Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

“So you’re all set?” she asks as we stop in the hallway.

“I guess,” I reply, my eyes glued to the floor.

“You sure you don’t need anything else?”

I shake my head. “I think I’ll be okay.”

“I guess I’ll see you at Trey’s office,” Nora adds.

“What?”

“That’s the plan, isn’t it? I go back and check in with the Service, then we’ll meet up in Trey’s office?”

“Yeah. That’s the plan,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. Turning around, I can’t face her anymore. Better to walk away.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you’re looking for?” she asks hesitantly.

“I don’t know if it’s smart to talk about it out here.”

“No, you’re right.” She looks around at the abandoned hallway. “Someone could overhear.”

I nod in agreement.

“Good luck,” she says, reaching out for my hand.

I reach back and our fingers slide together. Before I can react, she pulls me close and presses her lips against mine. I open my mouth and take one last taste. It’s like cinnamon with a shot of brandy. She grabs me by the back of my head as her nails scratch the short hairs on my neck. Her breasts press against my chest; the entire world doesn’t exist. And I’m once again reminded why Nora Hartson is completely overwhelming.

When she finally pulls away, she wipes her eyes. Her trembling lips are slightly open and she anxiously tucks a stray section of hair behind her ear. As a soft crinkle spreads across her forehead, the pained look on her face is the same as the night we were pulled over. Her seen-it-all eyes are fighting back tears.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Just tell me you trust me.”

“Nora, I-”

“Tell me!” she pleads, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Please, Michael. Just say the words.”

Once again, I take her by the hand. “I’ve always trusted you.”

She can’t help but fight back the smile. “Thank you.” Wiping her eyes, she squares her shoulders and puts her mask back in place. “Clock’s ticking, handsome. I’ll meet you back at Trey’s office?”

“That’s where I’m headed,” I reply, my voice trailing off.

She kisses her fingertips and slaps me on the cheek. “Stop worrying. It’ll all work out.” Without another word, she gets back in the car and heads down the loading ramp.

I turn away and dash for the stairs. Don’t look back-it’s not going to help.

Racing up the stairs, I have a clear path to Trey’s office. The moment Nora’s gone, though, I spin around and head downstairs. My stomach stings from lying to her, but if I’d told her the truth, she’d never have brought me in.

As I rush down to the basement of the building, the staircase narrows, the ceiling lowers, and I start to sweat. With no windows, and not a single air-conditioning unit in sight, the hallways in the basement are at least fifteen degrees hotter than the rest of the OEOB.

Rushing past the rotting concrete in what now feels like an underground sauna, I take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves. I have to duck down to avoid knocking my head against the pipes, wires, and heating ducts that hang down from the ceiling, but it doesn’t slow me down. Not when I’m this close.

When Caroline died, all of her important files were confiscated by the FBI. Everything else was put here: Room 018-one of the many storage areas used by Records Management. As the bureaucratic pack-rats of the Executive Branch, they catalogue every document produced by the administration. By all accounts, it’s a suck job.

Turning the doorknob and stepping inside, I see that they live up to their reputation. Floor to ceiling-stacks of file boxes.

Weaving my way through the cardboard catacombs, I move deeper into the room. The boxes just keep on going. On the side of each one is an employee’s name. Anderson, Arden, Augustino… I follow the alphabet around to my right. It must be somewhere toward the back. Over my shoulder, I hear the door suddenly slam. The room’s fluorescent lights shudder from the impact. I’m not alone anymore.

“Who’s there?” a man’s voice barks as he approaches through the cardboard alleys.

I squat down, my hands flat against the tile floor.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks as I spin around.

“I… ” I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

“You have a maximum of three seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t pick up the phone and call Security-and don’t give me some lame excuse like you were lost or something equally insulting.” As soon as I see the handlebar mustache, I recognize Al Rudall. A true Southern gentleman who refuses to deal with low-level associates, Al is well known for his love of women and distaste for lawyers. When subpoenas came in, and we needed to gather old memos, we used to make sure that all our document requests came with a female bigshot signature at the bottom. Considering that we’ve never met, combined with the Y-chromosome that’s floating in my genes, I knew he wasn’t going to give me access to the room. Lucky for me, though, I know his kryptonite.

“It’s okay,” Pam says as she steps out from behind Al. “He’s with me.”

Within ten minutes, Pam and I are sitting in the back of the room with fourteen boxes of Caroline’s files spread out across the floor in front of us. It took a bucketful of assurances to convince Al to let us take a look, but with Pam being the new keeper of the files, there wasn’t much room to argue. This is her job.

“Thanks again,” I say, looking up from the files.

“Don’t worry about it,” Pam says coldly, refusing to make eye contact.

She has every right to be mad. She’s risking her job to get us through this. “I mean it, Pam. I couldn’t-”

“Michael, the only reason I’m doing this is because I think they stabbed you with this one. Anything else is just your imagination.”

I turn away and stay quiet.

Flipping through the files, I’m left with the remnants of Caroline’s three years of work. In each folder, it’s all the same-sheet after sheet of cover-your-ass memos and filed-away announcements. None of them changed the world; just wasted paper. And no matter how fast I leaf through it, it just keeps going. File upon file upon file upon file. Wiping sweat from my forehead, I shove the carton aside. “This is never going to work,” I say nervously.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s going to take forever to look at every sheet-and Al’s not giving us more than fifteen minutes with this stuff. I don’t care what he said, he knows something’s up.”

“You have any other ideas?”

“Alphabetically,” I blurt. “What would she file it under?”

“I keep mine under E. Ethics .”

I look down at the manila folders in my box. The first is labeled Administration . The last is Briefing Papers . “I got A through B , I say.”

Seeing that she has B through D , Pam walks on her knees to the next box and pulls off the cardboard lid. Drug Testing to Federal Register . “Here!” she calls out as I hop to my feet.

Hunched over Pam’s shoulder, I watch as she rifles through the folders. Employee Assistance Program … EEO … Federal Programs . Nothing labeled Ethics .

“Maybe the FBI took it,” she suggests.

“If they did, we’d know about it. It’s got to be here somewhere.”

She’s tempted to argue, but she knows I’m running out of options.

“What else could it be under?”

“I don’t know,” Pam says. “ Files … Requests … it could be anything.”