by Brad Meltzer
Watching me carefully, she doesn’t know what to say. She wipes the side of her neck, like she’s sweating. Then, finally, she points to the broken bow that’s sprawled across her desk. “If you want, I’ve got another one in the cabinet. I can, uh . . . I know a lot of songs.”
• • •
I sleep so lightly the following morning, I hear all four newspaper deliveries. Between each one, my mind churns back to Vaughn. When the fourth one hits, I toss aside the covers, head straight for the front door, and gather the morning’s reading. Section by section, I open and shake each newspaper, wondering if something will fall out. Nineteen sections later, all I’ve got are fingers black with newsprint. I guess it’s still tomorrow at the zoo.
Waiting for Trey to call, I look over and notice the front photo of the Herald. A shot of Hartson from behind the podium as he gives a labor speech in Detroit. Nothing to really e-mail home about—except for the fact that, over his shoulder, there’re only five or six people in the audience. The rest of the seats are empty. “Trying to Connect” the caption blares. Someone’s going to lose his job for this.
A minute later, I pick up Trey’s call on the first ring. “Anything?” he asks, wondering if I’ve heard from Vaughn.
“Nothing,” I say. “What’s going on there?”
“Oh, just the usual. I assume you’ve seen our front-page hari-kiri?”
I look down at the photo of Hartson and the empty crowd. “How did that even—”
“The whole thing is bullshit—there were three hundred people on the left and right of the photo, and the empty seats were for the marching band that was getting into place—the Herald just cropped it for effect. We’re demanding a retraction for tomorrow—because, you know, a four-line apology buried on A2 is far more effective than an ass-sized full-color on page one!”
“I take it the numbers aren’t looking good?”
“Seven points, Michael. That’s it. That’s our lead. Take away two more—which, once the wires pick up the photo, is exactly where we’re gonna be—and we’re officially in the margin of error. Welcome to mediocrity. Enjoy your stay.”
“What about the Vanity Fair story? Any response on that?”
“Oh, you didn’t hear? Yesterday in California—California of all places!—Bartlett apparently used his First Family/family first quote on a religious radio station. The callers ate it up.”
“I didn’t know they still had religion in California.”
There’s a long silence on the other line. He must be getting reamed for this one.
“I assume you’re planning something drastic?” I add.
“You should hear it around here. Last night, it got so bad, someone actually suggested putting the whole First Family on TV for a live prime-time all-of-them-at-once interview.”
“And what’d they decide on?”
“Live prime-time all-of-them-at-once interview. If America’s really concerned that Nora’s out of control or that the Hartsons are bad parents, the only way to tackle it is to prove it wrong. Show ’em the entire family unit, throw in a couple Aw, Dads, and pray that all’s well once again.”
“It’s that easy, huh?” I ask with a laugh. “So I assume you’ll have nothing to do with this transparent attempt at public pandering?”
“Are you kidding? I’m in the center ring—my boss and I are in charge of it.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what you’re finding so funny, Michael. There’s nothing to laugh at. We’re bottoming out in every key battleground state. California, Texas, Illinois . . . If we don’t start converting some undecideds, we’re going to be out of our jobs.”
I freeze as he says the words. “You really think—”
“Michael, no sitting President’s ever done a First Family interview. Why do you think we are? It’s the same reason Lamb asked you to keep quiet. This is it—if the numbers don’t turn, Nora and company are heading back to sunny Flori—”
“Just tell me who you’re going with—20/20 or—”
“Dateline,” he blurts. “I suggested 60 Minutes, but everyone thought it was too Clinton. Besides, the First Lady likes Samantha Stulberg—she did a nice piece on her after the Inauguration.”
“And when is this all going to take place?”
“Eight P.M. this Thursday, which also, lucky for us, happens to be the First Lady’s fiftieth birthday.”
“You’re not wasting any time.”
“We can’t afford to. And no offense, boyo, but the way we’re headed, neither can you.”
• • •
It’s barely seven A.M. as I open the door to Room 170, and the darkness in the anteroom tells me I’m the first one in. With a cup of coffee in one hand and my briefcase in the other, I elbow on the light switch and start another fluorescent day. I count all three flickers before the light actually comes on—which is exactly how long it takes me to shut the alarm, pull the mail from my mailbox, and reach the door to my office.
Heading toward my desk, I peer out the window and take in the view. Hugged by the sun, the White House shines in the morning. It’s right out of the press kit. Green trees. Red geraniums. Glowing marble. For one glorious moment, everything’s right in the world. Then it’s interrupted by the quiet knock on my door.
“Come in,” I shout, assuming it’s Pam.
“Mind if I take a seat?” a man’s voice asks.
I spin around. Agent Adenauer.
He closes the door and extends an open handshake. “Don’t worry,” he says with a warm smile. “It’s only me.”
CHAPTER 22
What are you doing here?”
“Just got back from fishing,” Adenauer says, in his easygoing Southern drawl. “Three-day trip to the Chesapeake. Man, did it just take my breath—you got to get over there sometime.” With his cheap suit and his playful Keith Haring tie, he really does seem genuinely friendly. Like he wants to help.
“Take a seat,” I offer.
He tosses me a nod of appreciation. “I promise, I’ll make this one quick.” Sliding into the chair, he explains, “As I’m kicking through the grease, there’s just one thing I can’t get my head for.” He pauses a moment. “What’s going on with you and Simon?”
I’ve heard that tone before—it’s not an accusation; he’s worried for me. Still, I play dumb. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Last time we spoke, you suggested that we check Simon’s bank accounts. When we went to see Simon, he said we should take a look at yours.”
I feel it all the way down to my groin. The rules are starting to change. All along, I thought Simon would keep it quiet. But now, détente’s beginning to crumble. And the more I fight against it, the more Simon’s going to point the finger at me. Forget about my job. He’s going to take my life.
“Don’t try to do it by yourself, Michael—we can help you with this one.”
“What’d you find in his bank accounts?”
“Not much. He sold some stock recently, but he said it was to remodel his kitchen.”
“Maybe he’s lying.”
“Maybe he’s not.” Even if I’m not showing it, Adenauer knows I’m squirming. Hoping to help me along, he adds, “I’ll tell you one thing, though—if you want to see an interesting account, you should see Caroline’s. For a woman on the moderate side of the pay scale, she was flush full of cash. More than five hundred thousand to be exact—fifty of it hidden in a box of tampons in her apartment.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “So Caroline’s the blackmailer?”
“You tell me,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We checked your account as well, Michael. Pardon my saying so, but things are looking a little thin.”
“That’s because a quarter of every check goes direct deposit to my dad. Check it out—you’ll see.”
He rubs his hand along the length of his tie, looking almost hurt. He doesn’t enjoy pushing buttons. “Please, M
ichael, I’m just trying to help. What about your mom’s family? Don’t they have some money? What are they up to now—forty stores nationwide?”
“I don’t talk to my mom’s family. Ever.”
Leaning forward in his seat, he sharpens a dark smile. “Even if it’s an emergency?”
The lawyer in me snaps to attention. “What kind of an emergency?”
“I don’t know—what if your dad were in trouble? What if Caroline were about to open her mouth and send him to one of those white-coat institutions? If she asked for forty grand to stay quiet, would you call them then?”
“No.” My stomach shifts as I realize where he’s going. Forget Simon—I’m the suspect. Trying to cover my ass, I add, “Besides, where’re you getting forty grand from? I thought you only found thirty?”
His hand continues to stroke his tie. “I guess it could be either,” he replies.
I hate that tone in his voice. He’s got something. “What’s your point?” I ask.
“No point—just a hypothesis. See, when we checked out the thirty thousand in Caroline’s safe, we realized it was consecutively numbered. Only problem is, about halfway through, there’s a skip in the digits. Based on the sequencing, we figure there might be another ten grand that’s still unaccounted for. Now you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
Behind my desk, my foot’s tapping nervously against the carpet. “Maybe the original bank teller grabbed the piles of money out of order.”
“Or maybe the extra ten grand was used to pay Vaughn. It’s an easy transaction—take the money from the victim. Only problem is, one of you grabbed the wrong pile.”
“One of us?”
He runs his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip. Now he’s having fun. “So how’s everything going between you and Nora? Still getting along?”
“Better than ever,” I shoot back.
“That’s good—because dating a woman in her position—it puts a lot of unnecessary strain on a relationship. And when problems come up? You can’t turn to anyone on the outside; it’s almost like you have to deal with them yourself. I mean, that’s the only way to keep her happy, right?”
Is that his theory? That I had Caroline killed for Nora?
“I’m not here to make accusations, Michael. But if Caroline found out one of the principals was doing drugs . . . and that principal had access to a person like Vaughn . . . it’s not much to ask you to bring him inside, now is it?”
“If you’re going to keep harassing me—”
“Actually, I’m trying to protect you. And if you’d help us out, you might actually be able to see that.”
Lamb was right about one thing: As much as they’re after me, I’m just bait for the big fish.
“She doesn’t care about you,” he continues. “To people like her, all we are are dictionaries—useful when you need them, but any one’ll do.”
He’s using “we” to make me feel comfortable. I don’t buy it for a second. “You obviously know nothing about her.”
“You sure about that?”
I look up. He doesn’t blink.
“For all you know, we’ve already spoken twice. Once on the telephone; once in the Residence. In fact, she might’ve already pushed me in your direction.”
I know it’s a lie. “She’d never do that.”
“She wouldn’t save herself? Everyone’s human, Michael. And when you think of the circumstances . . . if she goes down, you both go down. That’s part of cleaning house. But if you go down—if you’re the one to blame—she’s not going anywhere.” He pauses, letting it grind into my brain. “I know you don’t want to hurt her, but there’s only one way to help yourself . . . and if you can get us Vaughn—”
“How many times do you need to hear it? I didn’t do anything and I don’t know Vaughn!”
Adenauer flicks a tiny piece of lint from the knee of his slacks. The easygoing English teacher is long gone. “So you’ve never been in contact with each other?”
“That’s correct.”
“You’re not lying to me, are you?”
I can either tell him about tomorrow’s meeting, or I can call his bluff. I’m not ready to give it up just yet. “I’ve never seen or spoken to the guy in my life.”
He shakes his head at the news. “Michael, let me give you a piece of advice,” he says, once again sounding concerned. “I’ve got Vaughn’s profile down to a gnat’s ass. Whatever he’s got with Nora—they’ll both sell you out in a second.”
I stop my leg from shaking and take a mental deep breath. Don’t let him get to you. “I know what it says in the WAVES report, but I swear to you, I didn’t let him in.” Hoping to grab the reins, I dart for my own change of subject. “Now what about the death itself? Have you got Caroline’s results yet?”
“I thought you said it was a heart attack.”
The man never lets up. “You know what I mean—is the tox report back from the lab yet?”
He tilts his head just enough for me to see the arch in his eyebrow. “I don’t know. I haven’t checked in a while.”
It’s a blatant lie and he wants me to know it. He’s not giving me that one. Not unless I cooperate. And especially not when he’s this close.
“You sure you don’t want to tell me what really happened?” he asks, once again playing the teacher.
I refuse to answer.
“Please, Michael. Whatever it is, we’re willing to work with you.”
It’s a tempting offer—but it’s not a guarantee. Besides, if Vaughn comes through . . . it’s not only the fastest way to prove it’s Simon, it’s also the best way to protect Nora. And myself. Still silent, I turn away from Adenauer.
“Your choice,” he says. “I’ll see you on Friday.”
I pause. “What’s Friday?”
“C’mon, boy, you think we’re going to just sit around, waiting on you? If I don’t hear from you in the next three days, I’m taking you and Vaughn public. That’ll be more than enough to flush Nora out. Friday, Michael. That’s when America meets you.”
• • •
“Was he serious?” Trey asks through the phone.
Staring at the blank TV in my office, I don’t answer. On-screen, all I see is my reflection.
“Michael, I asked you a question: Was Adenauer serious?”
“Huh?”
“Was he—”
“I-I think so,” I finally say. “I mean, since when does the FBI make empty threats?”
Trey takes a second to answer. He knows what I’m going through, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to hold back. “This isn’t just a bad hair day,” he warns. “If even a hint of what happened gets out . . .”
“I know, Trey. Believe me, I know—you read me the polls every morning—but what am I supposed to do? Yesterday you’re telling me to turn myself in so Nora doesn’t bury me; today, you’re crying that if anything gets out, I single-handedly wreck the presidency. The only thing that’s consistent is that either way I’m screwed.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“All I can do is go for the truth—find Vaughn and figure out if he’s got some insight into what really happened. If that doesn’t work . . .” I stop, unable to finish the sentence.
He gives me a few seconds to calm down. “What about Simon’s financial disclosure forms?” he eventually asks, still determined to help. “I thought we were going to look through those to see where he got the money.”
“According to Adenauer, there’s nothing in his bank accounts.”
“And you’re going to take his word for it?”
“What else you want me to do? I put the request in over a week ago—it should be here any day.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but any day’s not gonna cut it. You’ve only got three days left. If I were you, I’d put on my nice-guy voice and have a long overdue talk with Nora.”
Silently, I once again stare at the TV, rolling the option around my brain. He has a
point. Still, if Vaughn comes through . . . if he’s also been screwed by Simon . . . That’s the door to a brand-new reality. Maybe Vaughn was the one Simon met in the bar. Simon could’ve been borrowing the cash. Maybe that’s why there was nothing in his bank accounts.
“So whattya say?” Trey asks.
I shake my head even though he can’t see it. “Tomorrow’s my meeting with Vaughn,” I say hesitantly. “After that, I can always talk to Nora.”
By the long pause, I can tell Trey disagrees.
“What?” I ask. “I thought you wanted me to meet with Vaughn?”
“I do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Again, there’s a pause. “I know it’s hard for you to accept this, Michael, but just remember that, sometimes, you should be looking out for yourself.”
• • •
It takes me a good half hour to turn my attention back to the briefing, but once there, I’m consumed. The wiretap file is spread out in front of me, and my desk is buried in a pile of law review articles, op-ed pieces, scientific studies, and current opinion polls. I’ve spent the last two months learning everything I could about this issue. Now I have to figure out how to teach it. No, not just teach it—teach it to the leader of the free world.
Two hours later, I’m still working on my introduction. This isn’t high school debate with Mr. Ulery. It’s the Oval Office with Ted Hartson. President Hartson. With a dictionary at my side, I rewrite my opening sentence for the seventeenth time. Each word has to be just right. It’s still not there.
Opening sentence. Take eighteen.
• • •
Working straight through lunch, I hit the heart of the argument. Sure, we’re trained to present an unbiased view, but let’s be honest. This is the White House. Everyone’s got an opinion.
As a result, it doesn’t take me long to make a list of reasons for the President to come out against roving wiretaps. That’s the easy part. The hard part is convincing the President I’m right. Especially in an election year.
