Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

“We’re in the basement of the Treasury Building,” she whispers.

I nod. Next door to the White House.

“You can walk up the parking ramp to East Exec, or take the stairs and leave through Treasury. Either one’ll lead outside.”

I go straight for the stairs. Nora follows. Turning around, I hold my arm up and stop her, keeping her at the threshold of the tunnel.

“What?” she asks.

“Where’re you going?”

She looks at me with the same look she gave my dad when he was hysterical. “I meant what I said. I’m not leaving you, Michael. Not after all this.”

For the first time since we started running, my eye stops twitching. “Nora, you don’t have to-”

“Yes. I do.”

I shake my head. “You don’t, Nora. And while I appreciate the offer, we both know what’ll happen. If you’re caught running around with the press’s main suspect… ”

“I don’t care,” she blurts. “For once, it’s worth it.”

Stepping in close, I try to force her back toward the door. She doesn’t budge. “Please, Nora, it’s no time to be stupid.”

“So now it’s stupid to want to help?”

“No, it’s stupid to shoot yourself in both feet. The moment the press puts us together, they’re going to leap for your throat. On every page one. Above every fold. ‘First Daughter Linked to Murder Suspect.’ It’ll make your Rolling Stone story look like the back page of People magazine.”

“But-”

“Please-for once-don’t argue. Right now, the best thing I can do is lay low. If you’re around… it’ll be impossible, Nora. At least this way, we’re both safe.”

“You really think you’re safe?”

I don’t answer.

“Please be careful, Michael.”

I smile and head for the stairs. Hearing her like that… it’s not easy to leave.

“So where’re you going?” she calls out.

I freeze. My eyes narrow. And slowly, I turn around. Behind her, the outside of the reinforced steel door is disguised to look like an ordinary exit. The whole thing’s an illusion. “I’ll tell you when I get there,” I reply. With nothing left to say, I turn away and start walking. Then jogging.

“Michael, what about-”

Then running. Keep going. Don’t look back. Behind me, I hear her calling my name. I let it roll off.

Bounding upstairs two at a time, I race up the interior stairwell of the Treasury Building. Nora’s voice has all but faded away and the only thing I’m focused on is the small black-and-white sign that reads “Exit-Lobby Level.” Approaching the door, I want to kick it open and make a mad dash out the front. But, afraid of the attention, I inch it open and peek out-just enough to figure out where the hell I am. Down the hall in front of me is a metal detector and a sign-in desk. Behind the desk, with their backs to me, are a pair of uniformed Secret Service. Damn-how am I going to get through-Wait-I don’t have to get through anything. I’m already in. All I have to do is leave.

Stepping out of the stairwell, I lift my shoulders, stuff confidence into my posture, and move firmly toward the turnstile at the exit. As I get closer, the officers are checking IDs and clearing in visitors. Neither of them has noticed me.

I’m less than ten feet from the turnstile. Do I need to swipe my ID to get out? Studying the woman in front of me, I don’t think so. I step into the turnstile, but just as the metal bar presses against my waist, the officer closest to me turns my way. I force a smile and give him a two-fingered salute. “Have a good one,” I add.

He nods back without a word. But he’s still staring. As I pass through the turnstile, I feel his eyes on the back of my head. Ignore him. Don’t panic. Only a few more steps to the glass door that leads outside. Almost there. A little farther. Across the street, I see the white-and-gold entrance of the Old Ebbitt Grill. This is it. If he’s going to stop me, it’s going to be in the next five seconds. Four. Three. I lean into the door and push it open. Two. This is his last chance. One. The door swings back behind me, leaving me alone on 15th Street. I’m out.

The first one I spot is right outside the building-heavy build, dark suit, dark sunglasses. There’s another midway up the block. And two uniformed officers on the corner. They’re all Secret Service. And from what I can tell, they’ve got the whole block covered.

Panic sends me spiraling as I struggle to stay on my feet. They mobilized so quickly… Of course, that’s their job. Avoiding the agent in front, I move as fast as I can down the block. Keep your head low-don’t let them get a good look.

“Stop right there!” the agent shouts.

I pretend I don’t hear him and keep going. Fifty feet away, there’s another agent waiting. “Sir, I’m asking you to stop moving,” he says.

My hands quickly fill with sweat. My breathing’s so labored, I feel it reverberate. He whispers something into the collar of his shirt. In the distance, I hear the shrill wail of a police siren. It’s coming my way. Closer. I check every direction for a way out. I’m surrounded. Shooting out of the Southeast Gate, two motorcycle cops fly toward me. I freeze as soon as I see them. Instinctively, I raise my hands to surrender.

To my surprise, however, they blow right by me. Followed by a limo, followed by another limo, followed by a Blazer, followed by a dark van, followed by an ambulance, followed by another two motorcycle cops. As they disappear up the street, the agents follow. Within seconds, the clouds clear and a blue calm is returned to the block. Frozen in place, I let out a nervous laugh. It’s not a manhunt-it’s a motorcade. Just a motorcade.

With no time to wait for the Metro, I hop in a cab and head back to my apartment. The note with Vaughn’s meeting place wasn’t in Nora’s room, which means she either picked it up, or it’s still sitting on my bed. It may be risky to go back home, but I need to know which. Before the cabbie drops me off, I ask him to circle the block-just so I can check license plates. No press passes; no federal plates in sight. So far, so good.

“Right here’s fine,” I tell him as he approaches the service entrance around back. I toss him a ten-dollar bill, slam the door, and bolt up a short flight of stairs. I do my best to look around, but I can’t afford to waste time and risk getting caught. With the Post reporting that I’m the main suspect, Adenauer won’t wait till five o’clock to pick me up. He’s going to try and do it now. Of course, the only reason I agreed to go in was because I thought I’d have the info from Vaughn. After what happened, though… well… not anymore.

Walking cautiously through the back of the lobby, I keep an eye out for anything that’s out of the ordinary. Mailbox room, welcome area, front desk-it all looks undisturbed. Sticking my head around the corner, I scan the main entrance of the lobby and look out the front door. This time tomorrow, the press is going to be camped out there-unless I can figure out a rock-solid way to prove it’s Simon.

Convinced that I’m alone, I rush past the front desk, toward the elevator. I push the call button, the doors slide open, and I move forward.

“Where you going?” a deep voice asks.

I spin around, crashing into the now-closing elevator doors.

“Sorry, Michael,” he laughs. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

I take a deep breath. It’s just Fidel, the doorman. He’s watching TV behind the front desk-and with the sound turned off, he’s easy to miss.

“Damn, Fidel, that was a full heart attack!”

He just smiles as wide as he can. “Orioles are beating the Yanks-top of the second.”

“Wish them luck for me,” I say, turning back to the elevator. I push the call button and once again the doors slide open.