The First Councel

by Brad Meltzer

  “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.

  Bounding upstairs two at a time, I race up the interior stairwell of the Treasury Building. Nora’s voice has all but faded away and the only thing I’m focused on is the small black-and-white sign that reads “Exit-Lobby Level.” Approaching the door, I want to kick it open and make a mad dash out the front. But, afraid of the attention, I inch it open and peek out-just enough to figure out where the hell I am. Down the hall in front of me is a metal detector and a sign-in desk. Behind the desk, with their backs to me, are a pair of uniformed Secret Service. Damn-how am I going to get through-Wait-I don’t have to get through anything. I’m already in. All I have to do is leave.

  Stepping out of the stairwell, I lift my shoulders, stuff confidence into my posture, and move firmly toward the turnstile at the exit. As I get closer, the officers are checking IDs and clearing in visitors. Neither of them has noticed me.

  I’m less than ten feet from the turnstile. Do I need to swipe my ID to get out? Studying the woman in front of me, I don’t think so. I step into the turnstile, but just as the metal bar presses against my waist, the officer closest to me turns my way. I force a smile and give him a two-fingered salute. “Have a good one,” I add.

  He nods back without a word. But he’s still staring. As I pass through the turnstile, I feel his eyes on the back of my head. Ignore him. Don’t panic. Only a few more steps to the glass door that leads outside. Almost there. A little farther. Across the street, I see the white-and-gold entrance of the Old Ebbitt Grill. This is it. If he’s going to stop me, it’s going to be in the next five seconds. Four. Three. I lean into the door and push it open. Two. This is his last chance. One. The door swings back behind me, leaving me alone on 15th Street. I’m out.

  The first one I spot is right outside the building-heavy build, dark suit, dark sunglasses. There’s another midway up the block. And two uniformed officers on the corner. They’re all Secret Service. And from what I can tell, they’ve got the whole block covered.

  Panic sends me spiraling as I struggle to stay on my feet. They mobilized so quickly… Of course, that’s their job. Avoiding the agent in front, I move as fast as I can down the block. Keep your head low-don’t let them get a good look.

  “Stop right there!” the agent shouts.

  I pretend I don’t hear him and keep going. Fifty feet away, there’s another agent waiting. “Sir, I’m asking you to stop moving,” he says.

  My hands quickly fill with sweat. My breathing’s so labored, I feel it reverberate. He whispers something into the collar of his shirt. In the distance, I hear the shrill wail of a police siren. It’s coming my way. Closer. I check every direction for a way out. I’m surrounded. Shooting out of the Southeast Gate, two motorcycle cops fly toward me. I freeze as soon as I see them. Instinctively, I raise my hands to surrender.

  To my surprise, however, they blow right by me. Followed by a limo, followed by another limo, followed by a Blazer, followed by a dark van, followed by an ambulance, followed by another two motorcycle cops. As they disappear up the street, the agents follow. Within seconds, the clouds clear and a blue calm is returned to the block. Frozen in place, I let out a nervous laugh. It’s not a manhunt-it’s a motorcade. Just a motorcade.

  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.

  Ten minutes later, we pull into an above-ground parking garage right off Wisconsin Avenue. The cabbie swears it’s the closest pay phone that can’t be seen from the street. I take his word for it.

  “Do you mind waiting?” I ask as I hop out to the phone.

  “You pay, I stay-American way.”

  I pick up the receiver and dial Trey’s number. His line rings twice before he picks up.

  “This is Trey.”

  “How we doing?” I ask.

  “Mi-” He stops himself. Someone’s in the office. “Where the hell are you? Are you okay?” he whispers.

  “I’m fine,” I say unconvincingly. In the background, I hear the other phones in his office ringing. “What’s happening there?”

  Another two phones go off. “It’s a friggin’ zoo-like nothing you’ve ever seen. Every reporter in the country has called us. Twice.”

  “How bad am I going to be hit?”

  There’s a short pause on the other line. “You’re Dan Quayle.”

  “Have they issued-”

  “No statements from anyone-Simon, Press Office, not even Hartson. Rumor is they’re going live at five-thirty-to make sure they have something for the nightlies. I’m telling you, man, I’ve never seen anything like it-the place is paralyzed.”

  “And your friend at the Post?”

  “All I know is they got a photo of you standing outside the building-probably the one taken by that photographer. Unless they get something better, he says it’s running A1 tomorrow.”

  “Can’t he-”

  “I’m trying my best,” he says. “There’s just no way around it. Inez got everything-you leaving Caroline’s office, the WAVES records, the tox
reports, the money… ”

  “She found the money?”

  “My buddy says she knows someone at D.C. police. They typed your name in and it came up under ‘Financial Investigations.’ Ten thousand big ones seized from Michael Garri… ” Trey’s voice trails off. “What?” he asks, sounding muffled. He’s got a hand over the receiver. “Says who?”

  “Trey!” I shout. “What’s going on?”

  I hear people talking, but he doesn’t answer.

  “Trey!”

  Still nothing.

  “Trey!”

  “Are you there?” he finally asks.

  I’m so sick, I’m going to vomit. “What the hell’s going on?” “Steve just got back from the Press Office,” he says hesitantly.

  “Is it bad?”

  I can’t hear it, but I know I’m getting the rub. It’s a record-breaker. “I wouldn’t panic until they confirm-”

  “Just tell me what it is!”

  “He says they found a gun in your car, Michael.”

  “What?”

  “Wrapped in an old map; hidden in your glove compartment.”

  I feel like I just took a kick in the neck. My body’s reeling. I hold on to the phone booth to stand up. “I don’t own a… How did they… Oh, jeez, they’re going to find Vaughn… ”

  “It’s just a rumor, Michael-for all we know, it’s-” Once again, he stops short. So does everyone in the background. The place is silent. All I hear are phones ringing. Someone must’ve walked in.

  “What’re they saying?” a female voice demands. I recognize it instantly.

  “Here you go, Mrs. Hartson,” another voice says.

  “I gotta run,” Trey whispers into the phone.

  “Wait!” I shout. “Not y-” It’s too late. He’s gone.

  Lowering the phone to its cradle, I look over my shoulder for help. The only one there is the cab driver, who’s already lost in his newspaper. I hear the taxi coughing and wheezing from years of abuse. The rest of the garage is silent. Silent and abandoned. I put my hand over my stomach and feel the knife twisting in my gut. I have to… I have to get help. I pick up the receiver and stuff another set of coins in the pay phone. Without even thinking, I dial her number. It’s the first thought that comes to my brain. Forget what happened-call her. I need the front lines; I need to know what’s going on; and more than anything else, I need some honesty. Guerrilla honesty.