The First Counsel

* * *

As I walk from the White House to the Holocaust Museum, the sun is shining, the humidity's gone, and the sky is the brightest of blues. I hate the calm before the storm. Still, it's the perfect day for a long lunch, which is exactly the message I worked into my conversation with Simon's secretary.

According to Judy, Simon's got a luncheon up on the Hill in Senator McNider's office. To be safe, I called and confirmed it myself. Then I did the same with Adenauer. When his secretary wouldn't tell me where he was, I told her that I had some important information and that I'd call back at one-thirty. A half hour from now. I don't know if it'll work, but all it needs to do is slow him down. Keep him by the phone. And away from me.

Yet despite all my planning, as I let the loose change in my pocket roll through my fingers, I can't stop my hand from shaking. Every lingering glance is a reporter; every person I pass is the FBI. The ten-minute trip is a complete nightmare. Then I reach the Holocaust Museum.

"I have a reservation," I tell the woman at the ticket desk inside the entrance. She has tiny brown eyes and giant brown glasses, enhancing all the worst of her physical features.

"Your name?" she asks.

"Tony Manero."

"Here you go," she says, handing me a ticket. Entrance time: one o'clock. Two minutes from now.

I turn around and scan the lobby. The only people who don't look suspicious are the two mothers yelling at their kids. As I walk toward the elevators, I steal Nora's best trick and pull my baseball cap down over my eyes.

Outside the elevators, a small group of tourists hovers in front of the doors, anxious to get started. I stay toward the back, watching the crowd. As we wait for the elevators to arrive, more people fill in behind me. I stand on my tiptoes, trying to get a better view. This shouldn't be taking so long. Something's wrong.

Around me, the crowd's getting restless. No one's shoving, but elbow room is dwindling. A heavyset man in a blue windbreaker brushes against me, and I jerk my arm out of the way, accidentally elbowing the teenage girl behind me. "Sorry," I tell her.

"No worries," she says in a hushed tone. Her dad nods awkwardly. So does the woman next to her. There're too many people to keep track of. Space is getting tight.

The worst part is, they're still letting people into the museum. We're all pushed forward in a human tide. Frantically, I search the crowd, scrutinizing every face. It's too much. I feel myself burning up. It's getting harder to breathe. The raw-brick walls are closing in. I'm trying to focus on the elevator's dark steel doors and their exposed gray bolts, as if that'll provide any relief.

Finally, a bell rings as the elevator arrives. It's as heavy-handed as they come, but the elevator operator says it best: "Welcome to the Holocaust Museum."

Chapter 21

Can you tell me how to get to the Registry of Survivors?"

"Just around the corner," a man with a name tag says. "It's the first door on your right."

As I head toward the room, I take a quick scan for Vaughn. The mug shot I saw was a few years old, but I know who I'm looking for. Thin little mustache. Slicked-back hair. I don't know why he picked this museum. If he's really worried about the FBI, it's not an easy place for us to hide--which is exactly what I'm afraid of.

Convinced that he's not standing outside the room, I pull open the glass door and enter the Registry of Survivors. First I check the ceiling. No security camera in sight. Good. Next I check the walls. There it is, in the back right-hand corner. The reason he picked this room: an emergency exit fire door. If it all goes to hell, he has a way out--which means either he's just as worried about me, or that's part of his deal with the authorities.

The room itself is modest in size and sectioned off by dividers. It houses eight state-of-the-art computers, which have access to the museum's list of over seventy thousand Holocaust survivors. At almost every terminal, two to three people are crowded around the monitor, searching for their loved ones. Not a single one of them looks up as I head to the back. Checking the rest of the room, I reassure myself that leaving Trey back at the office was a good idea. We could've put him in a disguise, but after having him spotted at the pay phone, it wasn't worth the risk. I need my two thirds.

I sit down at an empty computer terminal and wait. For twenty minutes, I keep my eyes on the door. Whoever comes in; whoever goes out--I crane my head above the divider, analyzing everyone. Maybe he doesn't want me to be so obvious, I finally decide. Changing my tactics, I stare at the computer monitor and listen to the voices of all the other people around me.

"I told you she lived in Poland."

"With a K, not a CH!"

"That's your great-grandmother."

In a museum that's dedicated to remembering six million people who died, this little room focuses on the lucky few who lived. Not a bad place to be.