The First Counsel

* * *

It takes twenty minutes before the bus pulls into the back parking lot of the Bethesda Metro station. From here, I have access to the subway and all its connections--downtown, out of town, and anywhere in between. But first, I have to find a phone.

Ducking inside the Metro building, I avoid the crowd that's headed for the absurdly long escalators, and instead head for the bank of pay phones on my right. There're still a few coins floating around my pocket, but after my conversation with Pam, I'm not taking any chances. Rather than dialing my number directly, I pick up the receiver and call the 800 number that'll connect me with Signal. Once I'm routed through the White House phone system, it'll be that much harder to trace my call.

"You have reached the Signal switchboard," a mechanical female voice says. "For an office extension, press one." I press 0.

"Signal operator 34," someone quickly answers.

"I just got paged by Michael Garrick--can you connect me?"

"What's the last name again?"

She sounds honest about that one. Good--it's not everywhere yet. "Garrick," I say. "In the Counsel's Office."

Within seconds, the phone to my office is ringing. Whoever's in there, they're getting nothing but the word "Signal" on caller ID.

"Pretty smart," Adenauer answers. "Going through Signal like that . . ."

My fist tightens around the receiver. I knew it was going to be him. In fact, I'm surprised it took him this long. "I didn't do it," I insist.

"Why didn't you tell me about the money, Michael?"

"Would you've believed me?"

"Try me. Where'd you get it from?"

I'm sick of him jerking me around. "Not until I get some guarantees."

"Guarantees are easy--but how am I going to know you're telling me the truth?"

"I had a witness. I wasn't alone that night."

There's a short pause on the other line. Remembering Vaughn's advice about tracing calls, I look at the second hand on my watch. Eighty seconds max.

"You're lying to me, Michael!"

"I'm not--"

Adenauer interrupts with what sounds like the buzz of a tape recorder.

"Last night being Thursday the third," a female voice says.

Oh, no, I think to myself. Before she stopped the tape . . .

"I mean, that's correct," my recorded voice says. "Anyway, I was driving along 16th Street when I saw--"

"Before we get there, was anyone with you?"

"That's not the important part--"

"Just answer the question," Caroline says.

"No. I was alone."

"Did you forget we had the tape?" Adenauer asks, sounding way too self-satisfied.

The second hand's spinning. Thirty seconds to go. "I-I swear to you . . . that's not the--"

"We found Vaughn," Adenauer says. "And the gun. No more lies, Michael. Did you do it for Nora?"

"I'm telling you--"

"Stop bullshitting me!" Adenauer explodes. "Every time, it's a new damn story!"

Twenty seconds. "It's not a story! It's my life!"

"All you have to do is come in." Worried that I'm going to run, he's trying to make nice. "If you help us--if you give us Nora--I promise you, the whole process'll be a lot easier."

"That's not true."

"It is true. Be smart about it, Michael. The longer you're out there, the worse it looks."

Ten seconds. "I have to go," I say, my voice shaking. "I need . . . I need to think."

"Just tell me you're going to come in. You give the word and we're there for you. Now what do you say?"

"I have to go."

He's out of patience and I'm about to hang up. "Let me tell you something, Michael--remember when Vaughn said it took eighty seconds to trace a phone call?"

"How'd you--"

"He was wrong," Adenauer says. "See you soon."

I slam down the phone and slowly turn around. Behind me is a mob of commuters angling for space on the escalators. At least three people are staring directly at me--a woman with Jackie O sunglasses and two men looking up from their newspapers. Before I can react, all three disappear on the escalators. Half the crowd's going down to the subway; the other half's going up to the street exit. I scan the rest of the mob, looking for suspicious glances and forceful strides. This is Washington, D.C., at rush hour. Everyone qualifies.

My body tenses. I'm tempted to run, but I don't. It doesn't make sense. They can't trace a call through Signal. It's impossible--he just wants me to panic; make a mistake. Calling his bluff, I take a hesitant step toward the crowd. I don't care how good they are, nothing's that fast. I keep telling myself that as I slide onto the escalator and get absorbed by the mob.

Clenching my jaw, I try to ignore my ankle. Nothing to make me look out of place. I glance around as we reach the top, but everything's quiet. Cars whiz by; commuters disperse. Following two other passengers to the nearby taxi stand, I wait in line and hail a cab. Just another normal day at work.

"Where to?" the cabbie asks as I slide inside.

Ignoring the question, I look nervously left, then right.

Searching for a security blanket, my hand moves instinctively for my tie. As I reach for it, though, I realize it's gone. I almost forgot. It was covered in blood.

"Let's hear it," the cabbie calls out. "I need a destination."

"I don't know," I finally stammer.

He looks at me in the rearview. "You okay back there?"

Once again, I ignore the question. I can't believe Adenauer has the tape--I knew I should've never let Caroline start recording--even with my stopping it early, there's enough on there to . . . I don't even want to consider it. Leaning forward on the stained cloth seats, I cuff my hands around my swollen ankle and feel like I'm about to collapse. I may've made my way out of the suburbs, but I've got to figure something out. I still need somewhere to go. Somewhere to think.

Home's no good. Neither is Trey's apartment. Or Pam's. There're a few friends from college and law school, but if the FBI's sending people out to my cousin, that means they're covering my file--and then some. Besides, I'm not going to put any more friends--or relatives--at risk. Once again, my eye starts twitching. There's no way around it. Everything's on me.

All that leaves is a nearby motel. It's not a bad option, but I have to keep it safe. No credit cards--nothing they can trace me with. I open my wallet and see that I'm flying on fumes; all that's left is twelve dollars in cash, my lucky two-dollar bill, and a Metro farecard. First things first. "How about a cash machine?"

"Now you're talkin'," the cabbie says.