Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

“You take F ; I’ll take R .” Working my way down the line, I flip off the cover of each box. G through H … I through K … L through Lu . By the time I reach the second to last box, most of which is allocated to Personnel , I know I’m in trouble. There’s no way the last quarter of the alphabet is fitting in the final box. Sure enough, I pull off the top and see that I’m right. Presidential Commissions … Press … Publications . That’s where it ends. Publication.

“There’s nothing under Files ,” Pam says. “I’m going to start at the-”

“We’re missing the end!”

“What?”

“It’s not here-these aren’t all the boxes!”

“Michael, calm down.”

Refusing to listen, I rush to the small area where Caroline’s files were originally stacked. My hands are shaking as they skim down the stacks of every surrounding box. Palmer… Perez… Perlman… Poirot. Nothing marked Caroline Penzler. Frantic, I zigzag through the makeshift aisles, looking for anything we may’ve overlooked.

“Where else could they be?” I ask in a panic.

“I have no idea-there’s storage everywhere.”

“I need a place, Pam. Everywhere is a little vague.”

“I don’t know. Maybe the attic?”

“What attic?”

“On the fifth floor-next to the Indian Treaty Room. Al once said they used it for overflow.” Realizing we’re short on manpower, she adds, “Maybe you should call Trey.”

“I can’t-he’s stalling Nora in his office.” I look down at the fourteen boxes laid out in front of us. “Can you-”

“I’ll go through these,” she says, reading my thoughts. “You head upstairs. Page me if you need help.”

“Thanks, Pam. You’re the best.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I love you too.”

I stop dead in my tracks and study her barbed blue eyes.

She smiles. I don’t know what to say.

“You should get out of here,” she adds.

I don’t move.

“Go on,” she says. “Get out of here!”

Running for the door, I look over my shoulder for one last glimpse of my friend. She’s already deep into the next box.

Back in the halls of the basement, I keep my head down as I lope past a group of janitors pushing mop buckets. I’m not taking any chances. The moment I’m spotted, it’s over. Following the hallway around another turn, I duck under a vent pipe and ignore two separate sets of stairs. Both are empty, but both also lead to crowded hallways.

A quarter-way down the hall, I slam on the brakes and push the call button for the service elevator. It’s the one place I know I won’t run into any fellow staffers. No one in the White House thinks of themselves as second-class.

Waiting, I anxiously check up and down this oven of a hallway. It’s got to be ninety degrees. The armpits of my shirt are soaked. The worst part is, I’m out in the open. If anyone comes, there’s nowhere to hide. Maybe I should duck into a room-at least until the elevator gets here. I look around to see what’s-Oh, no. How’d I miss that? It’s right across from the elevator, staring me straight in the face-a small black-and-white sign that reads “Room 072-USSS/UD.” The United States Secret Service and the Uniformed Division. And here I am, standing right in front of it.

Looking up, I search the ceiling for a camera. Through the wires, behind the pipes. It’s the Secret Service-it’s got to be here somewhere. Unable to spot it, I turn back to the elevator. Maybe no one’s watching. If they haven’t come out yet, the odds are good.

I pound my thumb against the call button. The indicator above the door says it’s on the first floor. Thirty more seconds-that’s all I need. Behind me, I hear the worst kind of creak. I spin around and see the doorknob starting to turn. Someone’s coming out. The elevator pings as it finally arrives, but its doors don’t open. Over my shoulder, I hear hinges squeak. A quick look shows me the uniformed agent stepping out of the room. He’s right behind me as the elevator opens. If he wanted to, he could reach out and grab me. I inch forward and calmly step into the elevator, praying he doesn’t follow. Please, please, please, please, please. Even as the doors close, he can stick his hand in at the last second. Keeping my back turned, I squint with apprehension. Finally, I hear the doors close behind me.

Alone in the rusty industrial elevator, I turn, push the button marked 5, and let my head sag back against the beat-up walls. Approaching each floor, I tense up just a bit, but one after another, we pass them without stopping. Straight to the top. Sometimes there’re benefits to being second-class.

When the doors open on the highest floor of the OEOB, I stick out my head and survey the hallway. There’re a couple young suits at the far end, but otherwise, it’s a clear path. Following Pam’s instructions, I dart straight for the door to the left of the Indian Treaty Room. Unlike most of the rooms in the building, it’s unmarked. And unlocked.

“Anyone here?” I call out as I push open the door. No answer. The room’s dark. Stepping inside, I see that it’s not even a room. It’s just a tiny closet with a metal-grated staircase leading straight up. That must be the attic. I hesitate as I put my foot on the first step. In any building with five hundred rooms, there’re always gonna be a few that inherently seem off-limits. This is one of them.

I grab the iron handrail and feel a layer of dust under the palm of my hand. As I climb higher up the stairs, I’m encased in another sauna caused by the lack of air-conditioning. I thought I was sweating before, but up here… proof positive that heat rises. Every breath in is like a full gulp of sand.

As I continue up the stairs, I notice two deflated Winnie-the-Pooh mylar balloons attached to the banister. Both of them read “Happy Birthday” on them. Whoever was up here last, it must’ve been a hell of a private party.

At the top, I turn around and get my first good look at the long, rectangular attic. With high, slanted ceilings and exposed wooden beams, it gets all its light from a few skylights and a set of miniature windows. Otherwise, it’s a dim, crowded room filled with leftovers. Discarded desks in one corner, stacked-up chairs in another, and what looks like an empty swimming pool cut into the center of the floor. As I get closer, I realize that the recessed part of the floor is actually the casing for a section of stained glass that’s surrounded by a waist-high guardrail.

As soon as my eyes hit it, I know I’ve seen it before. Then I remember where I am. Directly above the most ornate room in the building-the Indian Treaty Room. Looking down, I can see its outline through the huge sections of stained glass. The marble wall panels. The intricate marquetry floor. I was there for the AmeriCorps reception, when I first met Nora. The attic runs right over it. Their stained glass ceiling; my stained glass floor.

Deeper into the room, I finally find what I’m after. Beyond the guardrail, in the far left corner, are at least fifty file boxes. Right in the front, in a horizontal stack, are the six I’m looking for. The ones marked Penzler. My stomach constricts.

I grab the top box from the pile and rip off the cardboard lid. R through Sa . This is it. I pull out each file as I go. Racial Discrimination … Radio Addresses … Reapportionment … Request Memos .

The folder is at least three inches thick, and I tear it out with a sharp yank. Flipping it open, I see the most recent memo on top. It’s dated August 28th. A week before Caroline was killed. Addressed to the White House Security Office, the memo states that she “would like to request current FBI files for the following individual(s):” On the next line is a single name, Michael Garrick.