by Brad Meltzer
Realizing he’ll never survive a confrontation against the two of us, Julian goes nuclear. “Both of you can eat shit.”
“Sharp comeback.”
“Well done.”
He storms around us to get back in line, and Pam and I head for the door. As we leave, I glance over my shoulder and catch Simon quickly turning away. Was he looking at us? No, don’t read into it. If he knew, I’d know. I’d have to.
Avoiding the line at the elevator, we take the stairs and make our way back to the OEOB. As soon as we’re alone, I see Pam’s mood change. Staring straight down as we walk, she won’t say a word.
“Don’t beat yourself up over this,” I tell her. “Gimbel didn’t disclose it—you couldn’t have known.”
“I don’t care what he told me; it’s my job to know. I’ve got no business being here otherwise. I mean, as it is, I can barely figure out what I’m even doing anymore.”
Here she goes—the yin to her own yang—toughness turned in on itself. Unlike Nora, when Pam’s faced with criticism, her first reaction is to rip herself apart. It’s a classic successful person’s defense mechanism—and the easiest way for her to lower expectations.
“C’mon, Pam, you know you belong here.”
“Not according to Simon.”
“But even Caroline said—”
“Forget the rationalizing. It never works. I want to take some time to be mad at myself. If you want to cheer me up, change the subject.”
Aaaand we’re back—guerrilla honesty. “Okay, how’s about some office gossip: Who do you think leaked the birthday party?”
“No one leaked it,” she says as we return to the sterile hallways of the OEOB. “He just used it to make a point.”
“But the Herald—”
“Open your eyes, boy. It was a party for Lawrence Lamb, First Friend. Once word got out about that, the whole complex came running. No one misses a social function with the President. Or with Nora.”
I stop right in front of Room 170. Our office. “You think that’s why I went?”
“You telling me otherwise?”
“Maybe.”
Pam laughs. “You can’t even lie, can you? Even that’s too much.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your unfailing predisposition to always be the Boy Scout.”
“Oh, and you’re so hyper-cool?”
“Life of a city girl,” she says, proudly brushing some invisible lint from her shoulder.
“Pam, you’re from Ohio.”
“But I lived in—”
“Don’t tell me about New York. That was law school—you spent half the time in your room, and the rest in the library. Besides, three years does not hyper-cool make.”
“It makes sure I’m not a Boy Scout.”
“Will you stop already with that?” Before I can finish, my beeper goes off. I look down at the digital screen, but don’t recognize the phone number. I unclip it from my belt and read the message: “Call me. Nora.”
My eyes show no reaction. My voice is super-smooth. “I have to take this one,” I tell Pam.
“What’s she want?”
I refuse to answer.
She’s laughing again. “Do you sell cookies also, or is that just a Girl Scout thing?”
“Kiss my ass, homegrown.”
“Not on the very best day of your life,” she says as I head for the door.
I pull open the heavy oak door of our office and step into the anteroom that leads to three other offices. Three doors: one on the right, one in the middle, one on the left. I’ve nicknamed it the Lady or the Tiger Room, but no one ever gets the reference. Barely big enough to hold the small desk, copier, and coffee machine we’ve stuffed into it, the anteroom is still good for a final moment of decompression.
“Okay, fine,” Pam says, moving toward the door on the right. “If it makes you feel any better, you can put me down for two boxes of the thin mints.”
I have to admit the last one’s funny, but there’s no way I’m giving her the satisfaction. Without turning around, I storm into the room on the left. As I slam the door behind me, I hear Pam call out, “Send her my love.”
By OEOB standards, my office is a good one. It’s not huge, but it does have two windows. And one of the building’s hundreds of fireplaces. Naturally, the fireplaces don’t work, but that doesn’t mean having one isn’t a notch on the brag belt. Aside from that, it’s typical White House: old desk that you hope once belonged to someone famous, desk lamp that was bought during the Bush administration, chair that was bought during the Clinton administration, and a vinyl sofa that looks like it was bought during the Truman administration. The rest of the office makes it mine: flameproof file cabinets and an industrial safe, courtesy of the Counsel’s Office; over the fireplace, a court artist’s rendition of me sitting in the moot court finals, courtesy of Michigan Law School; and on the wall above my desk, the White House standard, courtesy of my ego: a signed picture of me and President Hartson after one of his radio addresses, thanking me for my service.
Throwing my briefcase on the sofa, I head for my desk. A digital screen attached to my phone says that I have twenty-two new calls. As I scroll through the call log, I can see the names and phone numbers of all the people who called. Nothing that can’t wait. Anxious to get back to Nora, I take a quick glance at the toaster, a small electronic device that bears an uncanny resemblance to its namesake and was left here by the office’s previous occupant. A small screen displays the following in digital green letters:
POTUS: OVAL OFFICE
FLOTUS: OEOB
VPOTUS: WEST WING
NORA: SECOND FLOOR RESIDENCE
CHRISTOPHER: MILTON ACADEMY
There they are—The Big Five. The President, the VP, and the First Family. The principals. Like Big Brother, I instinctively check all of their locations. Updated by the Secret Service as each principal moves, the toaster is there in case of emergency. I’ve never once heard of anyone using it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not everyone’s favorite toy. The thing is, I’m not concerned with the President of the United States, or the First Lady, or the VP. What I’m really looking at is Nora. I pick up the phone and dial her number.
She answers on the first ring. “Sleep okay last night?”
Clearly, she’s got the same caller ID we do. “Somewhat. Why?”
“No reason—I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Again, I’m really sorry I put you in that position.”
Sad as it is to admit, I love hearing the concern in her voice. “I appreciate the thought.” Turning toward the toaster, I add, “Where am I calling you anyway?”
“You tell me—you’re the one staring at the toaster.”
I smile to myself. “No, I’m not.”
“I told you last night—you’re a bad liar, Michael.”
“Is that why you were so intent on washing my mouth out?”
“If you’re talking about my tongue down your throat, that was just to give you something exciting to think about.”
“And that’s your idea of excitement?”
“No, excitement would be if that little contraption you’re staring at showed you exactly what I’m doing with my hands.”
The woman’s ruthless. “So this thing really works?”
“Don’t know. They only give them to staff.”
“So that’s it, huh? Now I’m just staff?”
“You know what I mean. I usually . . . the way it works . . . I’ve never had the chance to watch myself,” she stutters.
I can’t believe it—she’s actually embarrassed. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m only joking.”
“No, I know . . . I just . . . I don’t want you to think I’m some spoiled snob.”
I pause, lost in the almost scientific curiosity of what she finds important. “Well get it out of your head,” I eventually say. “If I thought you were a snob, I wouldn’t have gone out with you in the first place.”
“Second Floor Residence.”
“And what does that tell you?”
“I have no idea—I’ve never been up there.”
“You’ve never been up here? You should come.”
“Then you should invite me.” I’m proud of myself for that one. The invitation should be just around the corner.
“We’ll see,” she says.
“Oh, so now I haven’t passed that test yet? What do I have to do? Act interested? Show a steady follow-up? Go to some group dinner and get checked out by your girlfriends?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t act all coy—I know how it is with women—everything’s a group decision these days.”
“Not with me.”
“And you expect me to believe that?” I ask with a laugh. “C’mon, Nora, you have friends, don’t you?”
For the first time, she doesn’t answer. There’s nothing but dead air. My smile sags to a flat line. “I . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
“Of course I have friends,” she finally stammers. “Meanwhile, have you seen Simon yet?”
I’m tempted to go back, but this is more important. “At the meeting this morning. He walked in and the whole world hit slow motion. The thing is, watching his reaction, I don’t think he saw us. I would’ve seen it in his eyes.”
“Suddenly you’re the arbiter of truth?”
“Mark my words, he didn’t know we were there.”
“So have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“What’s to decide? I have to report him.”
She thinks about this for a second. “Just be careful abou—”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone you were there.”
“That’s not what I was worried about,” she shoots back, annoyed. “I was going to say, be careful who you go to with this. Considering the time period, and the person involved, this thing’s going to Hindenburg.”
“You think I should wait until after the election?”
There’s a long pause on the other line. It’s still her father. Finally, she says, “I can’t answer that. I’m too close.” I can hear it in her voice. It’s only a twelve-point lead. She knows what could happen. “Is there a way to keep it out of the press?” she asks.
“Believe me, there’s no way I’m throwing this to the press. They’d eat us alive by lunch.”
“Then who do you go to?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it should be someone in here.”
“If you want, you can tell my dad.”
There it is again. Her dad. Every time she says it, it seems that much more ridiculous. “Too big,” I say. “Before it goes to him, I want someone to do a little bit more research.”
“Just to make sure we’re right?”
“That’s what I’m worried about. The moment this gets out, we’re going to wreck Simon’s career. And that’s not something I take lightly. In here, once the finger’s pointed at you, you’re gone.”
Nora’s been on the receiving end for too long. She knows I’m right. “Is there someone you have in mind?”
“Caroline Penzler. She’s in charge of ethics for the White House.”
“Can you trust her?”
I pick up a nearby pencil and tap the eraser against my desk. “I’m not sure—but I know exactly who to ask.”
CHAPTER 5
Leaving my office, I cross through the anteroom and head straight for Pam’s. The door is always open, but I still give her a courtesy knock. “Anyone home?”
By the time she says “Come in,” I’m already standing across from her desk. The setup of her office is a mirror image of mine, right down to the nonworking fireplace. As always, the differences are on the walls, where Pam has replaced my ego items with two personal effects: over her couch, a blown-up photograph of the President when he spoke at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, her hometown; and over her desk, an enormous American flag, which was a gift from her mother when Pam first got the job. Typical Pam, I think to myself. Apple pie at heart.
Facing the computer table that runs perpendicular to her desk, Pam is typing furiously with her back to me. As is her usual work mode, her thin blond hair is pulled back in a tight twist held by a red clip. “What’s up?” she asks without turning around.
“I’ve got a question for you.”
She flips through a pile of papers, looking for something in particular. When she finds it, she says, “I’m listening.”
“Do you trust Caroline?”
Pam immediately stops typing and turns my way. Raising an eyebrow, she asks, “What’s wrong? Is it Nora?”
“No, it’s not Nora. It has nothing to do with Nora. I just have a question about this issue I’m working on.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
I’m too smart to argue with her. “Just tell me about Caroline.”
Biting the inside of her cheek, she studies me carefully.
“Please,” I add. “It’s important.”
She shakes her head and I know I’m in. “What do you want to know?”
“Is she loyal?”
“The First Lady thinks so.”
I nod at the reference. A longtime friend of the First Lady, Caroline met Mrs. Hartson at the National Parkinson’s Foundation in Miami, where Mrs. Hartson mentored and encouraged her to take night classes at the University of Miami Law School. From there, the First Lady brought her to the Children’s Legal Defense Fund, then to the campaign, and finally, to the White House. Long battles forge the strongest bonds. I just want to know, how strong? “So if I tell her something vitally important, can I trust her to keep a secret?”
“Help me out with what you mean by vitally.”
I sit in the chair in front of her desk. “It’s big.”
“Front-page big or cover-of-Newsweek big?”
“Newsweek.”
Pam doesn’t flinch. “Caroline’s in charge of screening all the bigshots: Cabinet members, ambassadors, the Surgeon General—she opens their closets and makes sure we can live with their skeletons.”
“So you think she’s loyal?”
“She’s got dirt on just about every hotshot in the executive branch. That’s why the First Lady put her here. If she’s not loyal, we’re dead.”
Falling silent, I lean forward and rest my elbows against my knees. It’s true. Before anyone’s nominated, they go through at least one confession session with Caroline. She knows the worst about everyone: who drinks, who’s done drugs, who’s had an abortion, and who’s hiding a summer home from their wife. Everyone has secrets. Myself included. Which means if you expect to get anything done, you can’t disqualify everyone. “So I shouldn’t worry?” I ask.
Pam stands up and crosses around to the other side of her desk. Sitting in the seat next to me, she looks me straight in the eye. “Are you in trouble?”
“No, not at all.”
“It’s Nora, isn’t it? What’d she do?”
“Nothing,” I say, pulling back a little. “I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can. You always can. But if you need any help at all . . .”
“I know—you’ll be there.”
“With bells on, my friend. And maybe even a tambourine.”
“Honestly, Pam, that means more than you know.” Realizing that the longer I sit here, the more she’s going to pry, I stand from my seat and head for the door. I know I shouldn’t say another word, but I can’t help myself. “So you really think she’s okay?”
“Don’t worry about Caroline,” Pam says. “She’ll take care of you.”
• • •
I’m about to head over to Caroline’s when I hear the phone in my office ring. Running inside, I check the digital screen to see who it is.
It’s the number from before. Nora. “Hello?” I say, picking it up.
“Michael?” She sounds different. Almost out of breath.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Have you spoken to her yet?”
“Caroline? No, why?”
“You’re not going to tell her I was there, are you? I mean, I don’t think you should . . .”
“Nora, I already told you I wouldn’t—”
“And the money—you’re not going to say I took the money, right?” Her voice is racing with panic.
“Of course not.”
“Good. Good.” Already, she’s calming down. “That’s all I wanted to know.” I hear her take a deep breath. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to freak like that—I just started getting a little nervous.”
“Whatever you say,” I tell her, still confused by the outburst. I hate hearing that crack in her voice—all that confidence crushed to nothing. It’s like seeing your dad cry; all you want to do is stop it. And in this case, I can. “You don’t have to worry,” I add. “I’ve got it all taken care of.”
• • •
Walking down the hall to Caroline’s office is easy. So is knocking on her office door. Stepping inside is a piece of cake, and hearing the door slam behind me is an ice cream sundae. But when I see Caroline, sitting at her desk with her jet black dyed hair spreading on the shoulders of her black wool blazer, everything that I’ve been holding together—all of it—suddenly falls apart. My fear has a face. And before I can even say hello, the back of my neck floods with sweat.
“Take a seat, take a seat,” she offers as I almost collapse in front of her desk. Accepting the invitation, I lower myself into one of her two chairs. Without saying a word, I watch her pour four sugar packets into an empty mug. One by one, she rips each one open. In the left corner of the room, the coffee’s almost done brewing. Now I know where she gets her energy. “How’s everything going?” she asks.
“Busy,” I reply. “Really busy.” Over Caroline’s shoulder, I see her version of the ego wall: forty individual frames filled with thank-you notes written by some of Washington’s most powerful players. Secretary of State. Secretary of Defense. Ambassador to the Vatican. Attorney General. They’re all up there, and they were all cleared by Caroline.
