“I don’t even know you. I can’t promise you anything.”
“Tough guy, huh? That’s okay. I’ll tell you a few things anyway. After all, sharing knowledge is power.”
“I think the actual saying goes, ‘Knowledge is power.’”
“Not in Washington. Here, the real power is in deniability. If I share knowledge with you, I take away your deniability. It’s the ultimate power play.”
Jack took a second to process that one. Andie’s words were suddenly tumbling around in the back of his mind: You don’t even see it coming, Jack.
“Okay, I’m listening,” he said. “I guess.”
Paulette said, “Last month, a friend in the White House told me that Chloe was trying to get in touch with the vice president. It got to the point where Grayson’s chief of staff called me into her office to see if I could put a stop to it, before the FBI stepped in.”
“The FBI? She was a journalist who used to work for the vice president. She has every right to try to contact him.”
“Contact, yes. Stalk, no.”
“Your sister was stalking the vice president?”
“Depends on your definition of stalking. Chloe had some history that worked against her.”
“You mean getting fired?”
“Other issues.” She drank some coffee, then continued. “The protocol for White House interns is strict: how to dress, where they’re allowed to go, and most important, how to act when the ‘principals’ are present.”
“She violated that?”
“The White House is the only place where the president is not a celebrity. Interns aren’t supposed to hang out in halls that they expect the president or vice president to walk through, or park themselves outside rooms where they may be meeting. Chloe was one of the few interns who earned a blue pass, which gave her access to the West Wing. Frankly, I think she became a little star-struck. Chloe started to, shall we say-hover-around Grayson.”
“What happened?”
“Well, she ended up getting fired.”
“For drugs.”
“That’s what they say,” said Paulette.
“Again, you sound skeptical.”
“I can’t help it. I’m a journalist,” she said, her tone turning more serious. “And because this is my sister we’re talking about.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand you,” he said. “But I really don’t see where this is leading.”
“It comes down to this e-mail,” she said, holding her iPhone. “I’m guessing that it wasn’t the first communication between Chloe and her source. Why else would the FBI have shown up at her apartment with a warrant to get her computer? So let’s say the give-and-take between Chloe and her source went back a few weeks, maybe longer. If you read Chloe’s e-mail-the promise of a story that will bring down Keyes-in tandem with the message you got-an offer to make your father president-it makes you stop and think. Maybe there was a reason Chloe was trying so hard to reach the vice president. Maybe she was trying to convey the same information.”
“About an assassination attempt?”
“No. Don’t you get it? The key word here is not ‘threat.’ It’s information. Chloe had information that could bring down Keyes and make Grayson president. Your source has information that could still bring down Keyes and make your father president. That’s why the FBI won’t let me see the full e-mail that Chloe received.”
“Wow” was all Jack could say.
“So?” said Paulette. “Are we there yet?”
Jack was about to ask where, but she had that look on her face again, and he knew she was talking about trust. “Are you proposing some kind of partnership?”
“The FBI is not going to tell me anything. Mark my word: they are not going to tell you anything, either. I have sources. You’ll have yours. If we cooperate, I might just find out what happened to my sister. And you might find out what your father is walking into-before it’s too late.”
“That makes some sense.”
“It will make even more sense if you’re free for about another hour.”
Jack checked his watch. He had time. “Free for what?”
“I have a meeting, and you’re welcome to tag along.”
“Who’s it with?”
“Someone who is now terrified to talk to anyone, thanks to the strong arm of the FBI. He may be the only man alive who can identify the person who sent you that e-mail.”
“Are you talking about that homeless guy who hand-delivered the message to me yesterday?”
“You got it.”
“The FBI wouldn’t even tell me his name. How did you find him?”
“Sources.”
“Must be nice to have them,” said Jack.
“Good boy,” she said, smiling thinly. “You’re learning.”
Chapter 14
Ascenic walk down Pennsylvania Avenue took Jack and Paulette to Lafayette Park, a seven-acre public green space directly north of the White House. At the southeast entrance they were greeted by a statue of Marquis Gilbert de Lafayette, a French hero of the American Revolutionary War and France’s “pay-it-forward” answer to World War II and the liberation of Paris. A block north was St. John’s Episcopal Church, the unofficial chapel to the White House since James Madison staked out pew 54 almost two centuries ago.
“They call this the church of presidents,” said Paulette, as they approached.
Four homeless men were resting on the front steps, two of them either sleeping or passed out.
“These must be the vice presidents,” said Jack.
She smiled and said, “Are you making fun of your father or my church?”
“You go to church?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Only because most of the Washington reporters I’ve met so far think they are God.”
“And I suppose monster egos would be something completely new to you, being a trial lawyer and all.”
“Touche,” said Jack.
As they climbed the granite stairs, the sun poked through the clouds and brought a springlike glow to the golden cupola and exterior walls of yellow stucco. The morning air was still quite cold, however, and Jack wondered how many nights these homeless men had spent shivering outside church doors just a block away from the White House.
“I started coming here when I was assigned to White House coverage,” said Paulette, “though, to be honest, on my first visit I was just curious to see who might be here. That’s how I found Juan.”
“Juan?”
“My source.”
“Princesa,” the man said, rising from the top step. “Como estas?”
“Muy bien, gracias.”
Jack shot Paulette another look of surprise. “You speak Spanish?”
“Not really. But Juan doesn’t seem to care.”
Jack was suddenly reminded of the embarrassment it caused his abuela to have lady friends compare her grandson’s Spanish to Speedy Gonzalez’s English.
Paulette made the introductions, but instead of shaking Jack’s hand, Juan hugged Paulette and said, “She’s beautiful, no?”
It was apparent to Jack that Juan wasn’t just a source.
“Sit,” he said, inviting them to take a place on the church step. “Mi casa es su casa.”
Juan’s smile was short on teeth but not on sincerity. He wore a Washington Redskins cap, black mittens, and Easter-egg-blue golf slacks that the embarrassed wife of a lawyer must have thrown into the Salvation Army box. Juan was a large man with a non-threatening manner, and the scar on his forehead made Jack guess that he was probably one of those gentle giants who got provoked into bar fights by short, drunk guys with Napoleon complexes.
Paulette said, “Juan and I have been sitting next to each other every Sunday for about six months now.”
“We met at La Casa,” said Juan.
“La Casa is a homeless shelter,” she said, “mostly Hispanic men. I volunteer down there.”