by Brad Meltzer
• • •
At five o’clock, I take my only break: a ten-minute round-trip dash to the West Wing for the first batch of fries that comes out of the Mess. Over the next four hours, I skim through hundreds of criminal cases, looking for the best ones to make my point. It’s going to be a late night, but as long as things stay quiet, I should be able to get through it.
“Candy bars! Who wants candy bars?” Trey announces, striding through the door. “Guess what just got added to the vending machines?” Before I can answer, he adds, “Two words, Lucy: Hostess. Cupcakes. I saw ’em downstairs—our childhood trapped behind glass. For seventy-five cents, we get it back.”
“Now’s really a bad time . . .”
“I understand—you’re knee-deep. Then let me at least tell you about—”
“I can’t . . .”
“No such thing as can’t. Besides, this is impor—”
“Dammit, Trey, can’t you ever take a hint?”
He’s not happy with that one. Without a word, he turns his back and heads for the exit.
“Trey . . .”
He opens the door.
“C’mon, Trey . . .”
At the last second, he stops. “Listen, hotshot, I don’t need the apology—the only reason I came by was because your favorite Post reporter just called us about the WAVES records. Adenauer may be waiting until Friday, but Inez’s cashing in every press favor she has. So no matter how badly you’re trying to smudge elbows with the President, you should know the clock’s ticking—and it may explode sooner than you think.” He wheels around and slams the door shut.
I know he’s right. By Adenauer’s count, I’m almost down to two days. But with everything else going on, it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. After the President, and after Vaughn.
• • •
By eight o’clock, the howling in my stomach tells me I’m hungry, the searing pain in my lower back tells me I’ve been sitting too long, and the vibration of my pager tells me someone’s calling.
I whip it out of the clip on my belt and look at the message. “Emergency. Meet me in the theater. Nora.”
As I read the words, I feel my whole face go white. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. I take off without even thinking.
Within three minutes, I’m on a mad dash through the Ground Floor Corridor of the mansion. At the far end of the hallway, I push through a final set of doors, cut through the small area where they sell books on the White House public tour, and see the oversized bust of Abraham Lincoln. During the day, the hallway is usually filled with tour groups checking out the architectural diagrams and famous White House photos that line the left-hand wall. For the most part, visitors and guests think that’s pretty interesting. I wonder how they’d react if they knew that on the other side of that wall is the President’s private movie theater.
I run my open palm against my forehead, hoping to hide the sweat. As I approach the guard who’s stationed nearby, I motion to my destination. “I’m supposed to meet—”
“She’s inside,” he says.
I rip open the door, smell the slight remnants of popcorn, and dart into the theater.
Nora’s sitting in the front row of the empty fifty-one-seat theater. She has her feet hiked up on the armrest of her chair, and a big bag of popcorn on her lap.
“Ready for a surprise?” she asks, turning my way.
I’m not sure whether I’m angry or relieved.
“For once, stop looking so depressed. Just sit,” she says, patting the seat next to her.
Dumbfounded, I head over to the front row. There’re nine rows of traditional movie theater seats, but the front row consists of four leather La-Z-Boy recliners. Best seats in the house. I take the one to Nora’s left.
“Why’d you send that messa—?”
“Hit it, Frankie!” she shouts the moment I sit.
Slowly, the lights go down and the flickering stutter of the projector fills the air. The walls of the theater are draped with Soul Train–era burnt-orange-colored curtains with beige bird designs. Like the Music Room, Elvis would’ve loved it.
As the opening credits roll, I realize we’re watching the new Terrance Landaw movie. It’s not going to be out in theaters for another month, but the Motion Picture Association makes sure that the White House gets on the hottest new releases delivered every Tuesday. Subliminal lobbying.
“Is there a reason we’re—”
“Shhhhh!” she hisses with a playful smirk.
For the rest of the opening credits, I stay silent, trying to figure it out. Nora shovels popcorn into her mouth. Then, when the opening shot hits, she reaches over and tickles the hair on my forearm.
I look over at her and she’s gazing at the screen, a mesmerized movie zombie.
“Nora, do you have any idea what I’m working on right now?”
“Shhhh . . .”
“Don’t shush me—you said it was an emergency.”
“Of course I did,” she says, again tickling my arm. “Would you’ve come down if I didn’t?”
I shake my head and start to get up. Before I get anywhere, she wraps both arms around my biceps, holding on like a little girl. “C’mon, Michael, just the first half hour. A quick mental break. I’ll pause it and we can finish tomorrow.”
I’m tempted to tell her that you can’t pause a movie theater, then I remember who I’m talking to.
“It’ll be fun,” she promises. “Ten more minutes.”
It’s hard to argue with ten minutes—and the way it’s been going, it’d be good to recharge. “Ten,” I threaten.
“Fifteen, max. Now shut up—I hate missing the beginning.”
I gaze up at the screen, still thinking about the decision memo. For two years, I’ve been doing legal analysis on the President’s hottest policies and most cutting-edge proposals—but not a single one of them thrills me as much as ten minutes in the dark with Nora Hartson. Sitting back in my seat, I lock my fingers between hers. With everything going on, this is exactly what we need. A nice, quiet moment alone where we can finally take a breath and rela—
“Nora . . . ?” someone whispers. Behind us, a blade of white light slices through the dark.
We both turn around, surprised to see Wesley Dodds, the President’s Chief of Staff. With his pencil neck already leaning into the room, he lets the rest of his body follow.
“Get out!” Nora barks.
Like most bigshots, Wesley doesn’t listen. He heads straight down to the front row. “I apologize for doing this, but I’ve got the head of IBM and a dozen CEOs standing in the lobby, waiting for their screening.”
Nora doesn’t even look at him. “Sorry.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Sorry,” she repeats. “As in, Sorry you’re gonna be disappointed. Or even better: I’m sorry, but you’re interrupting me.”
He’s too hypersmart to pick a fight with the boss’s daughter, so he just pulls rank. “Frankie, turn the lights on!”
The projector warps to a halt and the lights come on. Shading our eyes, Nora and I squint our way to adjustment. She’s the first out of her seat, sending the bag of popcorn flying.
“What the hell’re you doing?” she shouts.
“I already told you, we have a CEO event waiting outside. You know what time of year it is.”
“Take ’em to the Lincoln Bedr—”
“I already did,” he shoots back. “And if it makes you feel better, we reserved the room a month ago.” Catching himself, he realizes it’s getting too hot. “I’m not asking you to leave, Nora—in fact, if you stay, it’ll actually be better. Then they can say they watched a movie with the First Dau—”
“Get out of here. It’s my house.”
“I’m sure it is—but if you want to live in it for another four years, you better move over and make some room. Understand what I’m saying?”
For the first time, Nora doesn’t answer.
“Forget about it,” I say, putting a hand on her shoulder. �
��It’s not that big a—”
“Shut up,” she barks, pulling away.
“Rewind it, Frankie!” Wesley calls out.
“Don’t you—”
“It’s over,” he warns. “Don’t make me call your dad.”
Oh, shit.
Her eyes narrow. Wesley doesn’t move. She reaches back, and I swear to God, I think she’s about to clock him. Then, out of nowhere, a devilish grin takes her face. She lets out a whispered throaty cackle. We’re definitely in trouble. Before I can even ask, she picks up her purse and races for the door.
In the hallway outside, a dozen fifty- to sixty-year-old men are milling around, staring at the black-and-white photographs along the hallway. She flies past them before they can even react. But they all know who they’ve seen. Even as they try to play cool, their eyes are wide with excitement as they elbow and wink the message through the small crowd. Didja see? That was you-know-who.
It’s amazing. Even the most powerful . . . in here, they’re just kids in a schoolyard. And from what I can tell, the first rule of the schoolyard still holds true: There’s always someone bigger.
Weaving my way back to the Ground Floor Corridor, I’m only a few feet behind her. “Nora . . .” I call out. She doesn’t answer. It’s just like that first night with the Service. She’s not stopping for anybody.
With her arms swinging forcefully at her side, she plows forward up the red-carpeted hallway. I assume she’s heading up to the Residence, but she doesn’t turn at the entrance to the stairs. She just keeps going—straight up the hall, through the Palm Room, and outside, up the West Colonnade. Just before she reaches the door that leads into the West Wing, she takes a sharp left and sidesteps a dark-suited agent. “Oh, no,” I mutter, watching her plow along the concrete terrace outside the West Wing. There’s only one place she’s going. The back entrance of the Oval. Straight to the top.
Knowing that no one goes in that way, I slam on the brakes. In case there’s any doubt, the agent shoots me a look of confirmation—Nora’s the only exception. Leaning against one of the enormous white columns that leads up to the West Wing, I watch the rest from here.
Fifty feet away, without looking back, Nora stops at two tall French doors and, pressing her nose against the glass paneling, peers inside the Oval. If she were anyone else, she’d be shot by now.
The lights from inside the room illuminate her like a raging firefly. She raps loudly on the paneling to get some attention, then reaches for the doorknob. But as soon as she opens the door, her entire demeanor changes. It’s like she flipped off a switch. Her shoulders lose their pitch and her fists open. Then, instead of stepping inside, she motions for him to come out. The President’s got someone in there.
Still, when his daughter calls . . .
The President steps out on the terrace and shuts the door behind him. He’s a solid foot taller than Nora, which allows him to lean forward over her with full parental intimidation. The way he crosses his arms, he doesn’t like being interrupted.
Realizing this, Nora quickly makes her case, her arms gracefully gesturing to drive home her point. She’s not frenzied—not even angry—her movements are subdued. It’s like I’m watching another woman. She barely even looks up as she talks to him. Everything’s restrained.
As he listens, he puts a hand on his chin, resting his elbow against the arm that’s wrapped around his waist. With the Rose Garden in the foreground, and the two of them in the back, I can’t help but think of all those black-and-white photos of John and Bobby Kennedy, who had their famous discussions standing in the exact same spot.
Next thing I know, Hartson shakes his head and puts a tender hand on Nora’s shoulder. As long as I live, I’ll never forget it. The way they connect—the way he reassures her by rubbing her back. An arm over her shoulder. In silhouette, the power’s gone—just a father and his daughter. “I’m sorry,” his body language says as he continues to rub her back. “That’s the way it’s going to have to be on this one.”
Before Nora can argue, the President reopens the door to his office and waves someone else out. I can’t see who it is, but quick introductions are made. “This’s my daughter, Nora.” She snaps to attention, trained her whole life in campaign-trail etiquette. The President knows what he’s doing. Now that a guest’s around, there’s nothing Nora can say.
As she turns to leave, the President looks my way. I spin around and step behind a white column. I don’t need to make my entrance until tomorrow.
• • •
“Fuck him!” Nora shouts as we race back along the empty Ground Floor Corridor out of earshot.
“Just forget about it,” I tell her again, this time keeping pace with her. “Let ’em have their schmoozefest.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” she asks as we cross back through booksellers and approach the oversized bust of Lincoln outside the theater. “I was actually having fun! For once, it was fun!”
“And we’ll make up for it tomorrow. We were only going to be there another ten minutes anyway.”
“That’s not the point! It was our ten minutes! Not theirs! I picked out the movie, and made them pop popcorn, and sent you the message—and then . . .” Her voice starts to crack. She rubs her nose vigorously, but her hands are shaking. “It’s supposed to be a house, Michael. A real fuckin’ house—but it’s always like the Music Room”—she wipes her eyes—“always a show.” Biting her lip, she’s trying to fight back tears. The redness of her eyes tells me it’s not going to work. “It’s not supposed to be like this. When we first got here, everyone talked about the perks. Oh, you’ll get perks. Wait’ll you see the perks. Well, I’m still waiting! Where are they, Michael? Where?” She looks over each of her shoulders as if she’s physically looking for them. The only thing she sees is a uniformed guard, sitting at his checkpoint outside the theater and staring straight at us.
“What?” she screams at him. “Now I can’t cry in my own house?” Her voice cracks even louder with that one. It doesn’t take a shrink to spot the breakdown coming.
I motion to the guard with a can-we-have-a-second-here? look. Deciding it’s time for a break, he gets up and disappears around the corner. At least someone in this place has some sense.
Waiting for him to leave, Nora’s about to crumble. I haven’t seen her like this since the night she showed me the scar. Her chest is heaving, her chin’s quivering. She’s dying to finally let it out—to tell me what it’s really like. Not about her; about here. Still, she inhales as deep as she can and sniffles it all back in. Some things are too ingrained.
Wiping her nose with her hand, she slumps back against the wall and rests her shoulder against a white metal utility box that looks like it houses one of the Service’s emergency telephones.
“You want to talk about it?” I ask.
She shakes her head, refusing to look at me. Over and over, she continues the motion. No, no, no, no, no. Her breathing’s wet—saliva through gritted teeth—and with each movement of her head the motion gets faster, more adamant. Within seconds, it’s too much. Still leaning against the wall, she lifts her left hand and pounds her fist back against the plaster. “Damn!” she shouts. The single word echoes through the hall, and like a bookend to her original reaction, anger that became despair once again turns to anger.
“Nora . . .”
It’s too late. With a quick shove of her hips, she pushes herself off the wall and away from the telephone. There’s a slight ripping noise and she stops. Her shirt’s caught on a sharp edge of the metal utility box. “Motherf—” She jerks her shoulder, enraged at the delay, and there’s another loud rip. We both follow the noise. From the top of her shoulder, down to her armpit, her black lace bra strap emerges through the hole in her shirt.
“Nora, take it eas—”
“Son of a bitch!” Spinning around, she swings her arm into the side of the metal box. Again. And again. I race in and grab her in a bear hug from behind.
“Please, Nora .
. . the guard’ll be back in a—”
Struggling against me, she swings her left elbow around and clips me in the jaw. I let go and she wriggles free. In a rabid rage, she raises both fists in the air and delivers a death blow to the box. Pile-driving down, she connects with a hollow, metal bang that sends the door on the small box flapping open. Inside, there’s no phone. Just a gun, shiny and black.
Nora and I freeze, equally surprised.
“What the . . . ?”
“Storage in case of emergency,” she hypothesizes.
I take a few steps back and look up the hallway that runs around the corner. The guard’s nowhere in sight.
Nora couldn’t care less. Without even looking, she reaches forward, her eyes completely lit up.
“Nora, don’t . . .”
She grabs the pistol and yanks it out of its hiding spot.
CHAPTER 23
What the hell’re you doing?”
“I just want to see it,” she says, admiring the gun in her hand.
Up the hallway, around the corner from us, I hear a door slam. The guard’s shoes click against the marble floor.
“Put it back, Nora. Now!”
She motions to the theater and flashes me one of her darkest grins. “If you hold them down, I’ll pull the trigger. We can kill ’em all, y’know.”
“That’s not funny. Put it back.”
“C’mon—Bonnie and Clyde—me and you. Whattya say?”
She’s enjoying this way too much. “Nora—”
Before I can finish, she reaches back and tosses the gun through the air. At me. By the time I realize what’s happening, my arms feel like weights at my side. Fighting to lift them, I catch the gun in my fingertips, like a kid playing hot potato. I barely have it three seconds. Oh, shit. My fingerprints. Hearing the guard get closer, I toss it as quickly as I can back to Nora . . .
No! What if she doesn’t . . .
She catches it with a laugh. I can barely breathe. I turn the corner and see the guard coming down the hallway. He’s less than thirty feet away.
“Nora, no more psycho games!” I hiss, struggling to keep it at a whisper. “I’m giving you three seconds to put it back!”
