Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

“For all we know-it’s just a heart attack,” she stutters. “Maybe Simon’ll even stay quiet.”

What am I supposed to say? No, your father’s life is definitely going to get wrecked-especially if I scream the truth? In the span of a few unstrung seconds, my options quickly narrow: I open my mouth, her dad takes it in the knees, and since I’m at the epicenter, we all go down. If I keep my mouth shut, I buy some time to sniff around, but I risk going down alone. Once again, I look over at the pins at the end of the alley. I can’t help but feel like the lead pin in the triangle. The one that always gets creamed by the ball.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” I suggest. “Just so he knows who to trust. I mean, even if it was a heart attack, Simon was being blackmailed for something-and unless we figure it out, he’s going to keep hanging the noose around me.”

Nora looks at me, but doesn’t say a word.

“So you’ll talk to him?”

She pauses. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? ”

“I’m telling you, he can’t be bothered with this stuff. He won’t… he won’t understand. He’s not your average dad.” Right there, I stop arguing. I know that frustration in her voice. And I know that world-an orphan with a living parent.

“Is there anyone else you can-?”

“I already told my Uncle Larry.”

“Who?”

“Larry. Larry Lamb.”

“Of course,” I say, trying to be nonchalant. She’s not going to call him Lawrence. She’s known him since birth-I read the People magazine cover story-she and her brother spent summers at his farm in Connecticut. There was a picture of Nora and Christopher in mid-scream on a swing set, and another one of them hiding under the covers of Lamb’s four-poster bed. I sink down in my seat and gather my thoughts. He’s the shadow of the President; she calls him Uncle Larry. It sounds almost silly when you think about it. But that’s who she is. Still acting unimpressed, I eventually ask, “What’d he say?”

“Exactly what you’d expect. ‘Thank you. I’m glad you told me. It was ruled a heart attack, but I’ll look into it.’ He’s got his eyes on reelection-there’s no way he’s pulling the plug now. When everything dies down, they’ll do the official investigation.”

“So where does that leave us?” I ask.

“It leaves us as the only two people who care about protecting your butt. As it is, Simon seems happy to keep it quiet-but that’s not much of a solution.”

I nod. Détente won’t work forever. Sooner or later, the more powerful side realizes its advantage. And the other side dies. “I just wish we had some more information. If Caroline was doing this, it probably wasn’t just to Simon. She had all our secrets-she could’ve been doing this to-”

“Actually, that reminds me… ” Nora walks over to the scorekeeper’s seat, picks up her black leather purse, and pulls out a folded-up sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” I ask as she hands it to me.

“It came in when I was talking to Uncle Larry. They’re the names on two of the FBI files that were found in Caroline’s office.”

Rick Ferguson and Gary Seward. One’s up for a presidential appointment at Treasury, the other just started at Commerce. “I don’t understand,” I say. “Why only two?”

“Apparently, she had tons of files all over her office-and not just for presidential appointments. Some were judicial, some were from the Counsel’s Office… ”

“She had mine. I saw it.”

“The FBI’s rechecking each one.”

“So they released a full list of the names?”

“Not until they’re done. According to the memo, they don’t want to tip anyone off. Instead, for security purposes, we get them as they clear them-one or two at a time.”

“And how’d you get these?” I ask, holding up the sheet of paper.

“I told you, Uncle Larry.”

“He gave them to you?”

“Actually, he walked out to talk to his secretary, and I copied the names on some scrap paper.”

“You stole them?”

“Do you want them or not?”

“Of course I want them. I just don’t want you stealing them from Lawrence Lamb.”

“He doesn’t care. The man’s my godfather-he took the training wheels off my bike; he’s not gonna care if I sneak a peek at a file. At least this way, we’re not sitting in the dark.”

It’s no consolation. “So that means the FBI’s looking at my file.”

“Relax, Michael. I’m sure they’ll clear you.”

Trying to believe that, I stare down at the list. Nora’s handwriting has a circular bubble-quality to it. Like a third-grade girl who’s just learning to write in cursive. Rick Ferguson. Gary Seward. Two people who’ve been declared innocent by the FBI. I try to remember how many files I saw in Caroline’s office. There were at least five or six under mine-and probably more in the drawers. Looks like the FBI is also thinking blackmail. Turning back to Nora, I ask, “Why’d you wait until now to give these to me?”

“I don’t know. I guess I forgot,” she says with a shrug. “Listen, I gotta run. Some Prime Minister’s bringing his family by for a photo-op.”

“Are you going to see your uncle there?”

“The only person I’m going to see is the Prime Minister’s son. Handsome lad, y’know.”

I’m not sure if she’s trying to change the subject or make me jealous. Either way, it’s worked. “So that’s who you’re dumping me for?”

“Hey, if you get your own country, they’ll try to get me to kiss your ass as well. In the meantime, though, I’m puckering elsewhere-these guys’ll freak if I’m late.”

“I’m sure they will. Foreign markets’ll tumble; honor’ll be lost. It goes hand in hand with tardiness: international incident.”

“You like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?”

“Even more than you like photo-ops with foreign strangers. But that’s just another day in the life, huh?”

“Ever since the last hour of sixth grade.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s the day my dad decided. Running for Governor; or at least, that’s the day he told me. I still remember waiting for the last bell to ring-and then tearing out of the classroom and flying toward the bike rack with Melissa Persily. I was supposed to sleep over her house that night. She was one of those cool kids who lived close enough to bike to school-so the bike rack itself was a big deal. She had her own combination lock and this beat-up black ten-speed that used to be her brother’s… ” Nora’s voice is racing as she looks up. “Man, it was tomboy heav-” The second our eyes connect, she cuts herself off. Like before, her gaze goes straight to the floor.

“What?” I ask.

“No… nothing… ”

“What d’you mean nothing? What happened? You’re at the bike rack… you’re going to the sleepover… ”

“It’s really nothing,” she insists, stepping backwards. “Listen, I really should go.”

“Nora, it’s just a childhood story. What’re you so scared-”

“I’m not scared,” she insists.

That’s when I see the lie.

For the past two months, Nora’s spent every day in full election mode-from three-hundred-person luncheons with big donors, to sitting next to her mom at satellite-televised rallies, to, if she’s in a real good mood and they can get her to cooperate, giving interviews on why college kids should mobilize and vote-she’s been the youngest and most reluctant master of the grip-and-grin. That’s what she’s known since sixth grade. But today… today she got caught up in a real moment; she was even enjoying it. And it scared the hell out of her.