“For a reason?” Pam asks. I can read it in the creases of her forehead. She thinks I’m starstruck. “Now you’re being plain stupid.”
“I’m sorry-that’s how I see it.”
“Well, regardless of how blind you want to be, you still need her help. She’s the only one who can corroborate your story about Simon.”
I nod, trying not to dwell on why she wouldn’t see me today. “When everything calms down, I bet she comes through.”
“Why do I have such a hard time believing that?”
“Because you don’t like her.”
“I could care less about her-I’m just worried about you.”
“Don’t worry, she’s not going to let us down.”
“I hope you’re right,” Pam says. “Because if she does, you’re going to be free-falling without a parachute. And before you can blink, you’re going to taste every second of that impact.”
For financial reasons, Saturday morning means only two of my four newspapers are sitting outside my door. Even as a lawyer, government salaries only go so far. Regardless, the ritual’s pretty much the same. Pulling the papers inside, I stare down at Bartlett’s second consecutive day in the front photo-a beaming shot of him and his wife at their son’s soccer game. Flipping the paper over, I scour the Post’s below-the-fold, front-page story on Caroline’s death and search for my name. It’s not there. Not yet.
Instead, I get a recap of her death, followed by a quick sketch of what a good friend Caroline was to the First Lady. According to the quote under the old photo of the two friends, the relationship changed Caroline’s life. Looking at the picture, I can see why. Caroline’s the law student, all wide-eyed and passionate in her cheap blouse and wrinkled skirt; Mrs. Hartson is her supervisor-the sparkling director of Parkinson’s fund-raising in her white Miami power suit. A friendship ended by a heart attack. Please let it just be a heart attack.
On the Saturday morning drive downtown, as I approach the White House, Pennsylvania Avenue is packed with joggers and bicyclists trying to leave the work week behind. Behind them, the sun is gleaming off the mansion’s ivory columns. It’s the kind of sight that makes you want to spend the whole day outside. That is, unless you can’t get your mind off work.
I pull up to the first checkpoint before the Southwest Appointment Gate and flash my ID to a uniformed Secret Service officer. He glances at my photo and offers me a subtle smirk. In his right hand, he’s holding what looks like a pool cue with a round unbreakable mirror attached to the end of it. Without a word, he runs the mirror below the car. No bombs, no surprise guests. Knowing the rest of the ritual, I pop my rear hatch. The first officer rummages through the back of my Jeep, as I notice a second officer standing on the side with a way-too-alert German shepherd. When my car’s finally parked, they’ll send the dog sniffing on an hourly basis. Right now, they wave me in.
I find an open spot on State Place, right outside the steel bars of the gate. At my level, that’s the best parking I can get. Outside the gate. Still, at least I have a parking pass.
Traveling the rest of the way on foot, I cross inside the gate, swipe my badge at the turnstile, and wait for the lock to click. I walk past two more guards, neither of whom gives me a second look. As I glance over my shoulder, however, I notice the officer with the mirror on the other side of the gate. Through the bars, he’s staring straight at me. Smirk still on his face.
Picking up speed, I head up the sidewalk, with the OEOB on my left and the West Wing on my right. The corridor between the two is lined with Mercedes, Jaguars, Saabs, and just enough beat-up Saturns to stave off elitist guilt. The most prestigious parking lot in the city. All of it inside the gate. An island unto itself, West Exec parking is also where the hierarchy of White House command is laid out for the world to see: the closer your spot to the entrance of the West Wing, the higher your rank. Chief of Staff is closer than the Deputy Chief of Staff, who’s closer than the Domestic Policy Advisor, who’s closer than me. And even though I don’t usually drive to work, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be inside the gate.
Getting closer to the front, I can’t help myself. I pretend to hear someone calling my name and again look over my shoulder. The guard’s still there. Our eyes lock and he whispers something into his walkie-talkie. What the hell is… Forget it. He’s just trying to scare me. Who could he be speaking to anyway?
I turn back to the parking lot and see a black Volvo in Spot Twenty-six. Simon’s somewhere in the building. At the end of the row, there’s an old gray Honda in Spot Ninety-four. It belongs to Trey, whose boss lets him use her spot on weekends. Midway between the two, I notice there’s a brand-new red car parked in Spot Forty-one. Caroline’s been dead less than twenty-four hours, and someone’s already taken her parking space.
As I approach the side entrance of the OEOB, I take one last glance at the guard outside the gate. For the first time since I arrived, he’s gone-back to sliding his mirror under the belly of arriving cars. Still, it’s just like the night on the embankment-not only is my neck soaked-I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Without even thinking, I look up at the dozens of gray windows on this end of the enormous building. Every one of them appears to be empty, but they’re all somehow staring down at me like square magnifying lenses. My eyes flick across the panes of glass, searching for a friendly face. No one’s there.
Inside the building, it doesn’t take me long to reach the anteroom that leads to my office. Opening the door, though, I’m surprised to see that the lights are already on. I didn’t see Julian’s car on State Place, and Pam told me she was going to be working from home. The office should be dark. Putting the blame on a careless cleaning crew, I snake my arm behind the tallest of our file cabinets to flip off the silent alarm. But as I braille my way along the plaster, I don’t like what I find. The alarm’s already been turned off.
“Pam?” I call out. “Julian? Are you there?” No one answers.
Under Pam’s door, I notice that the light is on. “Pam, are you there?” Just as I turn toward her office, I notice that the three stackable plastic file-trays that serve as our mailboxes are all full. Next to the table, the coffeemaker is off. I’m about to open her door when I freeze. I know my friend. Whoever’s in there, it’s not Pam.
I rush toward my office, push the door open, and dart inside. Spinning around, I grab the deadbolt and lock it. That’s when it hits me. I shouldn’t have been able to open my door. It’s supposed to be locked.
Behind me, something moves by the sofa. Then by my desk. A creak of vinyl. A pencil rolling down a keyboard. They’re not in Pam’s office. They’re in mine.
I turn around, struggling to catch my breath. It’s too late. There are two men waiting for me. Both of them head my way. I turn back to the door, but it’s locked. My hands are shaking as I lunge for the deadbolt.
A fist comes down and pounds me in the knuckles. My hands still don’t leave the deadbolt. Clutching. Clawing. Anything to get out.
Over my shoulder, a fat, meaty hand covers my mouth. I try to scream, but his grip’s too tight. The tips of his fingers dig into my jaw, his nails scratching my cheek.
“Don’t fight it,” he warns. “This’ll only take a second.”
CHAPTER 10
Where the hell are we going?” I ask as we head up the hallway. On Saturday, the place is near-empty. The two men are holding me tightly by the back of my arms and forcing me toward the West Exec exit.
“Stop complaining,” the one on my right says. He’s a tall black man with a neck as thick as my thigh. From his posture and build, I’m assuming Secret Service, but he’s not dressed the part-too casual, not enough polish. And there’s no microphone in his ear. More important, they didn’t identify themselves-which means these guys aren’t who I thought they were.