by Brad Meltzer
I stop the car on 15th Street, around the corner from the Southeast Gate. At this hour, all of downtown is dead. There’s no one in sight.
“Don’t you want me to pull up to the gate?”
“No, no—here. I have to get out here.”
“Are you sure?”
At first, all she does is nod. “It’s just around the corner. And this way I save you from a confrontation with the Service.” She looks down at her watch. “I’m in under two hours, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to get my head ripped off.”
“That’s why I always leave my bodyguards at home,” I say, trying to sound half as calm as my date. It’s all I can do to keep up.
“Yeah, that’s why I picked you,” she laughs. “You know how it really is.” She’s about to say something else, but she stops herself.
“Everything okay?”
Moving closer, she again puts her hand on mine. “People don’t do nice things for me, Michael. Not unless they want something. Tonight, you proved that wrong.”
“Nora . . .”
“You don’t have to say it. Just promise me you’ll let me make it up to you.”
“You don’t have to . . .”
She runs her short nails up my arm. “Actually, I do.”
I see that look in her eyes. It’s the same one she gave me in the bar. “Nora, no offense, but this isn’t the time or the place to—” She wraps a hand around the back of my head and pulls me toward her. Before I can argue, she grips my hair in a tight fist and slides her tongue in my mouth. There are probably ten heterosexual men in this world who would pull away from this kiss. Again, I’m not one of them. Her smell . . . her taste . . . they instantly overwhelm. I reach up to touch her cheek, but she lets me go.
“Doesn’t taste like pumpkin to me,” she says.
“That’s because I have five more minutes.”
Well aware of the time, she sneaks out a grin. “So you’re ready to move past the foreplay?”
I look out the front window, then back at Nora. “Here?” I ask nervously.
She leans forward and snakes her hand along the inside of my thigh. Still going, she brushes up the front of my pants. Just like Rolling Stone. She’s going to do it right here. But as our lips are about to touch, she stops. “Don’t believe everything you read, handsome. That stuff’ll rot your brain.” She pulls her hand away and gives me two light slaps on the cheek. My mouth’s still agape as she opens the door.
“What’re you—”
She hops out, turns around, and blows me a kiss. “Later, Cookie Puss.”
The door slams shut in my face. Out the front window, I watch her run up the block. I put on my brights. The entire time, my eyes stay glued to the curve of her neck. Eventually, she turns the corner and disappears. I reach into my pants and rearrange myself. It’s going to be a long ride home.
• • •
My alarm screams through the bedroom at five-forty-five the following morning. In college, I used to hit my snooze bar at least six times before I got out of bed. In law school, that number shrank by half. Throughout my first few years of government work, I was still able to cling to a single nine-minute pause, but when I reached the White House, I lost that too. Now, I’m up at the first buzzer and staggering to the shower. I didn’t get home until almost one-thirty, and the way my head’s throbbing, the four hours of sleep obviously weren’t enough to make me forget about Simon.
It doesn’t take long for me to complete my shower/shave/hair and toothbrush rituals, and I’m proud to say it’s been twenty-seven days without hair gel. That’s not true, I realize, still blinking myself awake. I used some last night before going out with Nora. Damn. Here we go: hair gel boycott—day one.
I open the door to my apartment and find four newspapers waiting for me: the Washington Post, Washington Herald, New York Times, and Wall Street Journal. With an anxious spot check, I make sure none of them have front-page stories on White House lawyers and newfound cash. So far, so good. Bringing them inside, I scan more headlines and dial Trey’s work number.
In ninety minutes, the President’s Senior Staff will have their daily seven-thirty meeting in the Roosevelt Room of the White House. There, the Chief of Staff and the President’s closest advisors will discuss a variety of issues that will inevitably become the hot topics of the day—and key issues for the reelection. School uniforms, gun control, whatever’s the issue of the moment and whatever’s going to bring in votes. In my two years in the Counsel’s Office, I’ve never once been invited to the early Senior Staff meeting. But that doesn’t mean I won’t know what they’re talking about.
“Who needs lovin’?” Trey says, answering the phone.
“Hit me with it,” I reply, staring down at the front page of the Washington Post.
He doesn’t waste any time. “A1, the China story. A2, Chicago welfare. A2, Dem race in Tennessee. A4, Hartson versus Bartlett. A5, Hartson–Bartlett. A6, Hartson–Bartlett. A15, World in Brief: Belfast, Tel Aviv, and Seoul. A17, Federal Page. Editorials—look at Watkins and Lisa Brooks. The Brooks editorial on the census is the one to watch. Wesley’s already called her on it.”
Wesley Dodds is the President’s Chief of Staff. By her, Trey means the First Lady. Susan Hartson. Trey’s boss. And one of Wesley’s closest confidants. If the two of them are already talking about it, it’s on today’s agenda and on tonight’s news.
“What about numbers?” I ask.
“Same as yesterday. Hartson’s up by a dozen points, but it’s not a solid dozen. I’m telling you, Michael, I can feel it slipping.”
“I don’t understand—how can we possibly be—”
“Check out the front page of the Times.”
I flip through the pile and pull it out. There, in full color, is a picture of E. Thomas Bartlett—the opposing side’s candidate for President of the United States—sitting in the middle of a semicircle while addressing an enraptured group of senior citizens. They look so happy, you’d think he was FDR himself.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I moan.
“Believe me, I’ve already heard it.” In a world where, every day, the number of people who actually read their newspaper is shrinking, the front photo is the Cliffs Notes to the news. You get that and the day’s yours. “And y’know what the worst part is?” Trey asks. “He hates old people. I heard him say so. I, Tom Bartlett, hate old people. Just like that. He said it.” Trey pauses. “I think he hates babies too. Innocent babies.”
Trey spends the next five minutes selecting the rest of my morning reading. As he tells me each page, I flip to it and draw a big red star next to the headline. In almost every story, I look for some tie to Simon. It never comes—but when we’re done, four full newspapers are ready for reading. It’s our daily ritual and was inspired by a former senior staffer who used to have his assistant read the hot articles to him via cell phone while he drove to work. I don’t have an assistant. And I don’t need a cell phone. All I need is one good friend in the right place.
“So how’d your date go last night?” Trey asks.
“What makes you think I had a date?” I bluff.
“Who do you think you’re dealing with here? I see, I hear, I talk, I move, I shake, I—”
“Pester, gossip, and eavesdrop. I know your tricks.”
“Tricks?” he laughs. “If you prick us, do we not bleed?”
“Don’t cry to me, Argentina. Do you promise to keep it to yourself?”
“For you? What do you think? The only reason I know about it in the first place is because Nora came in here to make sure it was okay.”
“And what’d the First Lady say?”
“Don’t know. That’s when they closed the door. Son of a bitch is thick too. I had my ear against it the entire time. Nothing but mumbling.”
“Did anyone else hear?” I ask nervously as I rip a corner off the edge of the newspaper.
“No, it was late and she was using the conference room, so I was the only one here
. Now how’d it go?”
“It was fine . . . it was great. She’s really great.”
Trey pauses. “What’re you not telling me?”
The man is good. Too good.
“Let me guess,” he adds. “Early in the night, she peacocked around acting like a bad-ass, and you, like the rest of America—including me—found yourself slightly turned on by the thrill of First Family sexual domination. So there you are . . . she’s huffing and puffing, and you’re hoping she’ll blow your house down—but just as you hit the magical moment, just as you’re about to sign on the skimpily dotted line, you get a whiff of the innocent girl inside—and right there, you back off, determined to save her from her own wild ways.”
I pause a second too long. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“That’s it!” Trey cries. “Always raring to play protector. It’s the same thing with that old pro bono client you had during the campaign—the more he lied to you and led you along, the more you were determined he needed your help. You do it every time you get the bird-with-a-broken-wing face. Forever ready to save the world . . . except with Nora, swinging to the rescue makes you feel like a rock star . . .”
“Who says I want to be a rock star?”
“You work in the White House, Michael—everyone wants to be a rock star. It’s the only reason we take the low pay and the abusive hours . . .”
“Oh, so now you’re going to tell me you’d do this job for just anyone? That Hartson and the issues are all bullshit? That all we’re here for are the bragging rights?”
Trey takes a long, silent moment to answer. Idealism dies hard—especially when the President’s involved. As it is, we spend every day changing lives. Sometimes we get a chance to make them better. Corny as it sounds, both of us know it’s a dream job. Eventually, Trey adds, “All I’m saying is, even if you liked her, you wouldn’t have asked her out if it didn’t give you some sort of inside track to Daddy.”
“You really think I’m that conniving?”
“You really think I’m that naive? She’s the honcho’s kid. One leads right to the other. Whatever you told yourself, the political lizard in you can’t ignore it. But take it from me—just because you’re dating the President’s daughter, doesn’t mean you’re the First Counsel.”
I don’t like the way he says that, but I can’t help thinking about why Nora and I went out in the first place. She’s beautiful and thrillingly wild. It wasn’t just about a career move. At least, I pray I’m better than that.
“So are you gonna tell me what happ—”
“Can we please talk about it later?” I interrupt, hoping it’ll go away. “Now you got any other predictions for the morning?”
“Take my word on the census. It’s gonna be big. Bigger than Sir Elton at Wembley, at the Garden, even live in Australia.”
I roll my eyes at the only black person in existence who’s obsessed with Elton John. “Anything else, Levon?”
“Census. That’s all it’s going to be today. Learn how to spell it. Cen-sus.”
I hang up the phone and read the census story first. When it comes to the politics of politics, Trey’s never wrong. Even among political animals—including myself—there’s no one better. For four years, even before I saved his ass on the campaign, he’s been the First Lady’s favorite; so even though he’s only a Deputy Press Secretary in title, it doesn’t go into her office without first going through his fingers. And believe me, they’re great fingers to know.
I blow through the Post while shoveling my way through a quick bowl of Lucky Charms. After last night, I could use them. When the cereal’s gone, I go through the Times and the Journal, then I’m ready to go. With the last paper under my arm, I leave my one-bedroom apartment without making my bed. With the loss of my snooze bar and hair gel, I’m slowly acknowledging that, at twenty-nine years old, adulthood is upon me. The messy bed is simply a final act of denial. And one I won’t be giving up soon.
It takes me three stops on the Metro to get from Cleveland Park to Farragut North, the closest station to the White House. On the ride, I knock off half of the Herald. I can usually get through all of it, but Simon’s escapades make for an easy distraction. If he saw us, it’s over. I’ll be buried by lunch. Looking down, I see an inky handprint where my fingers grasp the paper.
The train pulls in and it’s almost eight o’clock. When I’m done climbing the escalator with the rest of the city’s suit-and-tie crowd, I’m hit in the face with a wave of D.C. heat. The remnant summer air is like licking grease, and the intensity of the bright sun is disorienting. But it’s not enough to make me forget where I work.
• • •
At the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance of the Old Executive Office Building, I force myself up the sharp granite stairs and pull my ID from my suit pocket. The whole area looks different than last night. Not as dark.
The long line of co-workers who’re trailing through the lobby and waiting to pass through security makes me keenly aware of one thing: Anyone who says they work in the White House is a liar. And that’s the truth. In reality, there are only a hundred and two people who work in the West Wing, where the Oval Office is. All of them are bigshots. The President and his top assistants. Grade-A prime meat.
The rest of us, indeed, just about everyone who says they work in the White House, actually works in the Old Executive Office Building, the ornate seven-story behemoth located right next door. Sure, the OEOB houses the majority of the people who work in the Office of the President, and sure, it’s enclosed by the same black steel bars that surround the White House. But make no mistake—it’s not the White House. Of course, that doesn’t stop every single person in there from telling their friends and family that they work in the White House. Myself included.
As the line shortens, I wedge my way in the front door. Inside, under the two-story-high ceiling, two uniformed Secret Service officers sit at an elevated welcoming desk and clear visitors into the complex. I try not to let my eye contact linger, but I can’t help staring them down. Did they hear about last night? Without a word, one of them turns to me and nods. I freeze, then quickly relax. Checking the rest of the line, he does the same to the guy behind me. Just a friendly hello, I decide.
Those of us with IDs are waiting for the turnstiles. Once there, I put my briefcase on the X-ray conveyor and press my ID against an electronic eye. Below the eye is a keypad that looks like the keypad on a telephone, but without any numbers. Within seconds, my ID registers, the beep sounds, and ten red numbers light up inside the buttons. Every time someone checks in, the numbers appear in a different order, so if someone’s watching me, they can’t decipher my PIN code. It’s the first line of security to enter the OEOB, and easily the most effective.
After entering my code, I walk through the X-ray machine, which, as always, goes off. “Belt,” I say to the uniformed Secret Service officer.
He runs his handheld metal detector over my belt and confirms my explanation. Every day we do this, and every day he checks. He usually doesn’t give me a second look; today, his gaze hovers for a few seconds too long. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah . . . sure.”
I don’t like the sound of that. Does he know? Did Nora’s crew put the word out?
No, not these guys. Dressed in their white button-down security guard uniforms, the Secret Service agents at the front door of the OEOB are different from the plainclothes agents who protect Nora and the First Family. In the hierarchy of the agents, the two worlds rarely mix. I keep telling myself that as I grab my briefcase from the conveyor belt and head toward my office.
Just as I open the door to Room 170, I see Pam running straight at me. “Turn around—we’re going early,” she shouts, her thin blond hair wisping behind her.
“When did they—”
“Just now.” She grabs me by the arm and spins me around. “Senior Staff went early, so Simon bumped us up. Apparently, he’s got somewhere to be.” Before I can get a word ou
t, she adds, “Now what happened to your forehead?”
“Nothing,” I say, looking at my watch. “What time’s it called for?”
“Three minutes ago,” she answers.
Simultaneously, we both race up the hallway. Lucky for us, we have first-floor offices—which means we also have the shortest walk to the West Wing. And the Oval. To an outsider, it might not seem like much of a perk, but to those of us in the OEOB, it matters. Proximity is all.
As the heels of our shoes slam against the black-and-white checkerboard marble floor, I see the West Exec exit straight ahead. Pulling open one of the double doors, we step outside and cross the closed-off street between the OEOB and the White House. On the other side of the narrow road, we head for the awning that leads to the West Wing and make our way through two more sets of doors. Ahead of us, a uniformed Secret Service officer with buzzed black hair sits at a table and checks the IDs that hang around our necks. If our IDs had an orange background, he’d know we only have access to the OEOB and he’d have to stop us. A blue background means we can go almost anywhere, including the West Wing.
“Hey, Phil,” I say, instinctively slowing down. This is the real test—if word’s out, I’m not getting in.
Phil takes one look at my blue background and smiles. “What’s the rush?”
“Big meetings, big meetings,” I reply calmly. If he knew, he wouldn’t be smiling.
“Someone’s got to save the world,” he says with a nod. “Have a good one now.” At this point, his job is done. Once we’re past him, he’s supposed to let us go. Instead, he pays us the highest compliment. As we turn toward the elevator, he hits a button below his desk and the elevator door on my left opens. When we step inside, he pushes something else and the button for the second floor lights up. He doesn’t do that for just anyone—only for the people he likes. Which means he finally knows who I am. “Thanks!” I shout as the doors close. As I collapse against the back of the elevator, I have to smile. Whatever Simon saw, it’s clear he’s kept his mouth shut. Or better yet, maybe he never knew we were there.