by Brad Meltzer
“I have a reservation,” I tell the woman at the ticket desk inside the entrance. She has tiny brown eyes and giant brown glasses, enhancing all the worst of her physical features.
“Your name?” she asks.
“Tony Manero.”
“Here you go,” she says, handing me a ticket. Entrance time: one o’clock. Two minutes from now.
I turn around and scan the lobby. The only people who don’t look suspicious are the two mothers yelling at their kids. As I walk toward the elevators, I steal Nora’s best trick and pull my baseball cap down over my eyes.
Outside the elevators, a small group of tourists hovers in front of the doors, anxious to get started. I stay toward the back, watching the crowd. As we wait for the elevators to arrive, more people fill in behind me. I stand on my tiptoes, trying to get a better view. This shouldn’t be taking so long. Something’s wrong.
Around me, the crowd’s getting restless. No one’s shoving, but elbow room is dwindling. A heavyset man in a blue windbreaker brushes against me, and I jerk my arm out of the way, accidentally elbowing the teenage girl behind me. “Sorry,” I tell her.
“No worries,” she says in a hushed tone. Her dad nods awkwardly. So does the woman next to her. There’re too many people to keep track of. Space is getting tight.
The worst part is, they’re still letting people into the museum. We’re all pushed forward in a human tide. Frantically, I search the crowd, scrutinizing every face. It’s too much. I feel myself burning up. It’s getting harder to breathe. The raw-brick walls are closing in. I’m trying to focus on the elevator’s dark steel doors and their exposed gray bolts, as if that’ll provide any relief.
Finally, a bell rings as the elevator arrives. It’s as heavy-handed as they come, but the elevator operator says it best: “Welcome to the Holocaust Museum.”
CHAPTER 21
Can you tell me how to get to the Registry of Survivors?”
“Just around the corner,” a man with a name tag says. “It’s the first door on your right.”
As I head toward the room, I take a quick scan for Vaughn. The mug shot I saw was a few years old, but I know who I’m looking for. Thin little mustache. Slicked-back hair. I don’t know why he picked this museum. If he’s really worried about the FBI, it’s not an easy place for us to hide—which is exactly what I’m afraid of.
Convinced that he’s not standing outside the room, I pull open the glass door and enter the Registry of Survivors. First I check the ceiling. No security camera in sight. Good. Next I check the walls. There it is, in the back right-hand corner. The reason he picked this room: an emergency exit fire door. If it all goes to hell, he has a way out—which means either he’s just as worried about me, or that’s part of his deal with the authorities.
The room itself is modest in size and sectioned off by dividers. It houses eight state-of-the-art computers, which have access to the museum’s list of over seventy thousand Holocaust survivors. At almost every terminal, two to three people are crowded around the monitor, searching for their loved ones. Not a single one of them looks up as I head to the back. Checking the rest of the room, I reassure myself that leaving Trey back at the office was a good idea. We could’ve put him in a disguise, but after having him spotted at the pay phone, it wasn’t worth the risk. I need my two thirds.
I sit down at an empty computer terminal and wait. For twenty minutes, I keep my eyes on the door. Whoever comes in; whoever goes out—I crane my head above the divider, analyzing everyone. Maybe he doesn’t want me to be so obvious, I finally decide. Changing my tactics, I stare at the computer monitor and listen to the voices of all the other people around me.
“I told you she lived in Poland.”
“With a K, not a CH!”
“That’s your great-grandmother.”
In a museum that’s dedicated to remembering six million people who died, this little room focuses on the lucky few who lived. Not a bad place to be.
• • •
“I hate this place,” I mutter fifteen minutes later. Cowardly son of a bitch is never going to show. Fighting frustration, I stand up and take another quick reconnaissance of the room. By now, we’re on our fifth round of tourist turnover. There’s only one original member of the band, and I’m it.
Circling the main group of tables, I stare up at the wall clock. Vaughn’s over a half hour late. I’ve been stood up. Still, if I plan on waiting it out, it’s best to stay in character and act like all the other strangers in the room. Glancing around, I realize I’m the only one on my feet. Everyone else looks exactly the same—pen in hand, eyes focused on their computers—all they do is type in names . . .
Oh, man.
I race back to the terminal and slide into my seat. Punching at the keyboard, I type thirteen letters into the Registry of Survivors. V-A-U-G-H-N, P-A-T-R-I-C-K.
On-screen, the computer tells me it’s “Searching for Matches.”
This is it. That’s the real reason he picked this room.
“Sorry, no matches found.”
What? It’s not possible. V-A-U-G-H-N, P.
“Sorry, no matches found.”
V-A-U-G-H-N.
Once again, the computer whirs into search mode. And once again, I get the same result. “Sorry, no matches found.”
It can’t be. Convinced I’m on the right track, I throw it every name I can think of.
G-A-R-R-I-C-K, M-I-C-H-A-E-L.
H-A-R-T-S-O-N, N-O-R-A.
S-I-M-O-N, E-D-G-A-R.
By the time I’m done, I’ve got tons of matches. Vienna, Austria. Kaunas, Lithuania. Gyongyos, Hungary. Even Highland Park, Illinois. But none of them brings me any closer to Vaughn. Annoyed, I push the keyboard aside and slump back in my chair. I’m about to call it a day when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I spin around so fast I almost fall out of my seat. Behind me is an olive-skinned woman with kinky black hair. A black T-shirt with the word “Perv” in white letters hugs just tight enough to get a double take, while her faded jeans hang loosely from her hips.
“Let’s get out of here, Michael,” she says, her voice shaky.
“How do you—?”
“Don’t ask the obvious—it’s not going to help.” As I get out of my seat, she’s glancing around the room, her hands fidgeting as she nervously clicks the long nails on her middle fingers against her thumbs. She rubs her nose twice, unable to stand still.
“When is he—?”
“Not today,” she blurts. She pushes me from behind, straight toward the door. “Now let’s get you out of here in one piece.”
I rush forward without another word. She yanks on the back of my shirt to slow me down.
“Only morons run,” she whispers.
Pushing open the glass door, I wait until we’re back among the crowds. With a sharp left, we’re heading down the wide staircase that leads to the main concourse. “So he’s not coming?” I ask.
At hyperspeed, she arches her neck in every direction. Over her shoulder, over mine, over the railing of the stairs . . . she can’t help herself. “They had his ex-girlfriend’s staked out since Tuesday,” she explains. “And Vaughn don’t even like her.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s no good,” she stutters. “Not here.”
“So when do we—”
She lays a sweaty hand on my shoulder and pulls me close. “National Zoo. Wednesday at one o’clock.” Letting go, she speeds down the rest of the stairs.
“Is it really that bad?” I ask.
She stops where she is and turns around. “Are you kidding?” she asks, wiping a stray black curl from her face. “You know what it takes to make him scared?”
I hold on to the railing to keep myself up. I don’t think I want to know the answer.
• • •
“So you just let her go?” Nora asks, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“What’d you want me to do? Tackle her and demand an even trade?”
&nb
sp; “I’m not sure about tackling, but you gotta start taking some action.”
Standing from my seat, I cross Nora’s bedroom and lean back on the front edge of her antique desk. On my left, I spot a handwritten note signed by Carol Lorenson, the administrator of the blind trust that holds all of the Hartsons’ money. “Weekly allowance—second week September.” Next to the note is a small stack with a few twenty dollar bills.
“You don’t understand,” I say.
“What’s to understand? You had her—you let her go.”
“She’s not the bad guy,” I shoot back. “She was even more terrified than I was, and the way she sounded, it was like she was about to have a heart attack.”
“Oh, c’mon, Michael. This woman knows the guy you’re looking for—the one guy no one can find! No offense, but you should’ve taken Trey with you—at least that way he could’ve followed her.”
“Don’t you get it, Nora? The FBI’s got a mad-on to get you on this one—she was already being followed. Besides, I’m not letting anyone else get hurt over this.”
“Anyone? Who’s anyone?”
I don’t answer.
“Okay, here we go,” she says as her face lights up. “What’re you not saying?”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“So this has to do with why you didn’t take backup? Is that what’s got you all sweaty?”
Again, I don’t answer.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You didn’t take Trey because you don’t trust him—you think he’s working with—”
“Trey’s not working with anyone,” I insist. “But if I brought him along, I’d be putting him in danger too.”
Nora raises an eyebrow, almost confused by the explanation. “So even though you knew you needed backup, you decided not to bring it?”
I stay silent.
“And you did that just to protect a co-worker?”
“He’s not a co-worker. He’s a friend.”
“I wasn’t trying to . . . I just meant . . .” She stops, catching herself. “But what if Trey . . .” Once again, she stops. She’s trying not to judge. She looks away, then back at me. Eventually, she asks, “You’d really give up meeting Vaughn for a friend?”
It’s a silly question. “You think there’s a choice?”
As the words leave me, Nora doesn’t reply. She just sits there—her mouth barely open, a crinkle on her forehead. Slowly, though, her lips start curling. A grin. A smile. Wide.
“What?” I ask.
She leaps to her feet and moves toward the door.
“Where’re you going?”
Putting up her pointer finger, she gives me the C’mere motion. Within seconds, she’s in the hall. I’m right behind her. A quick left sends her toward a closed door on the far end of the third-floor hallway.
As we step inside, one thought enters my brain: This little room is ugly. With its black Formica cabinet emblazoned with the presidential seal, and its too-unaware-to-be-kitschy drapes covered with musical instruments, the place can only be described as a Dollywood-Graceland car crash.
There’re some autographed pictures on the wall from famous musicians, as well as a glass case with one of Clinton’s saxophones. For some reason, there’s also a carpeted three-foot-wide platform that runs along the interior of the room and is set off with a railing. I guess it’s supposed to be a tiny stage. The Music Room—where Clinton used to practice.
I’m about to ask Nora what’s going on when I see her open the black cabinet with the seal on it. Inside is a pristine, highly polished violin and a bow. Using the stage as a seat, she hops up so her legs are dangling over the edge and rests the violin on her shoulder. Placing the bow on the A string, she spends a moment tuning, then looks up at me.
Since when does she . . .
With an elegant slide of her arm, the bow glides across the strings and a perfect note engulfs the room. Holding the instrument in place with the bottom of her chin, Nora closes her eyes, arches her back, and starts playing. It’s a slow song—I remember hearing it once at a wedding.
“When did you learn to play the violin?” I ask.
As before, her answer comes with the song. Her eyes are shut tight; her chin’s clenched against the instrument. She just wants me to watch, but despite the calm that the music brings, I can’t shake the feeling I’m missing something. When Hartson first got elected, I—like the rest of the country—was force-fed every detail about the First Family’s life. Nora’s life. Why she went to Princeton, her love for peanut-butter cups, the name of her cat, even the bands she listened to. Yet no one ever mentioned the violin. It’s like a giant secret that nobody—
Her chin stays down, but for the first time, Nora looks my way and grins. I freeze. Of everything she does, everywhere she goes, it’s the only thing she’s still in control of. Her one real secret. With a subtle nod, she tells me the rest. She’s not just playing. She’s playing for me.
Suddenly light-headed, I take a seat in a nearby chair. “When did you start?” I anxiously ask as she continues to play.
“Whole life,” she answers, not missing a beat. “When my dad first became Governor, I was embarrassed about it, so he promised to keep it quiet. As I got older . . . well . . .” She pauses, thinking it over. “You have to keep something.”
Up close like this, the vibrations bounce against my chest, almost pushing me back. I lean in closer. “Why the violin?”
“You’re telling me you didn’t think about it when you heard ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’?”
I laugh out loud. As the song peaks, her fingers dance against the strings, pulling the music from its resting place. Slowly, it grows louder, but it never loses its light touch.
With one final, gentle tug, Nora pulls the bow back across the A string. The moment she’s done, she looks to me, searching for a reaction. Her eyes are wide with nervousness. Even at this, it’s not easy for her. But as soon as she sees the grin on my face, she can’t help herself. Lifting herself up on her toes, she bounces up and down on the balls on her feet. And even though she covers her smile with her fingers, her bright eyes blaze through the room, making even the Graceland curtains look like Renaissance art. Those beautiful, beaming eyes—so clear, I can practically see myself. I was wrong all those other times—this is the first time I’ve seen her truly happy.
I jump to my feet, clapping as loud as I can. Her cheeks flush red and she takes a mock bow. Then the applause gets louder. “Bravo!” someone shouts from behind me—outside, in the hallway.
I spin around, following the sound. Nora looks up, over my shoulder. Just as I spot them, the applause quadruples. Five men—all of them in bureaucratic blue suits and unbearably sensible ties. Leading them is Friedsam, one of the President’s top aides. The other four work under him. They must’ve been up here briefing Hartson, who loves to do after-lunch meetings in the Solarium. From the satisfied looks on their faces, they see their eavesdropping as another perk of the job.
“That was terrific,” Friedsam says to Nora. “I didn’t know you played.”
I turn back to see her reaction. It’s already too late. She forces a smile, but it doesn’t fool anyone. Her jaw’s locked tight. Her eyes glisten with tears. Clutching the violin by its neck, she blows past me toward the door. Friedsam and the white boys part around her like the Red Sea. Racing after her, I make sure to get close to Friedsam. “You leak it and I’ll make sure Hartson knows it’s you,” I hiss as I pass.
Chasing Nora up the hallway, I retrace my original steps back to her bedroom. There’re no guards up in the Residence, which means I can run. As I pass the Solarium, I tell myself not to look. But like a modern-day Orpheus, I can’t help myself. I glance to my left and spot the President sitting by the wide windows, flipping through paperwork. His back’s to me and . . . Dammit, what the hell is wrong with me?
Before he turns to face me, I open the door to Nora’s room and step inside. She’s sitting at her desk, staring at the wall. Wi
th the constancy of a human metronome, she’s mindlessly bouncing her bow against the front edge of the desk.
“How you doing?”
“How do you think?” she shoots back, refusing to look up.
“If it makes you feel any better, I really loved the song.”
“Don’t rationalize with me. Even an animal knows it’s in a zoo when the visitors show up to gawk.”
“So now you’re in a zoo?”
“That music was for you, Michael. Not them. When they walk in and see it, it’s like they’re . . .” She pauses, clenching her teeth. “Damn!” she shouts as she pounds the bow against the desk. As it hits, the bow snaps in two, and even though it’s still attached by the strands of horse hair, the top half flips forward, knocks over a silver pencil cup, and sends its contents spilling in every direction.
There’s a long silence before either of us says anything.
“Now what’re you gonna do for an encore?” I finally ask.
Nora can’t help but laugh. “You think you’re a real Mr. Funnyman, don’t you?”
“When you’re born with a gift . . .”
“Don’t talk to me about gifts.”
Stepping toward her, I toss aside the broken bow and take her hands in mine. But as I lean down to kiss her forehead, I realize I had it wrong. It’s not that she identifies with what’s missing. Nora Hartson identifies with what’s destroyed. That’s why she can walk into a crowded room and find the one person who’s all alone. That’s why she found me. She recognized the hurt; she recognized herself.
“Please, Nora, don’t let them do this to you. I already told Friedsam that if it leaks, I’ll nail him through the toes.”
She looks up. “You did?”
“Nora, two weeks ago, I got pulled over with ten thousand dollars in my glove compartment. The next day, a woman who I had just been arguing with was found dead in her office. Three days after that, I learn that I let a known killer into the building on the day she died. This morning, I spend two hours trying to meet with this supposed killer, and I’m eventually stood up. Then, this afternoon, for the first time since this whole damn shitstorm started, you played me that song, and for three whole minutes . . . I know it’s cliché, but . . . it didn’t exist, Nora. None of it.”