Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

“You sure about that?”

She doesn’t like being accused. “You think I did this?”

I’m not sure what to think and this is no time to get into it. “Just lead the way.”

In the far corner of the hallway, she shoves open two swinging doors as we bound into what looks like a small pantry. Mini-refrigerator, bar sink, a few glass cabinets full of cereal and snacks. Just enough to save you from walking down three flights to the kitchen. In the corner of the room, on top of the counter, are two square metal panels with compact-disc-size windows cut into them. Grabbing the handles at the bottom of one of the panels, Nora lifts it open like a stubborn window. Behind the panel is a small crawl space that looks big enough for two people.

“What?” Nora asks. “You’ve never seen a dumbwaiter before?”

I quickly piece together the floor plan in my head. The President’s dining room is right below us, and the kitchen’s on the Ground Floor. Seeing that I get it, she adds, “Even Presidents have to eat.” She motions her chin toward the tiny elevator.

“Hold on-you don’t expect me to… ”

“You want to get out of here?” she asks.

I nod.

“Then get in.”

We ride down to the kitchen in complete darkness and absolute silence. As we arrive on the Ground Floor, the tiny round window is filled with light. Nora peeks out, lifts the door, and looks both ways. “Let’s go,” she says.

As she fights her way out of the dumbwaiter, her knee digs into my rib cage. All I can think about is Vaughn.

Crawling into the light, I see that we’re in the back corner of the kitchen-in a small room by the banks of industrial freezers. Through the doorway, I spot a uniformed guard outside the tradesmen’s entrance. Closer to us, a chef and an assistant are prepping dinner on the stainless steel countertops. Caught up in their motions, they don’t even notice us.

“This way,” Nora says, pulling me by the hand.

She opens the door to our far right and leads us out of the kitchen, back into the Ground Floor Corridor.

“There!” someone shouts from the hallway.

Fifty flashbulbs explode in our eyes. Instinctively, Nora steps in front of me, shielding me from the-Wait… it’s not the press. Not with Instamatics. It’s just another tour group.

“Nora Hartson,” the guide announces to what looks like a group of diplomatic VIPs. “Our own First Daughter!”

The crowd breaks into spontaneous applause and the guide unsuccessfully reminds them that they’re no photos allowed. “Thank you,” Nora says, excusing herself from the still snapping group. She stands in front of me, trying to keep me hidden the entire time. I know what she’s thinking: If my photo’s going to be in all of tomorrow’s papers, the last thing she needs is a group shot. As the tour group moves on to its next destination, Nora seizes my wrist. “Let’s go,” she whispers, trying hard to stay in front of me. “Hurry.”

I duck my head low and follow her lead. We speed-walk up the hallway past my favorite uniformed officer. He doesn’t move; he doesn’t touch the walkie-talkie. As long as we avoid the stairs to the Residence, he apparently doesn’t care. That’s why she didn’t take us out the back of the kitchen.

Making a sharp left outside the Dip Room, Nora opens a door flanked by bronze busts of Churchill and Eisenhower, which leads into a long hallway with at least forty six-foot-high stacks of chairs. Storage for state dinners. As we make our way down the hall, the floor starts to slant downward. We pass a pyramid of crated produce and then the bowling alley on our left. Nora maintains her swift pace as she takes us deeper down into the labyrinth. I’m starting to feel far from daylight.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

As the hallway levels off, it leads into another perpendicular corridor, but this one is far dingier. Low ceilings. Not as well lit. The walls are dank and smell like old pennies.

It doesn’t make any sense. We’re in the basement-Nora’s running out of room. And I’m running out of time. Still, she isn’t slowing down. She makes a hairpin right and keeps going.

My eye starts twitching. My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. “Stop!” I shout.

For the first time, she stops and listens.

“Tell me where we’re going, for God’s sake!”

“I told you, you’ll see.”

I don’t like the dark. “I want to know now,” I say suspiciously.

Once again, she stops. “Don’t worry, Michael,” she says in a soft voice. “I’ll take care of you.”

I haven’t heard that tone since the day with my dad. Still, now’s not the time. “Nora… ”

Without a word, she turns away, striding to the far end of the basement hallway. There’s a steel door with an electronic lock. If the rumors are right, I’m pretty sure it’s a bomb shelter. Nora punches in a PIN code and I hear the thunk of locks tumbling.

With a sharp tug, Nora pulls open the door. Instantly, my eyes go wide. It can’t be. But there it is in front of me. The greatest myth in the White House-a secret tunnel.

Nora looks me in the eye. “If it’s good enough for Marilyn Monroe, it’s good enough for you.”

With my mouth hanging down by my ankles, I’m staring into a secret tunnel below the White House. “When did… Where…?”

She steps in close and takes me by the hand. “I’m here, Michael. It’s me.” Reading my bewildered expression, she adds, “They may get it wrong in the movies, but that doesn’t mean it’s bullshit.”

“Still, the-”

“C’mon, let’s go.” By the time I blink, she’s gone. Zero to sixty. Instantly.

The tunnel itself has cement walls and is better lit than I would have expected. It looks like a straight shoot under the East Wing. “Where does it let out?”

She doesn’t hear me. Either that or she’s not telling.

At the end of the tunnel is another steel door. Frantically, Nora taps in her code. There’s a noticeable shake in her hands. We stare at the electronic lock, waiting anxiously for the thunk of access. It doesn’t come.

“Try again,” I say.

“I’m trying!” Once again, she enters a code. Again, nothing.

“What’s the problem?” I ask. I’m clenching my fists so hard, my arms are aching.

“Let us out!” Nora shouts, lifting her head.

“Who-?” I follow her gaze to the corner of the ceiling. There’s a small surveillance camera pointed right at us.

“I know you’re watching!” she continues. “Let us out!”

“Nora,” I say, gripping her arm, “maybe we shouldn’t-”

She pushes me away. She’s looking at that camera the same way she looked at the Secret Service our first night out.

“I’m not playing around, asshole. He’s just my boyfriend. Call Harry-he cleared him in.”

Now she’s gambling. Harry may’ve cleared me in, but he certainly doesn’t know we’re running out.

“Can you believe this?” she says to me, forcing a flighty laugh and flipping her hair back. “I’m so embarrassed.” I get the idea. But it takes a superhuman effort to relax my hands and slow my breathing.

“No, don’t sweat it.” I casually rest one arm against the wall. “Same thing happened last time I was in the Gulag.”

It’s a great moment. It’s also fake. That’s probably how it’s always been.

Nora looks at me with a small, appreciative grin, then glances up at the camera. “So? Did you call him?”

Silence. I’m almost faint with the desire to turn and run. Then, out of nowhere-the pop of a churning lock. Nora pulls open the door and lets me out. The camera can’t spot us anymore.