The First Counsel

* * *

A quick stop in the men's room sends the rest of Nora's Special K down the sink before I finally head back to my office. For the next hour, my eyes are glued to my small TV. Hartson's schmoozing must've worked--Stulberg's opening ran over by a solid two minutes, giving Nora just enough time to change into a new dress and put some blush on her cheeks.

As expected, most of the questions go to the President, but Stulberg's no dummy. America loves the family--which is why the sixth question goes to Nora. And the seventh. And the tenth. And the eleventh. And the twelfth. With each one, I hold my breath. But whatever she's asked, whether it's about her indecisive post-graduation plans, or what it's like moving back into the White House, Nora takes it in. Sometimes she stutters, sometimes she tucks her hair behind her ear, but for every answer, she's all poise and smiles--never an argument. She even gets in a joke about being called the First Freeloader, a subtle moment of humility that'll have the Sunday talk show pundits gushing over themselves with praise.

At nine o'clock it's over, and I'm honestly amazed. Somehow, as always, Nora pulled it off--which means any minute now, someone's going to . . .

"What kind of medal do I get?" Trey asks as my office door swings open. "Purple Heart? Medal of Honor? Red Badge of Courage?"

"What's the one for when you take it in the gut?"

"Purple Heart's for when you're wounded."

"Then that's the one you get."

"Fine. Thank you. You get one too." Reaching my sofa, Trey collapses in it. We're both deathly silent. Neither of us has to say a word.

Eventually, though, I give in. "Did the First Lady say anything to you?"

Trey shakes his head. "Like it never happened."

"What about Nora?"

"She mouthed a thank you on the way out." Sitting up straight, he adds, "Let me tell you something, my friend--that girl is Queen of the Psychos, know what I'm saying?"

"I don't want to get into it."

"Why? You're suddenly so busy?"

There's a loud knock on my door.

I glance over at Trey. "Who is it?" I call out.

The door opens and a familiar figure steps inside. My mouth goes dry.

Reading my expression, Trey looks over his shoulder. "Hey, Pam," he says nonchalantly.

"Nice job on the interview," she replies. "They're still celebrating in the Dip Room. Even Hartson looked relaxed."

Trey can't help but beam. My eyes stay locked on Pam. I can read it in her smile. She has no idea what we've seen. Or what we know.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Nothing," she replies. "Meanwhile, did you see the online poll NBC did with the Herald? After the interview, they asked one hundred fifth-graders if they wanted to be Nora Hartson. Nineteen said yes because they could get away with whatever they wanted. Eighty-one said no because it wasn't worth the headache. And they say our education policy is having no effect? Please--eighty-one of them are Einsteins."

Avoiding a response, I keep it calm. "Trey, don't you have to get Mrs. Hartson off to that fund-raiser?"

"No." He's hoping to stay and watch the show.

I give him a look. "Don't you have a hobby or something you're supposed to be working on?"

"Hobby?" he asks with a laugh. "I work here."

I tighten the look.

"Fine, fine, I'm out of your way." Heading to the door, he adds, "Nice seeing you, Pam."

Cat's out of the bag. She knows something's up. "What was that about?" she asks.

I wait for Trey to shut the door. With a slam, he's gone. Here we go.

Chapter 28

What's going on?" Pam asks, standing in front of my desk.

I'm not sure where to begin. "Are you . . . Have you ever . . ."

"Spit it out, Michael."

"Have you been listening in on my phone line?"

She drops her briefcase, letting it sag to the floor. "Excuse me?"

"Tell me the truth, Pam--have you been listening in?"

Unlike Nora, Pam doesn't detonate. Instead, she's confused. "How could I possibly listen in?"

"I heard your phone--I saw how it works."

"What're you . . . What phone?"

"The phone in the anteroom!"

"What are you talking about?"

I push myself away from my desk and storm through the anteroom, into Pam's office. Picking up the phone, I dial my extension. Two phones ring simultaneously. The one in my office and the one on the anteroom's small desk. "They're the same lines!" I shout. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice you had the ringer turned off?"

"Michael, I swear on my life, if those lines are the same, I never knew it. You've seen me when I sit out there--it's just to use the phone."

"That's my point."

"Wait a minute," she says, finally getting annoyed. "You think I was faking those conversations? That that was some secret ploy to fool you?"

"You tell me. You're the one who was on the line."

"On the . . . ? I can't believe you, Michael. After all we've . . . Who fed you this one? Was it Nora?"

"Don't bring her into this."

"Don't tell me what to do. Regardless of what you saw with Simon, the world's not out to get you. You know how our system runs here--it's still the federal government. Maybe the lines got crossed when they did the repair."

"And maybe it's been like that all along."

"Stop saying that!"

"Then tell me the truth."

"I already have, dammit!"

"So that's it? The lines were separate, and when they made the last repair, they crossed yours into mine?"

"I don't know what else you want me to say! I didn't know!"

"And you never listened in?"

"Never! Not once!"

Watching her get riled doesn't make it any easier. "Then I can take you at your word?"

She takes a few steps toward me. "Michael, this is me."

"Answer the question."

She still can't believe it. "I wouldn't lie to you," she insists. "Ever."

"Are you sure?"

"I swear."

She asked for this one. I look her straight in the eye and smack her with it. "Then why didn't you tell me Caroline had your file?"

Pam stops dead in her tracks. She's too smart to come any closer.

"C'mon, Pam, you're a bigshot now--where's your bigshot answer?"

Refusing to reply, she clenches her jaw in silence.

"I asked you a question."

Still nothing.

"Did you hear what I said, Pam? I asked y--"

"How'd you find out she had it?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Tell me who told you."

"It doesn't matter who told me, I--"

"I want to know!" she demands. "It was Nora, wasn't it? She's always butting--"

"Nora had nothing to do with it. And even if she did, it doesn't change the facts. Now why did Caroline have your file?"

She walks across the anteroom and rests against the small table that houses the fax machine. Leaning forward, she holds her side like she has a stomachache. It's a vertical fetal position.

"I knew it was her," she says. "I knew it."

"Knew it was who?"

"Caroline. She was the one with the access. I just didn't want to believe it."

"I don't understand. What's in the file?"

"Nothing's in the file. That's not how she worked."

"Pam, stop being cryptic and tell me what the hell she did."

"I'm assuming she picked apart the fine print. That's what she was good at. I mean, it's not like your file says 'Son pulled strings for retarded father.' She probably just noticed that all your dad's residences were group homes. A little legwork later, she had everything she needed."

"So what was in your fine print?"

"You have to understand, it was right when I first started. I was still . . ."

"Tell me what you did," I insist.

Pausing, she takes her knuckle and lightly knocks it a few times against her cheek. Penance. "Do you promise you won't tell anyone?"

"Pam . . ."

She knows me better than that. Eventually, she asks, "Do you remember what Caroline was working on when I got here?"

I think about it for a second and shake my head.

"Here's a hint--when Blake announced his resignation . . ."

". . . Kuttler was nominated. She was filling Blake's seat on the Supreme Court."

"That's the one," Pam says. "And you know how it is when a Justice gives up his seat. Every lawyer worth his pinstripes starts thinking he's pretty. So when Senior Staff started working on the list of nominees, it fell to us to check them out. Around the same time, I got smacked with my first law school loan bill. With ninety thousand dollars in loans, that's over a thousand dollars every month. Add that to the first and last months' rent on the apartment I had just moved into, plus security deposit, plus car payments, plus insurance, plus credit card debt, plus the fact that it takes a month before you get your first paycheck--I was here a total of nine days and I was already sinking hard. Suddenly, I'm contacted by a Washington Post reporter named Inez Cotigliano."

"That's the woman who--"

"I know who she is, Michael. She was my next-door neighbor during my senior year of college."

"So you're the one who--"

"I never told her about you. I swear on my mother's life. We had one dance and that was it. Believe me, that was more than enough."

I cross my arms. "I'm listening."

"Anyway, as I was vetting all the potential Court nominees, Inez, like every hungry reporter in the city, was trying to find out who was on the short list."

"Pam, don't tell me you--"

"She offered me five thousand dollars for confirmation that Kuttler was the front-runner. I didn't know what else to do. I'd be fine once the paychecks started flowing, but that was three weeks away." As she tells the story, she refuses to face me.

"So the Post fronted the cash?"

"The Post? They'd never let that happen. It was all out of Inez's own pocket--she was dying to make it big. Her dad's some Connecticut trust-fund guy. Family has the patent on aspirin or something ridiculous like that."

"That was confidential information."

"Michael, she showed up on the worst day of my life. And if it makes you feel any better, I was so wracked with guilt, I eventually paid her back the money. Took me almost a year to do it."

"She still had the infor--" I cut myself short. It's so easy to judge; just grab the gavel. The only catch is, I know what it's like to get my fingers pounded. "Must've been a big day for Inez."

"Her first front-page story--below the fold, but on A1--'Hartson Down to Three; Kuttler Leading Pack.' It didn't matter, though. The Herald beat her to the punch. They ran a similar story the same day, which I guess means I wasn't the only one leaking."

"That's pure rationalization and you know it."

"I never gave her anything concrete; I just told her the front-runner."

"So what happened? Caroline found out?"

"Took her less than a week," Pam says. "Flipping through my file, Caroline probably spotted the connection. Inez Cotigliano. College neighbor. New reporter. As soon as she found it, she could've fired me, but that's her MO--keep the people with the problems around and cash in on their secrets. Next thing I know, I'm stuck in the web."

"What'd she do?"

For the first time since we started talking, Pam looks up at me. Her eyes are wide with the fear of judgment.

"What'd she do?" I repeat.

"Four days after the story ran, I got an anonymous note asking me to pay ten thousand dollars. Two payments. Six months apart." Looking wobbly, she takes a seat. "I didn't sleep for days. Every time I closed my eyes, I'm telling you, I can still see it: Everything I worked for--dangling right there in front of me. It got so bad, I started coughing up blood. But in the end . . . there was no way around it . . . I couldn't afford to start from scratch." Shading her eyes with her hands, she rubs the top of her forehead in slow, tense circles. "I left the money in an Amtrak locker in Union Station."

"I thought you didn't have any--"

"Sold my car, went delinquent on my loans, and maxed out the cash advances on every credit card I could find. Better to have bad credit than no career."

She says something else, but I'm not listening. A swell of rage crashes against the base of my skull. Even my toes clench for this one.

"What?" she asks, reading the anger on my face.

"You knew," I growl. "You knew the whole time she was the blackmailer!"

"That's not--"

"You sent me right to her! When I came in that first day, I asked you if Caroline could be trusted. You said yes! What the hell were you thinking?"

"Michael, calm down."

"Why? So you can talk through your teeth some more? Or serve me back up to Inez? You lied to me, Pam! You lied about the phone, you lied about the file, and you lied about Caroline! Think about it for once--if I hadn't gone to see her that day, none of this--" Once again, I cut myself off and take a careful look at Pam. Cocking my head, I watch the prism shift. She knows what's running through my brain.

"Hold on a second," she interrupts. "You don't think I . . . ?"

"You telling me I'm wrong?"

"Michael, are you nuts? I didn't kill her!"

"You said it, not me."

"I'd never hurt her! Never!" she insists. "I swear--I thought she was my friend!"

"Really? So do all your friends blackmail you for large sums of cash? Because if that's the case, I could use a few extra grand. Small bills, of course."

"You're an asshole."

"Call me whatever you want--at least I'm not squeezing you for hush money. I mean, if that's a friend, I'd hate to see your enemies."

"I didn't have any enemies. Not until now."

"What about--"

"Don't you get it, Michael? Have you even been listening? All I got was a note and a location. I never knew who it was."

"But you knew Caroline had access to the files."

"That didn't matter--she's my--" She stops. "She was like family."

It takes me a second to process the information. "So you never suspected her?"

"I suspected you before I suspected her."

I'm not sure how to deal with that one.

"Besides," Pam continues, "you don't need FBI files to find out Inez and I went to school together. I figured someone else put two and two together, then did the research on their own."

"Well, didn't you think it was odd when Caroline showed up dead with thirty grand in her safe and all our files on her desk? I mean, if you're looking for a blackmailer . . ."

"I swear to you, that's the first I ever thought of it. It wasn't until that moment that I even raised an eyebrow."

"Raised an eyebrow? It's a damn DNA print--all she's missing is blood on her fingertips and a forehead tattoo that says 'Will Victimize for Cash'!"

"Don't make a joke of this!"

"Then stop acting stupid! Once Caroline was killed, you knew she was the blackmailer. I've been chasing my tail all this time, and you never gave me a clue! Not once!"

"You already knew, Michael."

"I didn't--"

"You did!" she shouts with newfound rage. "You said it that night we had Thai food. You wondered whether Simon was being blackmailed."

"And you could've told me the answer. Yes! He probably was! Just like me! Instead, you left me to rot!"

"How dare you say that? I've been by your side since the moment this thing started!"

"Then why didn't you tell me about what happened with Inez?"

"Because I didn't want you to know!" she yells, her voice booming through the office. "There! Is that what you want? I was mortified when it happened--sick to my stomach. Then, as if the act alone weren't bad enough, Caroline took my worst moment and humiliated me with it. You of all people should understand--dirty laundry's better kept in the closet."

"It still doesn't--"

"That's the only thing I hid from you, Michael. My own personal black eye. Everything else, I told the truth. And if you didn't guess blackmail on your own, I would've pushed you there myself."

"You still sicced Inez on me."

"You don't believe that for a second."

She's right. I was bluffing to see her reaction. Near as I can tell, she passes. "So you've never spoken to Inez about this?"

"She called me the day after it happened. I told her even less than I told the FBI. Trust me, if I wanted to screw you over, I would've done the easiest thing of all."

"And what's that?"

She looks me dead in the eye. "I would've told them about you. And the money. And Nora. I could've made at least twenty grand on that one." There it is. Guerrilla honesty. If it weren't so disconcerting, I'd probably laugh.

"So you never knew it was Caroline demanding the money?" I ask again.

"I don't think anyone did. Walk through it--why else would Simon drop that money in the woods? If he knew it was Caroline, he could've paid her face-to-face."

It's not a bad theory. "Maybe that's why he killed her. When he went to tell her his bullshit side of the story, she made some snide comment and he realized she was Miss Moneypenny."

"But to kill her for that? No offense, but, so what? She knows he's gay. Who cares?"

"Certainly not Simon. If he did, he never would've shown up undisguised at a gay bar. Which is why I think it's more than just the gay part--don't forget, Simon's got a wife and three kids. Whatever you think, that's still a life-wrecker."

We both sit in silence, nodding in agreement. Eventually, Pam says, "I still think Caroline knew something about Nora."

"I don't want to talk about it."

She pauses a second. "And if she weren't dead, I bet she would've blackmailed you. That's why she had your file."

"We'll never know," I say, glad to change the subject. "That's her secret."

"Speaking of secrets, what about mine?" Pam asks, leaping at her own segue. "You plan on turning me in?"

"You're the new Queen of Ethics. You plan on ratting out my dad?"

We look at each other for a long moment and then dip our heads in an awkwardly relieved bow.

"Can I ask you one last question," I add as she turns to leave. "What ever happened with Vaughn's FBI file? You said you were going to get it for us."

"I thought you got it from Lamb."

"I did. I just want to know why I didn't get it from you."

Just like that, her smile's gone. Her eyebrows tighten and her mouth sags open in pain. No, not pain. Sadness. Disappointment. "You still think I . . . After all we just . . ." Her voice once again trails off.

"What? What'd I say?"

She's done giving me answers. Rushing toward the main door of the office, she covers her mouth with her hand and fights back tears. "I tried my best, Michael."

I'm about to follow when I'm interrupted by the ringing of my phone. The ring echoes simultaneously from my office and out here in the anteroom. I check out the caller ID. Outside Call. A few feet away, Pam grabs the door and pulls it open. In a second, she'll be gone. It's a hard one, but I make my choice.

"This is Michael," I say as I pick up the phone.

As Pam leaves, the door slams with a thunderclap. I shut my eyes tight to avoid the noise.

"Ready to put on the fear face?" an excited voice asks on the other line.

I recognize it instantly. Vaughn. "Are you crazy?" I shout. "They could be--"

"Takes 'em eighty seconds ta trace a phone call. They're not gonna find nothin'."

"This better be good."

"Would I be botherin' you if it weren't?"

I ignore the question. "Twenty seconds."

He gets right into it. "So I started askin' my boys 'bout your li'l lady friend--y'know, with the powerful daddy?"

"I got it," I snap.

"Found a couple people who know her. Seems that she's still got a little bit of an ear, nose, and throat problem--emphasis on the nose. And when it comes to Special K? She's buyin' like it's double coupon days--buddy of my buddy Pryce says that's their favorite."

"Their? Who's they?"

"See, that's where the shoe pinches," he says as his voice gets serious. "She's too smart to buy her candy herself, so she sends her boyfriend out for it."

"Her boyfriend?"

"That's why I wanted to call. I'm thinkin' you got a little suckered that night in the bar. Accordin' to my best source out here--and he swears on his cousin's life it's the truth . . ."

"Tell me who it is," I demand.

He throws it right at my gut. "No easy way to say it, Michael. She's sleeping with the old man. Your favorite boss."

Simon. I don't . . . He can't . . . The wind's knocked out of me so fast, I almost drop the phone. My arm goes numb and slides down the side of my chest. It can't be.

"I know," Vaughn says. "Makes you want to reach for the Charmin, don't it?" Before I can answer, he adds, "My boy said when they first met him, he thought he was all sly--like we don't watch CNN or nothin'. Anyway, they staked him out--worried he was bein' followed. When the deal's done, he goes back to his car--and one of my boys who's lurkin'--he swears he sees Nora hidin' in the front seat. Big kiss on the lips when Sugar Daddy comes home--she was all over him. And when they climb in the back--Action Jackson, baby. He does her right there--up against the side window. My boy says she's wild too. Likes to take it in the--"

"I don't want to hear it."

"I'm sure you don't, but if she's tuggin' your ya-ya, you gotta know where she's goin' with it. Which means we better make some time to get together."

"What about Si--"

"Ten seconds," he interrupts. "Write this down. A week from Friday. Seven at night. Woodley Park Marriott--Warren Room. Ya got it?"

"Yeah, I--"

"Five seconds. Plenty to spare."

"But we--"

"See you next Friday, Mikey. It'll be worth it." With a click, he's gone.

Alone in the anteroom, I'm pounded by silence. It doesn't make any sense. If she . . . she can't. There's no way. With a tight fist, I tap my knuckles against the desk. It can't be. I hit a little harder. And harder. And harder. I hammer the desk until my knuckles are raw. The middle one's starting to bleed. Just like Nora's nose.

Searching for answers, I reread the note I jotted for myself. A week from Friday. Seven P.M. Woodley Park Marriott. Warren Room. I still can't shake the nausea that's choking me, but I remember what he told me right before we split up in the movie theater. Always subtract seven. Seven days, seven hours. In the blink of an eye, seven P.M. becomes twelve noon. A week from Friday becomes this Friday. Tomorrow. Noon tomorrow at the Woodley Park Marriott.

The code was all Vaughn's idea. If the FBI was able to get that close to our meeting at the zoo, it was going to take more than another popcorn kid to buy us some privacy. I take the extra few seconds and scribble in the revised time. Stuffing the handwritten note in my pocket, I dash back to my office--and back to the one person who can answer my questions.

According to the toaster, Nora's in the Residence, but a quick phone call to her room suggests otherwise. I flip through my copy of the President's schedule and see why. In fifteen minutes, the First Family is taking off so they can spend all of tomorrow morning at breakfast fund-raisers. New York and New Jersey. Five stops in all, including the overnight. I glance at my watch, then back at the schedule. If I run, I can still catch her. I tear out of my office. I have to know. As I pull the main door open, however, I see someone standing between me and the hallway.

"How're you doing?" Agent Adenauer asks. "Mind if I come in?"

Chapter 29

Why so out of breath?" Adenauer asks as he backs me into the anteroom. "Worried about something?"

"Not at all," I say with my bravest face.

"What're you doing here so late?"

"I was going to ask the same thing of you."

He keeps moving forward, pushing toward my office. I stand my ground in the anteroom.

"So where're you running to?" he asks.

"Just going to watch the departure. Takeoff's in ten minutes."

He studies my answer, annoyed that it came so quick. "Michael, can we sit down for a second?"

"I would, but I'm about to--"

"I'd like to talk about tomorrow."

He doesn't blink. "Let's go," I say, turning toward my office. I head for my desk; he heads for the couch. I already don't like it. He's too comfortable. "So what's going on with you?" I ask, trying to move us along.

"Nothing," he says coldly. "I've been looking at those files."

"Find anything interesting?"

"I didn't realize you were originally pre-med," he says. "You're a man of many parts."

I'm ready to mouth off, but it's not going to get me anywhere. If I plan to talk him out of going public tomorrow, he'll need some honesty. "It's the dream of every kid with sick parents," I tell him. "Become a doctor; save their lives. Only problem was, I hated every minute of it. I don't like tests with right answers. Give me an essay any day."

"Still, you stayed with it until sophomore year--even made it through physiology."

"What's your point?"

"No point at all. Just wondering if they ever taught you anything about monoamine oxidase inhibitors."

"What're you talking abou--"

"It's amazing, really," he interrupts. "You have two medications that separately are harmless. But if you mix them together--well, let's just say it's not a good thing." He's watching me way too carefully. Here it comes. "Let me give you an example," he continues. "Let's pretend you're a candidate for the antidepressant Quarnil. You tell your psychiatrist you're feeling bad; he prescribes some, and suddenly you're feeling better. Problem solved. Of course, as with any drug, you have to read the warning label. And if you read the one on Quarnil, you'll see that, while you're taking it, you're supposed to stay away from all sorts of things: yogurt, beer and wine, pickled herring . . . and something called pseudoephedrine."

"Pseudo-what?"

"Funny, that's what I thought you'd say." Losing his smile, he adds, "Sudafed, Michael. One of the world's best-selling decongestants. Mix that with Quarnil and it'll shut you down faster than an emergency brake on a bullet train. Instant stroke. The strange part is, on the surface it'll look like a simple heart attack."

"You're saying that's how Caroline died? A mixture of Quarnil and Sudafed?"

"It's just a theory," he says unconvincingly.

I give him a look.

"The Sudafed was dissolved in her coffeepot," Adenauer explains. "A dozen tablets, judging by the strength of the sample we scooped up. She never saw it coming."

"What about the Quarnil?"

"She's been taking it for years. Ever since she started working here." He pauses. "Michael, whoever did this did their homework. They knew she was already on Quarnil. And they had to have more than a basic understanding of physiology."

"So that's your grand theory? You think they taught me this at Michigan? Poison 101: How to Kill Your Friends with Household Products?"

"You said it, not me."

We both know it's a stretch, but if he's been through my college transcript, it means they're tearing my life apart. Hard. "You're on the wrong track," I tell him. "I don't play around with drugs. Never have; never will."

"Then what were you doing yesterday at the zoo?" That's what he was waiting for. I walked right into it.

"Watching the monkeys," I say. "It's amazing now--they all have walkie-talkies."

He shakes his head with parental disapproval. "You have no idea who you're dealing with, do you? Vaughn's not just the local bully. He's a killer."

"I know what I'm doing."

"I'm not sure you do. He'll slice you open for fun. You heard what he did to his buddy Morty--piano wire through his--"

"I don't think he did it."

"Is that what Vaughn told you?"

"Just a theory," I say.

He stands up from the sofa and walks toward my desk. "Michael, let me paint a little picture for you. You and Vaughn are standing on the edge of a cliff. And the only way to safety is a rickety bamboo bridge that leads to the other side. Problem is, this bridge is only strong enough to hold one more person. After that, it's going to crumble into the canyon. You know what happens next?"

"Let me guess--Vaughn runs across."

"No. He stabs you in the back, then he takes your canteen, then he swipes your wallet, then he runs across. Laughing all the way."

"That's a pretty complex analogy."

"I'm only trying to help you, Garrick. I really am. According to eyewitnesses, you were the last one who saw her. According to the tox reports, she was killed by someone who knows their drugs. According to WAVES records, you let Vaughn in. Now I don't care what your little arrangement was with Nora--either way, I've got him linked to you. You're standing on the edge of a cliff. What do you want to do?"

I don't give him an answer.

"Whatever they're telling you is cow-pie. They don't care about you, Michael."

"And you do?"

"Despite what you think, I don't want to see you throw your life away on this--I respect how you got here. Make it easy on us and I promise you, I'll make it easy on you."

"What do you mean 'make it easy'?"

"You know what we're after. Tie Nora to Vaughn--drug user to drug dealer to drug-related death. Give us that and we're done."

"But they don't--"

"Don't tell me they don't know each other--I'm sick of the bullshit. If you don't give us Nora's link to Vaughn, we'll just use Vaughn's link to you."

"Even if you know it's not true?"

"Not true? Garrick, the only reason I'm holding out this long is because she's the President's daughter--the proof has to be airtight. If I can't get it on her, though, like I said, I'm just as happy to start with you. Y'see, once I put you out there--once the press realizes you're dating--it doesn't take a genius to fill in the rest. It may take an extra step, but Nora's not going anywhere." Pressing the tips of his fingers tightly against my desk, he leans in close. "And unless you give us the link, neither are you."

As he pulls away, I'm speechless.

"I can still help you, Michael. You have my word."

"But if I--"

"Why don't you think about it overnight?" he suggests. He's not changing his deadline, but I still need to stall--until after my noon meeting with Vaughn.

"Can I at least have until the end of the day tomorrow? There's one last thing I want to ask Nora about. If I'm right, you'll understand. If I'm wrong and it doesn't come through--you can slap a big red ribbon on me and I'll personally hand myself to the press."

He takes a moment to think about it. A promise with actual results. "Five o'clock tomorrow," he finally says. "But remember what I told you--Vaughn's just looking for another sucker. As soon as you're in harm's way, he's going to duck out."

I nod as he heads for the door. "I'll see you at five o'clock."

"Five o'clock it is." He's about to leave when he turns around, his hand still on the doorknob. "By the way," he says. "What'd you think of Nora on Dateline?"

My stomach sinks as he pulls tight on the noose. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. She was pretty good, huh? You'd never know they were in the margin of error--it was like she was holding the whole family together."

I study his eyes, trying to read between the lines. There's no reason for him to bring up poll numbers. "She's strong when she needs to be," I say.

"So I guess that means she doesn't need much protection." Before I can respond, he adds, "Of course, maybe I have it backwards. These media things always make it look like more than it is, don't you think?" With a knowing nod, he turns back to the anteroom, flips off the light switch, and leaves the room. The door slams behind him.

Alone in the dark, I replay Adenauer's last words. Even if we're both still missing a few pieces, he's got enough to make a picture. That's why he's made his decision: No matter what I do, for me, it's over. The only question now is who I'm going to drag down with me.