by Brad Meltzer
A strong hand settles on my shoulder. “Who you looking at?” Simon asks.
I spin around at the sound of his voice. “Just the President,” I shoot back.
“Incredible sight, don’t you think?”
“I’ve seen better,” I jab.
He shoots me a look that I know’ll leave a bruise. “Remember where you are, Michael. It’d be a real shame if you had to go home.”
I’m tempted to fight, but I’m not going to win this one. Time to be smart. If Simon wanted me out, I’d be long gone. He just wants silence. That’s what’s going to keep this out of the papers; that’s what’s going to keep me at my job; that’s what’s going to continue to keep Nora safe. And like she said in the bowling alley, that’s the only way we’re going to get to the bottom of this.
“We understand each other?” Simon asks.
I nod. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Good,” he says with a smile. He motions to the back of the plane and sends me on my way.
I return to my seat feeling like I’ve been kicked in the stomach.
“See your girlfriend?” Pam asks as I’m about to sit down. Once again hiding behind the newspaper, her voice is quivering.
“What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer.
I reach over and tug on the paper. “Pam, tell me what’s… ” Her eyes are welled up with tears. As the paper hits the table between us, I get my first look at what she’s reading. Page B6 of the Metro Section. Obituaries. At the top is a picture of Caroline. The headline reads: “White House Lawyer Caroline G. Penzler Dies.”
Before I can react, the plane starts to move. A sudden lurch forward sends Pam’s purse to the floor, and just as it hits, her White House pen slides onto the carpet. After a short announcement, we head down the runway, ready for takeoff. Some people return to their seats; others don’t care. The cocktail party continues. The whole cabin’s trembling from the final thrust of takeoff. Still, no one’s wearing a seatbelt. It’s a subtle gesture, but it does imply power. And even en route to a funeral, that’s what the White House is all about.
The landing at Duluth International Airport is much smoother than the takeoff. As the runway comes into view, the television monitors in the cabin flicker with life. The TVs are built right into the wall-one over the head of the person on my right, another over the head of the person on Pam’s left.
On the monitors, I see a mammoth blue and white plane coming in for a landing. The local news is covering our arrival, and since we’re within airspace, the TVs pick up the local stations.
Amazing, I say to myself.
Trusting TV over reality, we keep our eyes on the monitors-and in a moment that turns our lives into the world’s greatest interactive movie, when the wheels touch down on TV, we feel them touch down below us.
After the bigshots disembark, the rest of us make our way to the door. It’s not a long walk, but you can already feel the mood swing. No one’s talking. No one’s touring. The joyride on the world’s best private plane is over.
Eventually, the line starts to move and I offer Pam my hand. “C’mon, time to go.”
She reaches out and accepts my invitation, locking each of her fingers between my own. I give her a warm, reassuring grip. The kind of grip you reserve for your best friends.
“How’re you feeling?” I ask.
She squeezes even tighter and says one word. “Better.”
Slowly making our way to the front of the plane, we eventually see what’s causing our delayed departure. The President’s standing inside the main doorway, personally offering his sympathies to each of us.
That human connection… his need to help… it’s exactly why I came to work for Hartson in the first place. If he were shaking hands at the bottom of the jetway, it’d be a purely political move-a staged moment for the cameras and for reelection. In here, the press can’t see him. It’s every staffer’s dream: a moment that exists only between you and him.
As we get closer, I see the First Lady standing to the left of her husband. She knew Caroline before any of us-a fact that I can see in the strain of her pursed lips.
It takes me three more steps before I see the familiar silhouette. Over Hartson’s shoulder, I catch my favorite member of the First Family standing in the hallway and taking in the events.
When she looks up, our eyes connect. Nora offers a weak grin. She’s trying to look her usual unaffected self, but I’m starting to see through it. The way she glances at her dad… then her mom… they’re no longer the President and First Lady… they’re her parents. This is what she has to lose. To us, it’s a perk. For Nora… if there’s even an inkling of scandal about her and the money-or even worse, the death… it’s her life.
I let go of Pam’s hand and give Nora a slight nod. You’re not alone.
She can’t help but smile back.
Without a word, Pam forcefully regrabs my hand. “Just remember,” she whispers, “every beast has its burden.”
CHAPTER 12
Scooping up my newspapers early the following morning, I walk them to the kitchen table and hunt for my name on all four front pages. Nothing. Nothing on me, nothing on Caroline. Even the front photos, which I thought were going to be Hartson at the funeral, are dedicated to yesterday’s Orioles no-hitter. With the funeral finished, it’s no longer news. Just a heart attack.
Casually flipping through the New York Times, I wait for the phone to ring. Thirty seconds later, it does. “You got the fix?” I ask as soon as I pick up.
“Did you see it?” Trey asks.
“See what?”
He pauses. “A14 of the Post.”
I know that tone. I brush the Times from the table and nervously lunge for the Post. My hands can barely flip pages. Twelve, thirteen… there. “White House Lawyer Depressed, Treated.” Skimming through the short article, I read about Caroline’s bout with depression, and how she was successfully overcoming it.
As the story goes on, it never once mentions me, but any political junkie knows the rest. It may be creeping along on the middle pages, but Caroline’s story is still alive.
“If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one getting bad press,” Trey says, clearly trying to change the subject. “Have you seen the Nora story in the Herald?” Before I can answer, he explains, “According to their gossip columnist, one of Bartlett’s top aides called her-get this-‘the First Freeloader’ because she hasn’t made her mind up about grad school. Blood-guzzling, reputation-raping muckrakers.”
I flip to the Herald and pinpoint the story. “Not a smart move,” I say as I read it for myself. “People don’t like it when you attack the First Daughter.”
“I don’t know,” Trey says. “Bartlett’s boys’ve been polling this one for a while. If they’re sending it out, I’m betting people are warm to it.”
“If they were, Bartlett would’ve done it himself.”
“Give it a few days-this is just a trial balloon. I can already hear the speechwriters scribbling: If Hartson can’t take care of his own family, how’s he going to take care of the country?”
“That’s a big risk, Dukakis. The backlash alone… ”
“Have you seen the numbers? There’s not a backlash in sight. We thought we were going to get a bump from the funeral-Hartson’s lead is down to ten. I’m thinking IPO moms love the fighting-for-families idea.”
“I don’t care. They’re gonna draw the line here. It’ll never come out of Bartlett’s lips.”
“Wager time?” Trey asks.
“You really feel that strongly about it?”
“Even stronger than I felt about Hartson’s sunglasses-and-baseball-cap-on-the-aircraft-carrier look. Even if it was a little Top Gun, I told you we’d use it for the ad.”
“Uh-oh, big talk.” I look down at the article, thinking it through one more time. There’s no way they’ll have Bartlett say it. “Nickel bet?”
“Nickel bet.”
F
or the better part of two years, it’s been the best game in town. Around here, everyone loves to win. Including me.
“And nothing sketchy,” I add. “No holding back on blasting Bartlett for going after their virgin, innocent daughter.”
“Oh, we’re going after him,” Trey promises. “I’ll have Mrs. Hartson’s statement ready to go by nine.” He pauses. “Not that it’s going to help.”
“We’ll see.”
“We’ll certainly see,” he shoots back. “Now you ready to read?”
I close up the Herald, since we always do the Post first. But when I look down at the paper, the story about Caroline is still staring me in the face. I can cover it up all I want-it’s not going away. “Can I ask you a question?”
“What’s wrong? You wanna take back your bet?”
“No, it’s just… about this Caroline story… ”
“Aw, c’mon, Michael, I thought you weren’t gonna-”
“Tell me the truth, Trey-you think it’s got legs?”
He doesn’t answer.
I sink down in my seat. For whatever reason, the Post is still interested. And from what I can tell, they’re just starting to tighten the microscope.
“I’m looking for an Officer Rayford,” I say, reading the name from the confirmation of receipt early the following morning.
“This is Rayford,” he answers, annoyed. “Who’s this?”
As he says the words, I move the phone to my other ear and picture his crooked nose and hairless forearms. “Hi, Officer, this is Michael Garrick-you stopped me last week for speeding… ”
“And maybe dealing drugs,” he adds. “I know who you are.”
I close my eyes and pretend to be unintimidated. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m wondering if you’ve had a chance to check the money, so we could put this all behind-”
“Do you know how much money they photocopied before the drug sweep? Almost a hundred grand. Even at four bills per page, it’s going to take me days to make sure the serial numbers on your bills don’t match the serial numbers on ours.”
“I didn’t mean to bother you, I just-”
“Listen, when we’re done, we’ll give you a call. Until then, leave it alone. In the meantime, say hi to the President for me.”
How does he know where I work?
There’s a click on the other line and he’s gone.
“And that’s all he said?” Pam asks, sitting in front of my computer.
I look down at my desk, where I’m fidgeting with the swinging handle of the middle desk drawer. I flip it up, but it keeps falling down.
“Maybe you should tell the FBI about the money,” she adds, reading my reaction. “Just to be safe.”
“I can’t,” I insist.
“Of course you can.”
“Pam, think about it for a second-it’s not just telling the FBI-if it was just them, that’s one thing. But you know how they feel about Hartson. From Hoover to Freeh, it’s pure hate with every Chief Exec-always a power struggle. And with Nora involved… they’ll feed it to the press in the bat of an eye. It’s the same thing they did with the President’s medical records.”
“But at least you’d be-”
“I’d be dead is what I’d be. If I start gabbing with the FBI, Simon’ll point everyone my way. In a game of he said/he said, I lose. And when they look at the evidence, all they’re going to see are those consecutively marked bills. The first thirty grand in Caroline’s safe; the last ten grand in my possession. Even I’m starting to believe the money’s mine.”
“So you’re just going to sit around being Simon’s quiet boy?”
Grabbing a sheet of paper from my out-box, I wave it in front of her face. “Do you know what this is?”
“A tree victimized by the ravenous, death-dealing, cannibal machine we call modern society?”
“Actually, Thoreau, it’s a formal request to the Office of Government Ethics. I asked them for copies of Simon’s financial disclosure forms, which are filed every year.”
“Okay, so you’ve mastered public records. All that gives you is a list of his stock holdings and a few bank accounts.”
“Sure, but when I get his records, we’ll have a whole new place to search. You don’t just get forty thousand dollars from nowhere. He either liquidated some major investments, or has a debit in one of his accounts. I find that debit and I’ve got the easiest way to prove the money’s his.”
“Let me give you an even easier way: Have Nora verify that he was-”
“I told you, I’m not doing that. We already went through this: The moment she’s involved, we’re all on page one. Career over; election finished.”
“That’s not-”
“You want to be Linda Tripp?” I challenge.
She doesn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought. Besides, what Nora saw only takes care of the first night. When it comes to Caroline’s death-even if it was a heart attack-I’m still on my own.”
Pam shakes her head and my phone starts ringing.
Refusing to get into it, I go for the phone. “This is Michael.”
“Hey, Michael, it’s Ellen Sherman calling. Am I catching you at a bad time? You talking to the President or anything?”
“No, Mrs. Sherman, I’m not talking to the President.” Mrs. Sherman is the sixth-grade social studies teacher from my hometown in Arcana, Michigan. She’s also in charge of the annual school trip to Washington, and when she found out about my job, a new stop was added to the itinerary: a private tour of the West Wing.
“I’m sure you know why I’m calling,” she says with high-pitched elementary school zeal. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget about us.”
“I’d never forget about you, Mrs. Sherman.”
“So we’re all checked in for the end of the month? You put all the names through security?”
“Did it yesterday,” I lie, searching my desk for the list of names.
“Howzabout Janie Lewis? Is she okay? Her family’s Mormon, y’know. From Utah.”
“The White House is open to all religions, Mrs. Sherman. Including Utah’s. Now is there anything else, because I really should run.”
“As long as you put the names throu-”
“I cleared everyone in,” I say, watching Pam continue to smolder. “Now you have a good day, Mrs. Sherman. I’ll see you on the-”
“Don’t try and chase me off the phone, young man. You may be big and famous, but you’re still Mikey G. to me.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry about that.” The Midwest dies hard.
“And how’s your father doing? Any word from him?”
I stare at the request for Simon’s financial disclosure forms. “Just the usual. Not much to report.”
“Well, please send him my best when you see him,” she says. “Oh, and Michael, one last thing… ”
“Yeah?”
“We really are proud of you here.”
It’s easy, but the compliment still makes me smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Sherman.” Hanging up the phone, I turn to my computer screen.
“Who was that?” Pam asks.
“My past,” I explain as I find Mrs. Sherman’s list. Her school trip was the first time I ever left Michigan. The plane ride alone made the world a bigger place.
“Can’t you do that la-”
“No,” I insist. “I’m doing it now.” Double-clicking on the WAVES folder, I open up a blank request form for the Worker and Visitor Entrance System. Before visitors are allowed in either the OEOB or the White House, they first have to be cleared through WAVES. One by one, I type in the names, birthdates, and Social Security numbers of Mrs. Sherman and her sixth-grade class. When I’m finished, I add the date, time, and place of our meeting, and then hit the Send button. On my screen, a rectangular box appears: “Your WAVES Visitor Request has been sent to the US Secret Service for processing.”
“You finally ready to rejoin the discussion?” Pam asks.
&nbs
p; I look at my watch and realize I’m late. Hopping out of my seat, I reply, “When I get back.”
“Where’re you going?”
“Adenauer wants to see me.”
“The guy from the FBI? What’s he want?”
“I don’t know,” I say as I head for the door. “But if the FBI finds out what’s going on and this thing goes public, Edgar Simon’s going to be the least of my worries.”
I walk into the West Wing with my mind focused on Mrs. Sherman’s school trip. It’s a cerebral dodge that I hope’ll keep me from panicking about Adenauer and whether or not it’s a heart attack. The problem is, the more I think about sixth-graders, the more I worry I won’t be here to give the tour.
Approaching the guard’s desk at the first security checkpoint, I’m dying for a friendly face. “Hey, Phil.”
He looks up and nods. Nothing else to say.
I watch him as I pass, but he still doesn’t give me a syllable. It’s like the guard outside the parking lot. The more the FBI gets involved, the more strange looks I get. Trying not to think about it, I pass Phil, make a sharp right, and head down a short flight of stairs. After another quick right, I find myself standing outside the Sit Room.
The regular haunt of National Security Council bigwigs, the Situation Room is the most secure location in the White House complex. One rumor holds that as you pass through the door, you’re bathed in a thin band of invisible laser light that scans your body for chemical weaponry. Stepping inside, I don’t believe a word of it. We’re good, but we’re not that good.
“I’m looking for Randall Adenauer,” I explain to the first receptionist I see.
“And your name?” she asks, checking her scheduling book.
“Michael Garrick.”
She looks up, startled. “Oh… Mr. Garrick… right this way.”
My stomach drops out from under me. I lock my jaw to slow my breathing and follow the receptionist to what I assume will be one of the small peripheral offices. Instead, we stop at the closed door of the main conference room. Another bad sign. Rather than bringing me to the FBI’s fifth-floor office in the OEOB, he’s got me in the most secure room in the complex. It’s where Kennedy’s staff weighed in on the Cuban Missile Crisis, and where Reagan’s staff fought viciously over who should be running the country when the President was shot. Set up in here, Adenauer has something serious to hide.
