The First Counsel

* * *

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 concrete 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.