Throwing my briefcase on the sofa, I head for my desk. A digital screen attached to my phone says that I have twenty-two new calls. As I scroll through the call log, I can see the names and phone numbers of all the people who called. Nothing that can’t wait. Anxious to get back to Nora, I take a quick glance at the toaster, a small electronic device that bears an uncanny resemblance to its namesake and was left here by the office’s previous occupant. A small screen displays the following in digital green letters:
POTUS: OVAL OFFICE
There they are-The Big Five. The President, the VP, and the First Family. The principals. Like Big Brother, I instinctively check all of their locations. Updated by the Secret Service as each principal moves, the toaster is there in case of emergency. I’ve never once heard of anyone using it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not everyone’s favorite toy. The thing is, I’m not concerned with the President of the United States, or the First Lady, or the VP. What I’m really looking at is Nora. I pick up the phone and dial her number.
She answers on the first ring. “Sleep okay last night?”
Clearly, she’s got the same caller ID we do. “Somewhat. Why?”
“No reason-I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Again, I’m really sorry I put you in that position.”
Sad as it is to admit, I love hearing the concern in her voice. “I appreciate the thought.” Turning toward the toaster, I add, “Where am I calling you anyway?”
“You tell me-you’re the one staring at the toaster.”
I smile to myself. “No, I’m not.”
“I told you last night-you’re a bad liar, Michael.”
“Is that why you were so intent on washing my mouth out?”
“If you’re talking about my tongue down your throat, that was just to give you something exciting to think about.”
“And that’s your idea of excitement?”
“No, excitement would be if that little contraption you’re staring at showed you exactly what I’m doing with my hands.”
The woman’s ruthless. “So this thing really works?”
“Don’t know. They only give them to staff.”
“So that’s it, huh? Now I’m just staff?”
“You know what I mean. I usually… the way it works… I’ve never had the chance to watch myself,” she stutters.
I can’t believe it-she’s actually embarrassed. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m only joking.”
“No, I know… I just… I don’t want you to think I’m some spoiled snob.”
I pause, lost in the almost scientific curiosity of what she finds important. “Well get it out of your head,” I eventually say. “If I thought you were a snob, I wouldn’t have gone out with you in the first place.”
“That’s not true,” she teases. She’s right. But the playfulness in her tone tells me she admires the attempt. Being Nora, her recovery’s immediate. “So where does it say I am?” she adds, turning my attention back to the toaster.
“Second Floor Residence.”
“And what does that tell you?”
“I have no idea-I’ve never been up there.”
“You’ve never been up here? You should come.”
“Then you should invite me.” I’m proud of myself for that one. The invitation should be just around the corner.
“We’ll see,” she says.
“Oh, so now I haven’t passed that test yet? What do I have to do? Act interested? Show a steady follow-up? Go to some group dinner and get checked out by your girlfriends?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t act all coy-I know how it is with women-everything’s a group decision these days.”
“Not with me.”
“And you expect me to believe that?” I ask with a laugh. “C’mon, Nora, you have friends, don’t you?”
For the first time, she doesn’t answer. There’s nothing but dead air. My smile sags to a flat line. “I… I didn’t mean… ”
“Of course I have friends,” she finally stammers. “Meanwhile, have you seen Simon yet?”
I’m tempted to go back, but this is more important. “At the meeting this morning. He walked in and the whole world hit slow motion. The thing is, watching his reaction, I don’t think he saw us. I would’ve seen it in his eyes.”
“Suddenly you’re the arbiter of truth?”
“Mark my words, he didn’t know we were there.”
“So have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“What’s to decide? I have to report him.”
She thinks about this for a second. “Just be careful abou-”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone you were there.”
“That’s not what I was worried about,” she shoots back, annoyed. “I was going to say, be careful who you go to with this. Considering the time period, and the person involved, this thing’s going to Hindenburg.”
“You think I should wait until after the election?”
There’s a long pause on the other line. It’s still her father. Finally, she says, “I can’t answer that. I’m too close.” I can hear it in her voice. It’s only a twelve-point lead. She knows what could happen. “Is there a way to keep it out of the press?” she asks.
“Believe me, there’s no way I’m throwing this to the press. They’d eat us alive by lunch.”
“Then who do you go to?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it should be someone in here.”
“If you want, you can tell my dad.”
There it is again. Her dad. Every time she says it, it seems that much more ridiculous. “Too big,” I say. “Before it goes to him, I want someone to do a little bit more research.”
“Just to make sure we’re right?”
“That’s what I’m worried about. The moment this gets out, we’re going to wreck Simon’s career. And that’s not something I take lightly. In here, once the finger’s pointed at you, you’re gone.”
Nora’s been on the receiving end for too long. She knows I’m right. “Is there someone you have in mind?”
“Caroline Penzler. She’s in charge of ethics for the White House.”
“Can you trust her?”
I pick up a nearby pencil and tap the eraser against my desk. “I’m not sure-but I know exactly who to ask.”
CHAPTER 5
Leaving my office, I cross through the anteroom and head straight for Pam’s. The door is always open, but I still give her a courtesy knock. “Anyone home?”
By the time she says “Come in,” I’m already standing across from her desk. The setup of her office is a mirror image of mine, right down to the nonworking fireplace. As always, the differences are on the walls, where Pam has replaced my ego items with two personal effects: over her couch, a blown-up photograph of the President when he spoke at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, her hometown; and over her desk, an enormous American flag, which was a gift from her mother when Pam first got the job. Typical Pam, I think to myself. Apple pie at heart.
Facing the computer table that runs perpendicular to her desk, Pam is typing furiously with her back to me. As is her usual work mode, her thin blond hair is pulled back in a tight twist held by a red clip. “What’s up?” she asks without turning around.
“I’ve got a question for you.”
She flips through a pile of papers, looking for something in particular. When she finds it, she says, “I’m listening.”
“Do you trust Caroline?”
Pam immediately stops typing and turns my way. Raising an eyebrow, she asks, “What’s wrong? Is it Nora?”
“No, it’s not Nora. It has nothing to do with Nora. I just have a question about this issue I’m working on.”