The First Counsel

* * *

With no time to wait for the Metro, I hop in a cab and head back to my apartment. The note with Vaughn's meeting place wasn't in Nora's room, which means she either picked it up, or it's still sitting on my bed. It may be risky to go back home, but I need to know which. Before the cabbie drops me off, I ask him to circle the block--just so I can check license plates. No press passes; no federal plates in sight. So far, so good.

"Right here's fine," I tell him as he approaches the service entrance around back. I toss him a ten-dollar bill, slam the door, and bolt up a short flight of stairs. I do my best to look around, but I can't afford to waste time and risk getting caught. With the Post reporting that I'm the main suspect, Adenauer won't wait till five o'clock to pick me up. He's going to try and do it now. Of course, the only reason I agreed to go in was because I thought I'd have the info from Vaughn. After what happened, though . . . well . . . not anymore.

Walking cautiously through the back of the lobby, I keep an eye out for anything that's out of the ordinary. Mailbox room, welcome area, front desk--it all looks undisturbed. Sticking my head around the corner, I scan the main entrance of the lobby and look out the front door. This time tomorrow, the press is going to be camped out there--unless I can figure out a rock-solid way to prove it's Simon.

Convinced that I'm alone, I rush past the front desk, toward the elevator. I push the call button, the doors slide open, and I move forward.

"Where you going?" a deep voice asks.

I spin around, crashing into the now-closing elevator doors.

"Sorry, Michael," he laughs. "Didn't mean to startle you."

I take a deep breath. It's just Fidel, the doorman. He's watching TV behind the front desk--and with the sound turned off, he's easy to miss.

"Damn, Fidel, that was a full heart attack!"

He just smiles as wide as he can. "Orioles are beating the Yanks--top of the second."

"Wish them luck for me," I say, turning back to the elevator. I push the call button and once again the doors slide open.

As I step inside, Fidel calls out, "By the way, your brother stopped by."

Just as the elevator's about to slam shut, I shove my arm between the doors. "What brother?" I ask.

Fidel looks alarmed. "W-With the brown hair. He was here ten minutes ago--said he had to grab something from your apartment."

"Did you give him my key?"

"No," Fidel says, stammering. "He said he had it." Picking up the phone, he adds, "Do you want me to call the--"

"No! Don't call anyone. Not yet." I jump back into the elevator and let the doors close. Instead of pressing the button for the seventh floor, I press six. Just to be safe.

When the elevator opens on the sixth floor, I dash directly toward the stairs that are straight across the hall. Quietly, I run up to the seventh. If it's the FBI hoping to catch me by surprise, I shouldn't be here. But if it's Simon--if he killed Vaughn to keep things quiet, he could be planting somethi--I cut myself off. Don't think about it. You'll find out soon enough.

On the landing of the seventh floor, I peer through the small window in the stairwell door. The problem is, my apartment's all the way at the end of the hall, and I can't see there from here. There's no way around it--I have to open it for a look. I put my hand on the doorknob and take a deep breath. It's okay, I tell myself. Just turn it. Nice and easy. Not too fast.

I slowly pull the heavy metal door toward me. Each creak sounds like a tiny scream. Down the hall, I hear voices mumbling. More like arguing. Using my foot as a doorstop, I prop open the door and carefully peer into the hallway. As I ease the door backwards, the hall starts to come into view. The elevator . . . the trash room . . . my neighbor's door . . . my door--and the two men in dark suits fidgeting with my locks. Sons of bitches are breaking in. My upper body is about halfway into the hall when a loud ping announces the arrival of the elevator. The doors slide open, and the two men in dark suits look straight up--at me.

"There he is!" one of them shouts. "FBI! Stay where you are!"

Directly across from me, Fidel steps out of the elevator, oblivious to what's going on. "Michael, I wanted to make sure you--"

"Grab him!" the second agent shouts.

Grab him? Who's he talking t--My head jerks back as I'm plowed into from behind. I feel an arm slide across my throat, and another under my armpit. These guys came prepared.

Panicking, I jab my elbow backwards as hard as I can and connect squarely with my attacker's gut. He lets out a throaty gasp, and as his grip goes weak, I slip free.

"What the . . . ?" Fidel blurts. Down the hallway, the other two agents are charging toward us.

"Get back in the elevator!" I shout at Fidel. The doors are about to close.

Before anyone can react, I dive forward, tackling Fidel and hurling us both toward the elevator. We squeeze in just as the doors slam shut. Over my shoulder, I swing my arm back and pound the button marked Lobby. As we start moving, I hear the FBI agents pounding on the elevator door. It's too late.

My hands are shaking as I help Fidel up from the floor.

"T-That's the guy who said he was your brother," Fidel says.

Still shaking, I barely hear what he's saying.

"Are they really the FBI?" he asks.

"I think so . . . I'm not sure."

"What did you--"

"I didn't do anything, Fidel. Whoever comes, you tell them that. I'm innocent. I'll prove it." Looking up, I see we're almost at the lobby.

"Then why're they--?"

"They'll be coming down the stairs," I interrupt. "When you see them, tell them I went out the back. Okay? I went out back."

Fidel nods.

The moment the elevator doors open, I dart out toward the front of the lobby. As an escape route, it may be more conspicuous, but Connecticut Avenue is the only place I'm going to catch a cab. Of course, as I bound out of the building, there's not a single one around. Damn. I start running up the block. Anything to get away. If I plan on saving myself, I need to catch my breath and think.

A minute into my mad dash, I turn around just as two of the FBI agents burst out the front door. They didn't believe Fidel--they only sent one out back.

Across the street, there's a cab coming in the opposite direction. "Taxi!" I scream.

Finally, something goes my way. He pulls a wide, illegal U-turn and stops right in front of me.

"Where you going?" he asks in a loose Midwestern accent. As he turns around to face me, he's got a thick arm wrapped around the back of the passenger seat.

"Anywhere . . . Straight . . . Just get out of here," I say, kicking myself for coming to find the note. I knew this would happen.

He slams the gas and sends me flying backwards in my seat.

I turn to look back. The agents are shouting something, but I can't hear them. It doesn't matter--they've answered my question. The word's out. And all eyes are on me.