Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

“Speaking of which, do you think they put out an APB on you? I mean, don’t they call this stuff in?”

“They’ll call the night supervisor and the agent in charge of the House detail, but I figure we’ve got about two hours before they make it public.”

“That long?” I ask, looking at my watch.

“Depends on the incident. If you were driving when we took off, they’d probably treat it as a kidnapping, which is the primary threat for a First Family member. Beyond that, though, it also depends on the person. Chelsea Clinton got a half hour at the most. Patti Davis got days. I get about two hours. Then they go nuts.”

I don’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean, nuts? Is that when they send out the black helicopters to hunt us down?”

“There’re already trying to hunt us down. In two hours, they’ll put us on the police scanners. If that happens, we make the morning news. And every gossip columnist in the country will want to know your intentions.”

“No-no way.” Since we met, my encounters with Nora have been limited to a reception, a bill-signing ceremony, and the Deputy Counsel’s birthday party-all of them White House staff events. At the first, we were introduced; at the second, we spoke; at the third, she asked me out. I think there’re only ten people on this planet who would’ve refused the offer. I’m not one of them. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for the magnifying glass. As I’ve seen so many times before, the moment you hit that glare of publicity is the exact same moment they burn your ass.

I look back at my watch. It’s almost a quarter to twelve. “So that means you have an hour and a half until you become the pumpkin.”

“Actually, you’re the one who becomes the pumpkin.”

She’s right about that one. They’ll eat me alive.

“Still worried about your job?” she asks.

“No,” I say, my eyes locked on Simon’s car. “Just my boss.”

Simon puts on his blinker, makes a left-hand turn, and weaves his way onto Rock Creek Parkway, whose wooded embankments and tree-shaded trails have favorite-path status among D.C. joggers and bike riders. At rush hour, Rock Creek Parkway is swarming with commuters racing back to the suburbs. Right now, it’s dead-empty-which means Simon can spot us easily.

“Shut off the lights,” Nora says. I take her suggestion and lean forward, straining to see the now barely visible road. Right away, the darkness leaves an eerie pit in my stomach.

“I say we just forget it and-”

“Are you really that much of a coward?” Nora asks.

“This has nothing to do with cowardice. It just doesn’t make any sense to play private eye.”

“Michael, I told you before, this isn’t a game to me-we’re not playing anything.”

“Sure we are. We’re-”

“Stop the car!” she shouts. Up ahead, I see Simon’s brake lights go on. “Stop the car! He’s slowing down!”

Sure enough, Simon pulls off the right-hand side of the road and comes to a complete stop. We’re about a hundred feet behind him, but the curve of the road keeps us out of his line of vision. If he looks in his rearview mirror, he’ll see nothing but empty parkway.

“Shut the car off! If he hears us… ” I turn off the ignition and am surprised by the utter silence. It’s one of those moments that sound like you’re underwater. Staring at Simon’s car, we float there helplessly, waiting for something to happen. A car blows by in the opposite direction and snaps us back to the shore.

“Maybe he has a flat tire or-”

“Shhhhh!”

We both squint to see what’s going on. He’s not too far from a nearby lamppost, but it still takes a minute for our eyes to adjust to the dark.

“Was there anyone in the car with him?” I ask.

“He looked alone to me, but if the guy was lying across the seat… ”

Nora’s hypothesis is interrupted when Simon opens his door. Without even thinking about it, I hold my breath. Again, we’re underwater. My eyes are locked on the little white light that I can see through the back window of his car. In silhouette, he fidgets with something in the passenger seat. Then he gets out of the car.

When you stand face-to-face with Edgar Simon, you can’t miss how big he is. Not in height, but in presence. Like many White House higher-ups, his voice is charged with the confidence of success, but unlike his peers, who’re always raging over the latest crisis, Simon exudes a calmness honed by years of advising a President. That unshakable composure runs from his ironing-board shoulders, to his always-strong handshake, to the perfect part in his perfectly shaded salt-and-pepper hair. A hundred feet in front of us, though, all of that is lost in silhouette.

Standing next to his car, he’s holding a thin package that looks like a manila envelope. He looks down at it, then slams the door shut. When the door closes, the loss of the light makes it even harder to see. Simon turns toward the wooded area on the side of the road, steps over the metal guardrail, and heads up the embankment.

“A bathroom stop?” I ask.

“With a package in his hand? You think he’s bringing reading material?”

I don’t answer.

Nora’s starting to get fidgety. She unhooks her seatbelt. “Maybe we should we go out and check on-”

I grab her by the arm. “I say we stay here.”

She’s ready to fight, but before she can, I see a shadow move out from the embankment. A figure steps back over the guardrail and into the light.

“Guess who’s back?” I ask.

Nora immediately turns. “He doesn’t have the envelope!” she blurts.

“Lower your voi-” I fall silent when Simon looks our way. Nora and I are frozen. It’s a short glance and he quickly turns back to his car.

“Did he see us?” Nora whispers. There’s a nervousness in her voice that turns my stomach.

“If he did, he didn’t react,” I whisper back.

Simon opens the door and gets back in his car. Thirty seconds later, he pumps the gas and peels out, leaving a cloud of dust somersaulting our way. He doesn’t put his lights on until he’s halfway up the road.

“Should we follow him?” I ask.

“I say we stay with the envelope.”

“What do you think he has in there? Documents? Pictures?”

“Cash?”

“You think he’s a spy?” I ask skeptically.

“I have no idea. Maybe he’s leaking to the press.”

“Actually, that wouldn’t be so bad. For all we know, this is his drop-off.”

“It’s definitely a drop-off,” Nora says. She checks over her shoulder to make sure we’re alone. “What I want to know is what they’re picking up.” Before I can stop her, she’s out the door.

I reach to grab her, but it’s too late. She’s gone-running up the road, headed for the embankment. “Nora, get back here!” She doesn’t even pretend to care.

I start the car and pull up alongside her. Her pace is brisk. Determined.

She’s going to hate me for this, but I don’t have a choice. “Let’s go, Nora. We’re leaving.”

“So leave.”

I clench my teeth and realize the most obvious thing of all: She doesn’t need me. Still, I give it another go. “For your own sake, get in the car.” No response. “Please, Nora, it’s not funny-whoever he dropped it for is probably watching us right now.” Nothing. “C’mon, there’s no reason to-”

She stops in her tracks and I slam on the brakes. Turning my way, she puts her hands on her hips. “If you want to leave, then leave. I need to know what’s in the envelope.” With that, she climbs over the guardrail and heads up the embankment.

Alone in the car, I watch her disappear. “See you later,” I call out.

She doesn’t answer.