by Brad Meltzer
I’m still not convinced, but I have to smile. “If you say so.”
“You know it’s the truth. There’s nothing small around the President—and when he asks you a question, you want to have the answer. Now tell me what else happened. Did you get to filch anything cool? Pencils? Pens? I’ve-got-presidential-power-coursing-through-my-veins T-shirts?”
“Not really,” I say, sitting down. “Just these . . .” I reach into my pocket and pull out a pair of presidential seal cufflinks.
“Don’t tell me he—”
“Took them right off his shirt—I think it was his way of calming me down.”
“Calming you down? You dope, you just got Grand Poobah cufflinks! He must’ve liked what you said!”
“We’ll see when he makes his decision. They should be voting on it as we sp—”
The ringing of my phone cuts me off. Caller ID reads Outside Call. This could be it.
“Aren’t you going to pick it up?” Trey asks.
“This is Michael,” I answer.
“So, did he ask you about us?” Nora says with a laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“My dad—did he ask you if you groped my goodies?”
“He decided to leave that one out,” I say, still wondering how Simon found out about my request. “He probably already had enough reasons to hate me.”
“I’m sure you did fine. He gave you the cufflinks, didn’t he?”
“How’d you—”
“Unless you’re a jerk-off, he gives them to everyone on their first briefing. He has dozens of them in his desk. Nixon used to do the same thing. Story for your kids.”
I grab the cufflinks and slide them back in my pocket. Unsure of what else to say, I’m relieved to see the little red indicator light that signals call waiting. “Hold on a second,” I tell Nora. I switch to the other line without even checking caller ID. My mistake. “This is Michael.”
“Nice job today,” a smug voice says. It’s Simon.
“T-Thanks.”
“I mean it, Michael. You stumbled in the beginning, but now I think you learned your lesson. Am I right?”
He’s asking me if I’m going to keep it quiet. After hearing that he sicced Adenauer on me, it’s obvious what the alternative is. Still, there’s something he’s missing. If he knew I was meeting with Vaughn, he would’ve said something. Which means one of two things: Vaughn’s truly got something to offer—or he’s setting a hell of a trap. “Yeah,” I stutter. “I learned my lesson.”
“Good. Then let’s talk about the wiretaps.”
“Hold on a second.” The touch of a button clicks me back to Nora. “Listen, I gotta run—that’s Simon.”
“What’s he—”
Too late. I’m gone. “You were saying about the wiretaps . . . ?” I ask as I click back.
“It was certainly interesting,” he replies. “When you left, I went over to the Roosevelt Room for the preliminary vote. Problem was, FBI, Justice, even the policy boys . . . they were all against us.”
I hate the way he says us. “So what happened?”
“Just what I said.” Referring to the Chief of Staff, he explains, “When Wesley was done counting the votes, he looks at me and says, ‘Seven to two. You lose.’ Proud of himself, he goes back to tell Hartson. Ten minutes later, Wesley returns. Looking my way, he says, ‘I just spoke to the President. The vote’s now seven to three. You win.’”
It takes a minute before it registers. Then, suddenly, it hits me. “I won?”
“We won,” Simon replies. “Hartson said it wasn’t the right thing to do. Consider it a gift.” The next thing I hear is a click. He’s gone.
“You won?” Trey asks.
I’m still speechless.
“C’mon, Michael, I’m giving you thirty seconds to—”
Damn—the time. I check my watch and race for the door, shouting to Trey over my shoulder. “We won! Hartson pushed it through!”
“So where’re you going now? Victory party?”
“I’m late for Vaughn.”
Getting up from his seat, Trey starts to follow. “Are you sure you don’t want me to—”
“No. Not with the FBI watching.”
Trey’s eyes narrow.
“What?” I ask. “Now you don’t think I should go?”
“No, but after what happened at the museum, I just think you should have some backup.”
“I appreciate you offering, but . . . no . . . no way.” I’m not putting him at risk. As I say the words, he’s got an annoyed, almost hurt look on his face. I’ve known him long enough to know what he’s thinking. “You think I’m out of my league, don’t you?”
“You want to know what I think?” He slaps his palm flat against my desk. Then he flips his hand, so his knuckles hit the desk. Then back to his palm. Then back to his knuckles. Palm, knuckles, palm, knuckles, palm, knuckles. “Fish out of water.”
“Thanks for the wonderful mime imitation, but I’ll be fine.”
“What if it’s an ambush? You’re out there all by yourself.”
“It’s not an ambush,” I insist as I pull open the door. “I have a good feeling about this one.”
• • •
Rushing down the steps of the OEOB, I’m swimming against the steady stream of co-workers returning from lunch. Outside the gate, I bob and weave through the crowd, making my way to 17th Street. There’s no time to wait for the Metro. “Taxi!” I shout as I throw an arm in the air. The first two cabs pass me by. I jump into the street waving. “Taxi!”
An emerald green cab honks his horn and stops dead in front of me. Just as I’m about to get in, I hear someone call my name.
“Michael?”
Looking up, I see a woman with stark black hair making her way toward me. I look at the ID around her neck. It’s everyone’s first instinct—scan the badge. I don’t like what I see. Her ID’s got a tan background. Press.
“You’re Michael Garrick, aren’t you?” she asks.
“And you are . . . ?”
“Inez Cotigliano,” she says, extending a hand. “I contacted you by—”
“I got your message. And your e-mail.”
“But you still haven’t replied,” she teases. “You’re going to hurt my feelings.”
“Don’t take it personally. I’ve been busy.”
“So I hear. Schedule said you had the briefing today. How’d it go?”
Typical reporter—nothing but questions. I decide to give her typical White House—nothing but nothing. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you know the drill—call the Press Office.”
I shut the door to the cab, and Inez leans in the window. Pressed against her chest is a clipboard and a file folder. The tab on the folder says “WAVES.” She looks down to see what I’m staring at. Then she grins. “I meant what I said, Michael. We’re still interested. And this way, you get to put out your side of the story.”
I’m not that stupid. “If you want someone who gives good quote, you’re betting on the wrong horse.”
“Would it make it easier if there were some financial incentives involved?”
“Since when does the Post pay for stories?”
“They don’t,” she shoots back. “This is just between us—consider it my way of saying thank you.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” I ask, shaking my head. “Some things aren’t for sale.”
Laughing to herself, she throws me a wry smile. “Whatever you say,” she replies as the cab begins to pull away from her. “Though I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
• • •
Ten minutes later, I’m surrounded by children. Fat ones, quiet ones, crying ones, even one in a forest green sweatsuit who’s picking at his crotch something fierce. Located straight up Connecticut Avenue and final home of Hsing-Hsing, Nixon’s most-famous panda, the National Zoo is easily one of the best family attractions in the city. And one of the worst places to hold an inconspicuous meeting. Pacing across the bench-lined co
ncrete promenade that serves as the public entrance to the zoo, I’m a dark pin-striped suit amid a rainbow sea of pigtails and camcorders. If I were on fire, I couldn’t stick out more. Maybe that was Vaughn’s hope—if the FBI is here, they’ll find it just as hard to hide. Riding that theory, I try to spot people without kids. By the ice-cream cart are two young adults. And there’s a single woman getting out of a cab.
“Popcoooorn,” someone wails behind me. Startled, I spin around. In front of me is an eighteen-year-old kid with two red-and-white-striped boxes of popcorn in each hand. “Popcoooorn!” he announces, whining the last syllable.
“No, thanks,” I say.
Undeterred, he’s on to the next tourist. “Popcoooorn . . . !”
Hoping to drown out the sales pitch while also getting a better view of the area, I eventually head over to one of the nearby wooden benches. I’m about to sit down when I notice a small red-and-white sign: THIS AREA MONITORED BY SURVEILLANCE CAMERAS. Instinctively, I look up at the trees, trying to spot the cameras. I don’t see them anywhere. It doesn’t matter; they’re out there. Watching me. Watching us. Vaughn, wherever you are, I pray you know what you’re doing.
• • •
A half hour later, I’m sitting on the same wooden bench, studying the crowd. It doesn’t take long to spot the pattern. Family in, family out. Family in, family out. Still, throughout the constant flux of people, one thing remains: “Popcooorn . . . Popcooorn!” Over and over, the refrain is grating. “Popcoooorn . . . Popcoooo—”
“I’ll take one,” a deep voice says. I look up, but he’s facing the other direction—a tall man in dark jeans and a bright red polo shirt. Handing the kid a dollar, he grabs a box of popcorn. Without another word, he readjusts his sunglasses and heads to a bench on the opposite side of the promenade. I’m not sure what it is—maybe it’s the fact he’s alone; maybe it’s my own paranoia—but something tells me to watch him. Yet, just as I’m about to get my first good look at him, someone steps in front of me, blocking my view.
“Popcoooorn!” the kid announces, holding his red-and-white box in front of my face.
“Out of the way!” I shout.
He couldn’t care less. “Popcoooorn!” he continues. “Peeeee Vaaaaughn!”
I do a quick double take. “What’d you just say?”
“Popcoooorn . . . !”
As he steps aside, I look across the promenade. The man in the red shirt is gone. Turning back to the kid, I ask, “Was that—?”
He holds out his last red-and-white-striped box. “Popcoooorn . . . Pop—”
“I’ll take it.” One dollar later, the kid’s moved on, and I’m alone on the bench. I’m tempted to check over my shoulder, but it’s more important to appear calm. As casually as possible, I open the box. Inside, there’s barely any popcorn—just a handwritten note taped inside. I have to angle the box just right to read it. “Four P’s Pub. Three blocks north. Next to the Uptown.”
Closing the box, I can’t fight my instinct. I check to see who’s watching. As far as I can tell, no one’s there. A quick survey of the promenade shows everything’s normal. Family in, family out. Family in, family out. As the parade of smiles marches on, I walk back toward Connecticut and pass the popcorn cart. “Popcoooorn . . . !” Fully restocked, the kid doesn’t give me a second look. Instead, he heads back into the crowd. And I head three blocks up the street.
• • •
Sticking to the shady side of Connecticut Avenue, I try to keep my pace as quick as possible. At this speed, if someone’s behind me, they should be easy to spot. Still, my eyes dart from every parked car, to every tree, to every storefront. It all looks suspicious. Coming toward me, I see a woman jogging with her black Labrador. As she’s about to pass, I step into the street and look away. I’m not taking any chances—as long as I keep my head down, she can’t make an ID. When she’s gone, I get back on track.
In the distance, I can already see the red neon sign of the Uptown, the city’s greatest old-fashioned movie house and the neighborhood’s most popular monument. To its left, half a dozen restaurants and shops fight for attention. Dwarfed by the Uptown, they rarely get a second glance. Today, however, one jumps out: Ireland’s Four Provinces Restaurant and Pub.
Under the run-down green and red sign, I take a quick look up the block. Everything checks out—no khakis or polos in sight; none of the nearby cars have government plates. I even brush my eyes past the roof of the Uptown. Far as I can tell, no one’s taking photos. Heading for the entrance, I know this is it. Time to meet Vaughn.
As I pull open the door, I’m slapped in the face with bar whiff. It immediately reminds me of my first night with Nora. Inside, it’s set up like a real Irish pub. Sixteen to twenty tables, some framed stained glass Irish crests, and an old oak bar along the back wall. To my surprise, the place is packed. One guy’s wearing a mailman uniform. Another’s dressed by FedEx. I like this place. No tourists. Local crowd.
“Take a seat at the bar,” a waitress says as she blows by me. “I’ll have a table in a second.”
Following her instructions, I pull up a stool and scan the lunchtime group. Nothing too suspicious.
“How you doing?” the bartender asks as he pours a couple of sodas.
“Okay,” I say. “And you?”
Before he can answer, I hear a door on my far right creak open. Following the sound, I see a muscular guy wearing a ratty black T-shirt step out of the men’s room. He’s got a great Neanderthal brow that puts Darwinism to the test. Focused on the box scores of his folded-up newspaper, the man seems startled when he looks up and notices me.
“Wat you looking at, putzhead?” he asks in a heavy Brooklyn accent.
“No, nothing,” I reply. “Nothing.”
Shrugging me off, he moves back to his table in the corner. “Where the hell’s my san’wich?” he asks his waitress.
“Don’t bitch at me,” she warns. “They’re backed up in there.”
Convinced the waitress is going to spit in his food, I’m content to let him study his box scores. But just as I’m about to look away, I see him lay his folded-up newspaper back on the table. It hits with an unusual thud. That’s when I see it. There’s something hidden inside the paper. The tip of it peeks out toward the top. Like a thick black Magic Marker. Or the top of a walkie-talkie antenn—A cold chill runs down my back. Son of a bitch. That guy’s FBI.
I look away as fast as I can, pretending I haven’t seen anything. Just then, the front door swings open, shooting a flash of sunlight into the dark bar. When it closes, one person’s standing there. The guy with the red shirt who bought the popcorn. The sunglasses give him away. More FBI. Any minute now, Vaughn’s going to walk in that front door. And the moment he does, every agent in this room is going to be all over us.
My mind’s racing. The guy in the red shirt is heading toward me. Like it or not, I’ve got to abort this meeting. As quick as I can, I hop off the stool and head for the door. The agent with the walkie-talkie stands up at the same time, his chair screeching against the beer-stained floor. One in front of me; one on my right. They’re both moving, just in case I run. No matter how fast I am, I’m not going to lose them without a distraction. I point at the agent with the walkie-talkie. “FBI! He’s FBI!” I shout at the top of my lungs, assuming Vaughn’s listening.
Instinctively, the agent does exactly what I was hoping he’d do. He pulls his gun. That’s all it takes. Instant chaos. Everyone’s screaming. Both agents are mobbed by the crowd’s mad rush for the door. I’m about to join in when I feel someone grab me by the back collar of my shirt. Before I realize what’s happening, he throws me through the swinging doors of the kitchen. I crash to the ground in front of the industrial refrigerator. Stumbling to my feet, I get a quick look at my attacker. It’s the bartender.
“What’re you—”
He grabs me by the knot of my tie and drags me to the back of the kitchen. I’m trying to fight, but I can’t get my balance. My flailin
g arms are pulling pots and pans from every counter. “Sorry, kid,” he says. In one quick movement, he kicks open the back exit and shoves me out into the alley behind the restaurant.
Across the alley, the door to the building next door opens. “In here!” someone shouts in a Boston accent. I limp in, still struggling to catch my breath. Once inside I see that I’m in a dingy gray hallway that has all the charm of an unfinished basement. A single fluorescent light twitches from above. In the background, I hear the hum of two people talking. Like a movie. At the other end of the hallway is a metal door. Judging by the location, I’m in the emergency exitway for the Uptown.
Leaning back against the wall, I slowly sink to the floor.
“Having fun?” my host asks.
As soon as I look up, I recognize him from his mug shot. Finally. Vaughn.
He whips out a gun and presses the barrel against the center of my forehead. “You have exactly three seconds to tell me why you killed Caroline Penzler.”
CHAPTER 25
What the hell’s going on?” I ask.
“One . . . !”
“Are you nuts!?”
“Two . . . !”
“I didn’t kill her!” I cry as he pulls back the hammer on the gun. “I swear, I didn’t kill her! Why would you—”
“Three!” he shouts. “Sorry about this, Michael.”
His finger tightens and I clench my eyes shut.
“Itwasn’tme! Itwasn’tme! Iswearitwasn’tme!” I shout.
He pulls the trigger, but there’s no shot. Just a hollow click. I open my eyes. The gun’s empty.
Vaughn stands over me, studying my reaction.
“Are you insane?” I shout. My chest’s heaving and the sweat’s pouring down my face.
“Had to see for myself,” he says, stuffing his gun in the back of his pants.
“See what for yourself?”
He doesn’t answer, but whatever the test was, I passed. I think.
Unlike his mug shot, Vaughn no longer has the tiny mustache and the slicked-back hair. Today, he’s all style. Sharp haircut, Gucci loafers, and a slightly creased but otherwise beautiful silk shirt. His pants also look expensive but way too wrinkled. Like they’ve been worn too long. Or slept in.
