Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

Noticing that I’m gripping my sheets, I go for my best fall-back-asleep trick: I put things in perspective. Whatever else is going on, I still have my health, and my dad’s, and Trey’s, and Nora… and Simon, and Adenauer, and Vaughn, who I still can’t figure out. Part of me’s worried he’s trying to set me up, but if he was in this with Simon… and he’s now running from the FBI… enemy of my enemy and all that. If Simon deserted him, maybe he’s got something to offer me. Regardless, I’ll have the answer in a few hours. Today’s the day we’re supposed to meet. Somewhere in the Holocaust Museum.

After twenty minutes of staring at my stucco ceiling, it’s obvious I’m not falling back asleep. I kick off the covers and head straight for the coffeemaker. As the smell of caffeine invades my small kitchenette, I pull a map of the museum from my briefcase. Five floors of exhibit space, a research library, two theaters, a learning center… How am I ever going to find this guy?

Behind me, there’s a noise at the door. It’s small-easy to miss-like a tap. Or a thud. “Hello?” I call out. The noise stops. Outside, I hear the pounding of muffled footsteps moving up the hallway. Chucking the map, I fly at the door, flip open the locks, and rip it open. There’s another thud. And another. I leap into the hall, anxious to face my attacker. All I find is a teenage delivery boy dropping the first of the day’s newspapers. He leaps back from the shock, almost dropping his handful of papers.

“Coño!” he curses in Spanish.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “My bad.” Picking up my own paper, I slink back into my apartment and shut the door.

Unnerved, I peel off the top section of the paper, hoping to lose myself in current events. But just as I fold back the front page, a small white envelope falls to the floor. Inside is a handwritten note: “Registry of Survivors. Second Floor.” I speed back to the museum map, which is still on my linoleum floor. Finally, an exact location.

He’s not stupid, I decide. It’s a small room tucked away in a corner of the museum. He’ll see everyone coming and going. The meeting’s not until one o’clock, but I still look at my watch. Seven more hours.

Bolting out the door of my office, I rush over to the West Wing. I used to pride myself on being early for Simon’s staff meetings, but lately, I can’t seem to get there on time. And while it’s easy to blame it all on forgetfulness, I have to tip my hat to subconscious avoidance.

Inside the West Wing, Phil’s at his usual security desk, clearing people in. As soon as I see him, I turn my ID forward and lower my head. It’s not that I even care about him calling the elevator-I just hate when he pretends not to know me.

“Hey, Michael,” he says as I walk by.

“H-Hey,” I reply. “Hi.”

“Staff meeting today?”

Before I can even answer, he reaches below his desk and returns my most favorite of privileges. On my left, the elevator door slides open and I step inside. I’m not sure what caused the turnaround, but as the door slides shut, I’m happy to take the favor.

As I step into Simon’s office, I expect to find the meeting already in progress. Instead, I see most of the staff swapping stories and sharing gossip. The empty chair at the head of the table tells me why.

I take a quick look around and notice Pam in her now regular spot on the couch. Ever since she’s moved up, she’s practically disappeared. “You’re a real honcho now, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” she asks, feigning innocence. It’s a classic White House power-move: Never acknowledge advantages.

Shaking my head, I make my way to an open seat in the back. “I see right through you, woman-you’re not fooling anyone.”

“I’m fooling you,” she calls out. Her downplaying days are over.

I’m about to shout something back when the door to the room opens. The whole place goes silent, then picks up again. It’s not Simon-just another associate-a WASPy, expensive-shoes, Yale-tie-clip-guy who just came over after clerking at the Supreme Court. I hate him. Pam said he’s been nice.

As he steps inside, the office is packed. The only open seat is the one next to mine. He takes a quick recon, looking right at me. I move my chair over to make sure he has room. But as he heads toward the back, he passes right by me, continues toward the corner, and leans up against one of the bookcases. He’d rather stand. I glance over at Pam, but she’s caught up with her new pals on the couch. No one likes a sinking ship.

With no one to talk to, I sit and wait until the door once again swings open. Simon enters the room and everyone’s quiet. As soon as we make eye contact, I look away. He doesn’t. Instead, he heads straight toward me and smacks a thick file folder against my chest. “Welcome back,” he growls.

I look down at the folder, then back at everyone else in the room. Something’s wrong. He’s too smart to lose his temper in front of a crowd.

“You whined for it; you got it,” he adds.

“I don’t even know who-”

He turns and walks away. “They’re voting on it Wednesday. Enjoy.”

Confused, I read the tab on the folder: “Roving Wiretaps.” Inside, I see all my old research. I don’t believe it-I’m back on the case.

Looking up, I search for a friendly face to share the news with, but there’s only one person looking my way. The person who walked in right behind Simon. Lawrence Lamb. He offers a warm smile and soft nod. That’s all he needs to say. Chalk one up for Nora.

“Are you sure Simon’s okay with this?”

“He shouldn’t have taken you off the case in the first place,” Lamb says matter-of-factly as we walk back to his office. Moving with the forcefulness of a man who’s always in demand, Lamb somehow still manages to never look rushed. Like the double-Windsor knot in his tie and his cufflinked shirt, he’s permanently set on high-sheen polish; the type of man who, when he’s in the airport, still looks put together even after a four-hour flight.

Trailing behind him, I’m a complete mess. “But what if Simon-”

“Stop worrying about it, Michael. It’s yours. Celebrate.”

Passing his secretary’s desk, I realize he’s right. The thing is, old habits die hard. As we step into his office, I take a seat in front of his desk.

“I don’t know what you did, but whatever it is, Nora’s happy,” he explains. “That alone grants you three wishes.”

“Is this my first?”

“If it is, here’re the other two.” He opens a file folder on his desk and hands me two documents. The first is a single-page memo from the FBI. “They finished investigating two people on Friday, and three more over the weekend,” he explains. “All of them appointees-all of them apparently innocent-which brings the total to ten. Only five more suspects to go.”

“So they still haven’t gotten to mine?”

“Best for last,” he says as he cleans his reading glasses with a monogrammed hankie. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

“What about getting an advance look at the last five names? Is there any way to do that?”

“Why would you…? Oh, I see,” he interrupts himself. “Whoever is still on the list-that’ll tell us who else was potentially involved.”

“If Caroline had their files, she had their secrets.”

“Not a bad thought,” Lamb agrees. “Let me make a few calls. I’ll see what I can do.” As he makes a note to himself, the phone rings and he quickly picks it up. “This is Larry,” he announces. “Yes, he’s right here. I got it… I heard you the first fifteen times.” There’s a short pause. “Don’t yell at me! Did you hear me? Stop already!” After a quick goodbye, he hangs up and turns my way. “Nora says hello.”