The First Counsel

* * *

Racing across the soft red carpet of the Ground Floor Corridor, I see a phalanx of sightseers in the middle of a VIP White House tour led by one of the Secret Service tour guides. As I blow past them, two people take my picture. They think I'm famous. If things keep going in this direction, they're going to be right.

I don't stop until I reach the uniformed guard who sits outside the movie theater. "Can I ask you a favor?" I beg, my voice racing.

He doesn't answer. He just looks at me, judging.

"I know this is going to sound crazy," I begin, "but I was using the bathroom in the OEOB . . ."

"Which one?"

"On the first floor--the one near Cabinet Affairs. Anyway, I'm in the stall and I hear two interns bragging about the . . . uh"--I motion over my shoulder toward the utility box--"about the gun you keep in there." He sits up straight. "Maybe I heard it wrong--they were whispering the whole time--but it sounded like they either knew a gun was there, or that they had taken a gun from there. It may just be bragging but . . ."

He leaps from his seat, sending his chair sliding backwards across the marble floor. Warning me to stand back, he pulls a set of keys from his belt and heads for the still semidented utility box. I watch silently as he fights with the lock--it's stuck. My whole body's burning up. It's like someone's pounding on my skull. All I hear is the jingling of keys. He's standing in front of me--I can't see a thing. It looks like he's pulling on the door. Harder. Harder. Then . . . I hear the scratch of rusted metal. The door swings open, and the guard looks back at me. Stepping out of the way, he lets me see it for myself. The gun is sitting right where it's supposed to be.

"Sorry," I say with forced relief. "I must've heard it wrong."

"It appears that way, doesn't it?"

I shrug and turn around, backtracking past the Lincoln statue. The moment I turn the corner, I shoot out of there, running as fast as I can through the Ground Floor Corridor. It's a good sign, but she could've easily put it back.

Three-quarters down the hallway, as I approach the main staircase to the Residence, I finally slow down. As always, my ID and a decisive nod get me past the downstairs guard. "One up," he whispers into his walkie-talkie.

I fly up the stairs two at a time knowing I'm going to be stopped. I could've called her to clear me in, but I didn't want anyone to know I was coming. Surprise is all I have left--and despite the gun, I still want to see her reaction myself. Sure enough, as I reach the State Floor, two Secret Service officers block my way.

"Can I help you?" the one with black hair asks.

"I need to see Nora. It's an emergency."

"And you are . . ."

"Tell her it's Michael--she'll know."

Checking me out, he takes a quick look at my ID. "I'm sorry--she asked not to be disturbed."

I try to keep calm. "Listen, I don't mean to be a pain. Just give her a call. It's important."

"You already got your answer," the second officer adds. "What word didn't you understand?"

"I understood all of them. I'm just trying to save us some headache."

"Listen, sir . . ."

"No, you listen," I push back. "I came here completely civilized--you're the one who picked the fight. Now I've got a real crisis to deal with, so you have one of two choices: You can make a simple phone call and explain that it's an emergency, or you can brush me away and deal with the wrath of Nora yourself when she finds out that you're the one who caused this shithouse of a mess. Personally, I'm partial to the latter--I love bloodsports."

He studies me carefully, moving in close. Eventually, he growls, "Those're my orders . . . sir. She's not to be disturbed."

Refusing to give in, I look up at the small surveillance camera hidden in the air-conditioning vent. Time to go over his head. "Harry, I know you're watching . . ."

"I'm asking you to leave," the officer warns.

"Just call her," I plead toward the ceiling. "All you have to do is--" Before I can finish, three plainclothes officers run up the stairs. Leading the way is Harry.

"We told him she didn't want to be bothered," the officer explains.

"I have to see her, Harry. I--" The officer cuts me off by seizing the back of my neck in a tight grip.

"Loosen up," Harry warns.

"But he--"

"I want to hear what he has to say, Parness." Parness gets the picture. Uniformed officers don't argue with plainclothes.

Following instructions, he relaxes just a bit.

"Now where's the fire?" Harry asks.

"I have to speak to her."

"For personal reasons or official White House business?"

"C'mon, you know what it's about. You were there that night."

He throws me the most subtle of nods.

"It's important, Harry. I wouldn't come like this if it weren't. Please."

The other officers stare him down. They all know Nora's orders. She didn't want to be bothered. Still, it's all in his court. Finally, he says, "We'll call her."

I smile faintly.

He heads into the nearby Usher's Office and picks up the phone. I can't hear what he's saying, and to make sure we don't read his lips, he turns his back to us.

When he's done, he comes back into the stairwell. He looks at me deadpan. "Today's your lucky day."

I breathe deeply once and run for the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the officer with the black hair opening the visitors log to record my name. Shaking his head, Harry stops him. "Not this one," he says.

Chapter 31

As I enter Nora's room, I see her quickly close a desk drawer. Spinning around to face me, she puts on a big smile. It fades almost instantly. "What's wrong?"

"Where've you been for the past two hours?"

"R-Right here," she says. "Signing letters. Now tell me what's--"

"Don't lie to me, Nora."

"I'm not lying! Ask the Service--I haven't left once."

It's a hard one to argue, but there's still . . . "Have you seen a little scrap of paper?" I ask, scouring her bed.

"What're you--"

"A scrap of paper," I repeat, raising my voice and checking the hand-sewn carpet. "I think I dropped it this morning. It had the words 'Woodley Park Marriott' on it."

"Michael, calm down. I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm not doing this anymore, Nora. That's it. It's over. I'm sorry if it's going to get you in trouble, but you're the only one who can back me up. All you have to say is Simon had the money, and then I can--"

She grabs me by the shoulders and stops me in my place. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"They killed him, Nora. Blew a hole straight through his forehead."

"Who? Whose forehead?"

"Vaughn. They killed Vaughn." As I say the words, a geyser of emotion erupts up my throat. "His eyes . . ." I say. "Why did he . . . He was helping me, Nora. Me!"

Her mouth quivers and she steps away from me.

"What're you . . ."

Before I can finish the thought, she backs into the bed and sits down on the mattress. Her hand is cupped over her mouth; her eyes well up with tears. "Oh my God."

"I'm telling you, they're going to come straight at me for this one . . ."

"Okay, hold on a second," she says, her voice shaking. "When did this . . . Oh, God . . . Where did it happen?"

"At the hotel . . . we were supposed to meet at the Marriott. But when I walked in the room--he was just lying there, Nora--no one to blame but me."

"How did he . . ."

"A bullet. Right in his head. He probably opened the door and--one shot. That's all it took. Where he fell . . . everything . . . his brain . . . He was all over the carpet."

"And you . . ."

"I fell over him . . . on him. They'll find my prints everywhere--the doorknob . . . his belt . . . all they need's a hair follicle. He was just lying there. Blood was foaming at his mouth . . . hardened bubbles . . . but he wouldn't move . . . couldn't. It was everywhere, Nora . . . my hands . . . my tie . . . everywhere . . ."

She quickly looks up. "Did anyone see you?"

"I was worried the FBI was there, but I don't think I would've gotten this far if they--"

The sound of her telephone screams through the room. Both of us jump.

"Just let it ring," she tells me.

"But what if it's . . ."

The two of us look at each other. Safe versus sorry.

Naturally, she's the first to react. "I should . . ."

". . . pick it up," I agree.

Slowly, Nora heads for her desk. The ringing continues, insistently.

She lifts the receiver. "Hello?" she says, hesitating. In an instant, she looks my way. Not good. "Yeah. Yeah, he is," she adds as she holds out the phone in an outstretched arm. "It's for you."

Anxiously, I take the phone. "This is Michael," I say, fighting vertigo.

"I knew you'd be there. I knew it! What the hell is wrong with you?" someone shouts. The voice is familiar.

"Trey?"

"I thought you were going to stay away from her."

"I-I was . . . I just--"

"It doesn't matter. Get out of there."

"You don't understand."

"Trust me, Michael--you're the one who's missing it. I just got a call from--"

"They put a hole in Vaughn's head," I blurt. "He's dead."

Trey doesn't even pause. After four years riding shotgun to the First Lady, he's used to bad news. "Where did it happen? When?"

"Today. At the hotel. I walked in and found the body. I didn't know what to do, so I ran."

"Well you better keep running. Get out of there, now."

"What're you talking about?"

"I just got a call from a friend at the Post. They're breaking the story on their Web site--Caroline's murder, the tox reports, everything."

"Are they naming a suspect?"

Trey gives me another long pause. "He said you're gonna take a hit. I'm sorry, Michael."

I close my eyes. "Are you sure? Maybe he was fishing for--"

"He asked me how to spell your name."

My legs go numb and I lean back on the desk. That's it. I'm dead.

"Are you okay?" Trey asks.

"What's he saying?" Nora demands.

"Michael, are you there?" Trey's voice squawks from the phone.

"Michael, are you okay?"

The whole world blurs in front of me. It's like that night on the roof--only this time, it's reality. My reality. My life.

"Listen to me," Trey says. "Get out of the Residence--get away from Nora. Come down here and we can--" He falls suddenly silent.

"What?" I ask.

"Oh, no," he moans. "I don't believe this."

"What? Is it about the story?"

"How'd they--"

"Just tell me, Trey! What is it?"

"I'm watching it scroll across the AP screens--it's on the wire service, Michael. They must've picked it up from the Post's site."

Son of a bitch. There's no stopping it now. "I have to get out of here."

"Where're you going?" Nora asks.

"Don't tell her!" Trey shouts. "Just go! Now!"

Panicking, I slam down the phone and run for the door. Nora follows.

"What'd Trey say?" she asks.

"It's out. The story's out. Caroline. Me. Everything. He says it's all over the wires."

"Did they mention me?"

I stare at her. "For God's sake!"

"You know what I mean."

"Actually, Nora, I don't." Turning my back on her, I stride to the main staircase.

"Michael, I'm sorry!" she calls out.

I don't stop.

"Please, Michael!"

I keep going.

I'm about to leave the hallway when she gives it her last shot. "That's not the best way out!"

For that, I stop. "What do you mean?"

"If you take the stairs, you'll run right into the Service."

"You got any better ideas?"

She takes me by the hand, leading me farther up the hallway. I resist just enough to let her know I'm not her puppet.

"Spare me the power-play, Michael. I'm trying to get you out of here."

"You sure about that?"

She doesn't like being accused. "You think I did this?"

I'm not sure what to think and this is no time to get into it. "Just lead the way."

In the far corner of the hallway, she shoves open two swinging doors as we bound into what looks like a small pantry. Mini-refrigerator, bar sink, a few glass cabinets full of cereal and snacks. Just enough to save you from walking down three flights to the kitchen. In the corner of the room, on top of the counter, are two square metal panels with compact-disc-size windows cut into them. Grabbing the handles at the bottom of one of the panels, Nora lifts it open like a stubborn window. Behind the panel is a small crawl space that looks big enough for two people.

"What?" Nora asks. "You've never seen a dumbwaiter before?"

I quickly piece together the floor plan in my head. The President's dining room is right below us, and the kitchen's on the Ground Floor. Seeing that I get it, she adds, "Even Presidents have to eat." She motions her chin toward the tiny elevator.

"Hold on--you don't expect me to . . ."

"You want to get out of here?" she asks.

I nod.

"Then get in."

Chapter 32

We ride down to the kitchen in complete darkness and absolute silence. As we arrive on the Ground Floor, the tiny round window is filled with light. Nora peeks out, lifts the door, and looks both ways. "Let's go," she says.

As she fights her way out of the dumbwaiter, her knee digs into my rib cage. All I can think about is Vaughn.

Crawling into the light, I see that we're in the back corner of the kitchen--in a small room by the banks of industrial freezers. Through the doorway, I spot a uniformed guard outside the tradesmen's entrance. Closer to us, a chef and an assistant are prepping dinner on the stainless steel countertops. Caught up in their motions, they don't even notice us.

"This way," Nora says, pulling me by the hand.

She opens the door to our far right and leads us out of the kitchen, back into the Ground Floor Corridor.

"There!" someone shouts from the hallway.

Fifty flashbulbs explode in our eyes. Instinctively, Nora steps in front of me, shielding me from the--Wait . . . it's not the press. Not with Instamatics. It's just another tour group.

"Nora Hartson," the guide announces to what looks like a group of diplomatic VIPs. "Our own First Daughter!"

The crowd breaks into spontaneous applause and the guide unsuccessfully reminds them that they're no photos allowed. "Thank you," Nora says, excusing herself from the still snapping group. She stands in front of me, trying to keep me hidden the entire time. I know what she's thinking: If my photo's going to be in all of tomorrow's papers, the last thing she needs is a group shot. As the tour group moves on to its next destination, Nora seizes my wrist. "Let's go," she whispers, trying hard to stay in front of me. "Hurry."

I duck my head low and follow her lead. We speed-walk up the hallway past my favorite uniformed officer. He doesn't move; he doesn't touch the walkie-talkie. As long as we avoid the stairs to the Residence, he apparently doesn't care. That's why she didn't take us out the back of the kitchen.

Making a sharp left outside the Dip Room, Nora opens a door flanked by bronze busts of Churchill and Eisenhower, which leads into a long hallway with at least forty six-foot-high stacks of chairs. Storage for state dinners. As we make our way down the hall, the floor starts to slant downward. We pass a pyramid of crated produce and then the bowling alley on our left. Nora maintains her swift pace as she takes us deeper down into the labyrinth. I'm starting to feel far from daylight.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

As the hallway levels off, it leads into another perpendicular corridor, but this one is far dingier. Low ceilings. Not as well lit. The walls are dank and smell like old pennies.

It doesn't make any sense. We're in the basement--Nora's running out of room. And I'm running out of time. Still, she isn't slowing down. She makes a hairpin right and keeps going.

My eye starts twitching. My heart feels like it's going to burst out of my chest. "Stop!" I shout.

For the first time, she stops and listens.

"Tell me where we're going, for God's sake!"

"I told you, you'll see."

I don't like the dark. "I want to know now," I say suspiciously.

Once again, she stops. "Don't worry, Michael," she says in a soft voice. "I'll take care of you."

I haven't heard that tone since the day with my dad. Still, now's not the time. "Nora . . ."

Without a word, she turns away, striding to the far end of the basement hallway. There's a steel door with an electronic lock. If the rumors are right, I'm pretty sure it's a bomb shelter. Nora punches in a PIN code and I hear the thunk of locks tumbling.

With a sharp tug, Nora pulls open the door. Instantly, my eyes go wide. It can't be. But there it is in front of me. The greatest myth in the White House--a secret tunnel.

Nora looks me in the eye. "If it's good enough for Marilyn Monroe, it's good enough for you."

Chapter 33

With my mouth hanging down by my ankles, I'm staring into a secret tunnel below the White House. "When did . . . Where . . . ?"

She steps in close and takes me by the hand. "I'm here, Michael. It's me." Reading my bewildered expression, she adds, "They may get it wrong in the movies, but that doesn't mean it's bullshit."

"Still, the--"

"C'mon, let's go." By the time I blink, she's gone. Zero to sixty. Instantly.

The tunnel itself has cement walls and is better lit than I would have expected. It looks like a straight shoot under the East Wing. "Where does it let out?"

She doesn't hear me. Either that or she's not telling.

At the end of the tunnel is another steel door. Frantically, Nora taps in her code. There's a noticeable shake in her hands. We stare at the electronic lock, waiting anxiously for the thunk of access. It doesn't come.

"Try again," I say.

"I'm trying!" Once again, she enters a code. Again, nothing.

"What's the problem?" I ask. I'm clenching my fists so hard, my arms are aching.

"Let us out!" Nora shouts, lifting her head.

"Who--?" I follow her gaze to the corner of the ceiling. There's a small surveillance camera pointed right at us.

"I know you're watching!" she continues. "Let us out!"

"Nora," I say, gripping her arm, "maybe we shouldn't--"

She pushes me away. She's looking at that camera the same way she looked at the Secret Service our first night out.

"I'm not playing around, asshole. He's just my boyfriend. Call Harry--he cleared him in."

Now she's gambling. Harry may've cleared me in, but he certainly doesn't know we're running out.

"Can you believe this?" she says to me, forcing a flighty laugh and flipping her hair back. "I'm so embarrassed." I get the idea. But it takes a superhuman effort to relax my hands and slow my breathing.

"No, don't sweat it." I casually rest one arm against the wall. "Same thing happened last time I was in the Gulag."

It's a great moment. It's also fake. That's probably how it's always been.

Nora looks at me with a small, appreciative grin, then glances up at the camera. "So? Did you call him?"

Silence. I'm almost faint with the desire to turn and run. Then, out of nowhere--the pop of a churning lock. Nora pulls open the door and lets me out. The camera can't spot us anymore.

"We're in the basement of the Treasury Building," she whispers.

I nod. Next door to the White House.

"You can walk up the parking ramp to East Exec, or take the stairs and leave through Treasury. Either one'll lead outside."

I go straight for the stairs. Nora follows. Turning around, I hold my arm up and stop her, keeping her at the threshold of the tunnel.

"What?" she asks.

"Where're you going?"

She looks at me with the same look she gave my dad when he was hysterical. "I meant what I said. I'm not leaving you, Michael. Not after all this."

For the first time since we started running, my eye stops twitching. "Nora, you don't have to--"

"Yes. I do."

I shake my head. "You don't, Nora. And while I appreciate the offer, we both know what'll happen. If you're caught running around with the press's main suspect . . ."

"I don't care," she blurts. "For once, it's worth it."

Stepping in close, I try to force her back toward the door. She doesn't budge. "Please, Nora, it's no time to be stupid."

"So now it's stupid to want to help?"

"No, it's stupid to shoot yourself in both feet. The moment the press puts us together, they're going to leap for your throat. On every page one. Above every fold. 'First Daughter Linked to Murder Suspect.' It'll make your Rolling Stone story look like the back page of People magazine."

"But--"

"Please--for once--don't argue. Right now, the best thing I can do is lay low. If you're around . . . it'll be impossible, Nora. At least this way, we're both safe."

"You really think you're safe?"

I don't answer.

"Please be careful, Michael."

I smile and head for the stairs. Hearing her like that . . . it's not easy to leave.

"So where're you going?" she calls out.

I freeze. My eyes narrow. And slowly, I turn around. Behind her, the outside of the reinforced steel door is disguised to look like an ordinary exit. The whole thing's an illusion. "I'll tell you when I get there," I reply. With nothing left to say, I turn away and start walking. Then jogging.

"Michael, what about--"

Then running. Keep going. Don't look back. Behind me, I hear her calling my name. I let it roll off.