecutively numbered.”

  We nervously look at each other. We’re sharing the same thought.

  “What should we do?” she finally asks. “Should we take it?”

  I’m about to answer when I see something move in the large bush on my right. Nora shines the flashlight. No one’s there. Yet I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched.

  I pull the envelope from Nora’s hands and stuff the four stacks of bills back inside.

  “What’re you doing?” she asks.

  “Throw me the flashlight.”

  “Tell me why—”

  “Now!” I shout. She gives in, tossing it to me. I shine the light on the envelope, looking to see if t
here’s any writing on it. It’s blank. There’s a throbbing pain kicking at the back of my neck. My forehead’s soaked. Feeling like I’m about to pass out, I quickly return the envelope to the base of the tree. The late summer heat isn’t the only thing that’s got me sweating.

  “You okay?” Nora asks, reading my expression.

  I don’t answer. Instead, I reach up and pull some leaves from the tree. Putting the flashlight aside, I fold the leaves and scrub them against the edges of the envelope.

  “Michael, you can’t wipe off fingerprints. It doesn’t work like that.”

  Ignoring her, I keep scrubbing.

  She kneels next to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. Her touch is strong, and even in the midst of it all, I have to admit it feels good. “You’re wasting your time,” she adds.

  Naturally, she’s right. I toss the envelope back toward the tree. Behind us, a twig snaps and we both turn around. I don’t see anyone, but I can feel a stranger’s eyes on me.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say.

  “But the people who’re going to pick up the package . . .” I take another glance around the darkness. “To be honest, Nora, I think they’re already here.”

  Looking around, Nora knows something’s wrong. It’s too quiet. The hairs on my arm stand on edge. They could be hiding behind any tree. On our left, another twig snaps. I grab Nora by the hand and we start walking down the embankment. It doesn’t take ten steps for our walk to turn into a jog. Then a run. When I almost trip on a wayward rock, I ask Nora to turn on the flashlight.

  “I thought you had it,” she says.

  Simultaneously, we look over our shoulders. Behind us, at the top of the embankment, is the faint glow of the flashlight. Exactly where I left it.

  “You start the car; I’ll get the light,” Nora says.

  “No, I’ll get the—”

  Once again, though, she’s too fast. Before I can stop her, she’s headed back up the embankment. I’m about to yell something, but I’m worried we’re not alone. Watching her run up the hill, I keep my eyes on her long, lithe arms. Within seconds, though, she fades into the darkness. She said I should get the car, but there’s no way I’m leaving her. Slowly, I start heading up the embankment, walking just fast enough to make sure she’s in sight. As she gets farther away, I pick up speed. My jog again quickly turns into a run. As long as I can see her, she’ll be okay.