by Brad Meltzer
“I’m sorry, Miss Hartson—those’re the rules. The FBI asked us to check every car.”
“I’m just picking up something from my mom. I’ll be in and out in a—”
“Whose car is this anyway?” he asks suspiciously.
“The woman who does my mom’s hair—you’ve seen her—”
“And where’re your agents?” he adds as I shut my eyes.
“Down by the checkpoint—even they know it’s only gonna take me a second. Now do you want to call them, or do you want to let me in?”
“Again, ma’am, I’m sorry. I can’t—”
“They’re waiting right down there.”
“It doesn’t matter—pop your trunk, please.”
“C’mon, Stewie, do I look dangerous to you?”
No, don’t flirt with him! These guys’re too smart to—
There’s a loud click and the car rolls forward. Nora—one; guards—nothing. We’re in.
As we move up West Exec, I can’t tell if there’re people running across the narrow street that separates the OEOB and the White House. Even if it’s empty, though, someone could easily walk out. Hoping to avoid surprises, and following my earlier instructions, Nora makes a sharp left up the concrete driveway and pulls right under the twenty-foot archway that leads to the ground floor of the OEOB. Out of sight and used mostly as a loading zone, it’s more obscure than the wide-open area of the West Exec parking lot. As the car levels off, I know we’re there. Nora shuts the engine and slams the door. Now comes the hard part.
She’s got to time this one just right. The archway may lead through to a courtyard, but it’s still physically part of the OEOB’s massive hallway. Which means there’re always plenty of people crisscrossing in and out of the automatic doors that’re cut into the base of the arch. If I’m going to get out of here without being seen, she’s going to have to wait until the hallway is clear.
Inside the trunk, I twist around on my stomach, slowly getting into position. My muscles are tensed. As soon as she opens the trunk, I’m out. I wrestle the jumper cables out of the way and brush chessmen away from my face. Nothing to trip me up. I don’t hear anything, but she hasn’t come to get me. There must be people nearby. That’s the only reason she’d wait. As the seconds turn into a full minute, my fingers pick anxiously at the trunk carpet.
I try to prop myself up on my elbows as a minor revolt, but the space is too small. And dark. It’s like a coffin. The walls of the trunk are pressing in. The silence is sickening. I hold my breath and listen closer. The final click of the engine as the car shuts down. Whispered friction as my shoe slides along the trunk’s carpet. In the distance, a car door slams. Is Nora even out there? Did she leave? Oh, God, I panic as I lick a tiny pool of sweat from my top lip. She could be anywhere by now. Back in the Residence; pit stop in the Oval. All she needs is a head start to feed me to the wolves. Outside, I hear a group of footsteps approach the car. Just as quickly, they stop. They’re waiting. Out there. For me. Son of a bitch.
The trunk pops open and a shot of daylight slaps me in the face. Squinting and using my forearm to block the sun, I look up, expecting to see the FBI. But the only one there is Nora.
“Let’s go,” she says, waving me out. She grabs my jacket by the shoulder and pulls me along.
My eyes scan the loading zone. No one’s around.
“Sorry about the wait,” she says. “There were a few stragglers in the hall.”
I catch my breath as Nora slams the trunk. Reaching inside her shirt, she pulls a metal chain with a laminated ID badge from around her neck and tosses it to me. A bright red badge with a big white letter A on it. A for appointment; my very own scarlet letter. I quickly put it on. Now I’m just another White House guest—completely invisible. Wasting no time, I dash for the automatic doors on my right. The moment my body steps past the electronic eye, the doors swing wide. I’m in. So’s Nora. Right behind me.
“So you’re all set?” she asks as we stop in the hallway.
“I guess,” I reply, my eyes glued to the floor.
“You sure you don’t need anything else?”
I shake my head. “I think I’ll be okay.”
“I guess I’ll see you at Trey’s office,” Nora adds.
“What?”
“That’s the plan, isn’t it? I go back and check in with the Service, then we’ll meet up in Trey’s office?”
“Yeah. That’s the plan,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. Turning around, I can’t face her anymore. Better to walk away.
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you’re looking for?” she asks hesitantly.
“I don’t know if it’s smart to talk about it out here.”
“No, you’re right.” She looks around at the abandoned hallway. “Someone could overhear.”
I nod in agreement.
“Good luck,” she says, reaching out for my hand.
I reach back and our fingers slide together. Before I can react, she pulls me close and presses her lips against mine. I open my mouth and take one last taste. It’s like cinnamon with a shot of brandy. She grabs me by the back of my head as her nails scratch the short hairs on my neck. Her breasts press against my chest; the entire world doesn’t exist. And I’m once again reminded why Nora Hartson is completely overwhelming.
When she finally pulls away, she wipes her eyes. Her trembling lips are slightly open and she anxiously tucks a stray section of hair behind her ear. As a soft crinkle spreads across her forehead, the pained look on her face is the same as the night we were pulled over. Her seen-it-all eyes are fighting back tears.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Just tell me you trust me.”
“Nora, I—”
“Tell me!” she pleads, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Please, Michael. Just say the words.”
Once again, I take her by the hand. “I’ve always trusted you.”
She can’t help but fight back the smile. “Thank you.” Wiping her eyes, she squares her shoulders and puts her mask back in place. “Clock’s ticking, handsome. I’ll meet you back at Trey’s office?”
“That’s where I’m headed,” I reply, my voice trailing off.
She kisses her fingertips and slaps me on the cheek. “Stop worrying. It’ll all work out.” Without another word, she gets back in the car and heads down the loading ramp.
I turn away and dash for the stairs. Don’t look back—it’s not going to help.
• • •
Racing up the stairs, I have a clear path to Trey’s office. The moment Nora’s gone, though, I spin around and head downstairs. My stomach stings from lying to her, but if I’d told her the truth, she’d never have brought me in.
As I rush down to the basement of the building, the staircase narrows, the ceiling lowers, and I start to sweat. With no windows, and not a single air-conditioning unit in sight, the hallways in the basement are at least fifteen degrees hotter than the rest of the OEOB.
Rushing past the rotting concrete in what now feels like an underground sauna, I take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves. I have to duck down to avoid knocking my head against the pipes, wires, and heating ducts that hang down from the ceiling, but it doesn’t slow me down. Not when I’m this close.
When Caroline died, all of her important files were confiscated by the FBI. Everything else was put here: Room 018—one of the many storage areas used by Records Management. As the bureaucratic pack-rats of the Executive Branch, they catalogue every document produced by the administration. By all accounts, it’s a suck job.
Turning the doorknob and stepping inside, I see that they live up to their reputation. Floor to ceiling—stacks of file boxes.
Weaving my way through the cardboard catacombs, I move deeper into the room. The boxes just keep on going. On the side of each one is an employee’s name. Anderson, Arden, Augustino . . . I follow the alphabet around to my right. It must be somewhere toward the back. Over my shoulder, I hear the door suddenly slam. Th
e room’s fluorescent lights shudder from the impact. I’m not alone anymore.
“Who’s there?” a man’s voice barks as he approaches through the cardboard alleys.
I squat down, my hands flat against the tile floor.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks as I spin around.
“I . . .” I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
“You have a maximum of three seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t pick up the phone and call Security—and don’t give me some lame excuse like you were lost or something equally insulting.” As soon as I see the handlebar mustache, I recognize Al Rudall. A true Southern gentleman who refuses to deal with low-level associates, Al is well known for his love of women and distaste for lawyers. When subpoenas came in, and we needed to gather old memos, we used to make sure that all our document requests came with a female bigshot signature at the bottom. Considering that we’ve never met, combined with the Y-chromosome that’s floating in my genes, I knew he wasn’t going to give me access to the room. Lucky for me, though, I know his kryptonite.
“It’s okay,” Pam says as she steps out from behind Al. “He’s with me.”
CHAPTER 38
Within ten minutes, Pam and I are sitting in the back of the room with fourteen boxes of Caroline’s files spread out across the floor in front of us. It took a bucketful of assurances to convince Al to let us take a look, but with Pam being the new keeper of the files, there wasn’t much room to argue. This is her job.
“Thanks again,” I say, looking up from the files.
“Don’t worry about it,” Pam says coldly, refusing to make eye contact.
She has every right to be mad. She’s risking her job to get us through this. “I mean it, Pam. I couldn’t—”
“Michael, the only reason I’m doing this is because I think they stabbed you with this one. Anything else is just your imagination.”
I turn away and stay quiet.
Flipping through the files, I’m left with the remnants of Caroline’s three years of work. In each folder, it’s all the same—sheet after sheet of cover-your-ass memos and filed-away announcements. None of them changed the world; just wasted paper. And no matter how fast I leaf through it, it just keeps going. File upon file upon file upon file. Wiping sweat from my forehead, I shove the carton aside. “This is never going to work,” I say nervously.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s going to take forever to look at every sheet—and Al’s not giving us more than fifteen minutes with this stuff. I don’t care what he said, he knows something’s up.”
“You have any other ideas?”
“Alphabetically,” I blurt. “What would she file it under?”
“I keep mine under E. Ethics.”
I look down at the manila folders in my box. The first is labeled Administration. The last is Briefing Papers. “I got A through B, I say.”
Seeing that she has B through D, Pam walks on her knees to the next box and pulls off the cardboard lid. Drug Testing to Federal Register. “Here!” she calls out as I hop to my feet.
Hunched over Pam’s shoulder, I watch as she rifles through the folders. Employee Assistance Program . . . EEO . . . Federal Programs. Nothing labeled Ethics.
“Maybe the FBI took it,” she suggests.
“If they did, we’d know about it. It’s got to be here somewhere.”
She’s tempted to argue, but she knows I’m running out of options.
“What else could it be under?”
“I don’t know,” Pam says. “Files . . . Requests . . . it could be anything.”
“You take F; I’ll take R.” Working my way down the line, I flip off the cover of each box. G through H . . . I through K . . . L through Lu. By the time I reach the second to last box, most of which is allocated to Personnel, I know I’m in trouble. There’s no way the last quarter of the alphabet is fitting in the final box. Sure enough, I pull off the top and see that I’m right. Presidential Commissions . . . Press . . . Publications. That’s where it ends. Publication.
“There’s nothing under Files,” Pam says. “I’m going to start at the—”
“We’re missing the end!”
“What?”
“It’s not here—these aren’t all the boxes!”
“Michael, calm down.”
Refusing to listen, I rush to the small area where Caroline’s files were originally stacked. My hands are shaking as they skim down the stacks of every surrounding box. Palmer . . . Perez . . . Perlman . . . Poirot. Nothing marked Caroline Penzler. Frantic, I zigzag through the makeshift aisles, looking for anything we may’ve overlooked.
“Where else could they be?” I ask in a panic.
“I have no idea—there’s storage everywhere.”
“I need a place, Pam. Everywhere is a little vague.”
“I don’t know. Maybe the attic?”
“What attic?”
“On the fifth floor—next to the Indian Treaty Room. Al once said they used it for overflow.” Realizing we’re short on manpower, she adds, “Maybe you should call Trey.”
“I can’t—he’s stalling Nora in his office.” I look down at the fourteen boxes laid out in front of us. “Can you—”
“I’ll go through these,” she says, reading my thoughts. “You head upstairs. Page me if you need help.”
“Thanks, Pam. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I love you too.”
I stop dead in my tracks and study her barbed blue eyes.
She smiles. I don’t know what to say.
“You should get out of here,” she adds.
I don’t move.
“Go on,” she says. “Get out of here!”
Running for the door, I look over my shoulder for one last glimpse of my friend. She’s already deep into the next box.
• • •
Back in the halls of the basement, I keep my head down as I lope past a group of janitors pushing mop buckets. I’m not taking any chances. The moment I’m spotted, it’s over. Following the hallway around another turn, I duck under a vent pipe and ignore two separate sets of stairs. Both are empty, but both also lead to crowded hallways.
A quarter-way down the hall, I slam on the brakes and push the call button for the service elevator. It’s the one place I know I won’t run into any fellow staffers. No one in the White House thinks of themselves as second-class.
Waiting, I anxiously check up and down this oven of a hallway. It’s got to be ninety degrees. The armpits of my shirt are soaked. The worst part is, I’m out in the open. If anyone comes, there’s nowhere to hide. Maybe I should duck into a room—at least until the elevator gets here. I look around to see what’s—Oh, no. How’d I miss that? It’s right across from the elevator, staring me straight in the face—a small black-and-white sign that reads “Room 072—USSS/UD.” The United States Secret Service and the Uniformed Division. And here I am, standing right in front of it.
Looking up, I search the ceiling for a camera. Through the wires, behind the pipes. It’s the Secret Service—it’s got to be here somewhere. Unable to spot it, I turn back to the elevator. Maybe no one’s watching. If they haven’t come out yet, the odds are good.
I pound my thumb against the call button. The indicator above the door says it’s on the first floor. Thirty more seconds—that’s all I need. Behind me, I hear the worst kind of creak. I spin around and see the doorknob starting to turn. Someone’s coming out. The elevator pings as it finally arrives, but its doors don’t open. Over my shoulder, I hear hinges squeak. A quick look shows me the uniformed agent stepping out of the room. He’s right behind me as the elevator opens. If he wanted to, he could reach out and grab me. I inch forward and calmly step into the elevator, praying he doesn’t follow. Please, please, please, please, please. Even as the doors close, he can stick his hand in at the last second. Keeping my back turned, I squint with apprehension. Finally, I hear the doors close behind me.
Alone in the rusty industrial elevator, I turn, push the button marked 5, and let my head sag back against the beat-up walls. Approaching each floor, I tense up just a bit, but one after another, we pass them without stopping. Straight to the top. Sometimes there’re benefits to being second-class.
When the doors open on the highest floor of the OEOB, I stick out my head and survey the hallway. There’re a couple young suits at the far end, but otherwise, it’s a clear path. Following Pam’s instructions, I dart straight for the door to the left of the Indian Treaty Room. Unlike most of the rooms in the building, it’s unmarked. And unlocked.
“Anyone here?” I call out as I push open the door. No answer. The room’s dark. Stepping inside, I see that it’s not even a room. It’s just a tiny closet with a metal-grated staircase leading straight up. That must be the attic. I hesitate as I put my foot on the first step. In any building with five hundred rooms, there’re always gonna be a few that inherently seem off-limits. This is one of them.
I grab the iron handrail and feel a layer of dust under the palm of my hand. As I climb higher up the stairs, I’m encased in another sauna caused by the lack of air-conditioning. I thought I was sweating before, but up here . . . proof positive that heat rises. Every breath in is like a full gulp of sand.
As I continue up the stairs, I notice two deflated Winnie-the-Pooh mylar balloons attached to the banister. Both of them read “Happy Birthday” on them. Whoever was up here last, it must’ve been a hell of a private party.
At the top, I turn around and get my first good look at the long, rectangular attic. With high, slanted ceilings and exposed wooden beams, it gets all its light from a few skylights and a set of miniature windows. Otherwise, it’s a dim, crowded room filled with leftovers. Discarded desks in one corner, stacked-up chairs in another, and what looks like an empty swimming pool cut into the center of the floor. As I get closer, I realize that the recessed part of the floor is actually the casing for a section of stained glass that’s surrounded by a waist-high guardrail.