The First Counsel (32 page)

"Don't worry, I got everything we need: tube socks, Band-Aids, Ovaltine . . ."

He's trying to cheer me up, but it's not working.

"It's okay to be nervous," he adds as he puts an arm on my shoulder.

"Nervous I can deal with--I'm just starting to wonder if it's even a good idea to go through with this."

"So now you don't want to meet him?"

"It's not that . . . it's just . . . after Adenauer's picture in the paper and the way they're putting the pressure on Lamb . . . I think the FBI is getting ready to pounce."

"Even if they are, I don't see much of a choice," he points out. "You're taking every precaution we can think of--as long as you're careful, you should be okay."

"But don't you see, it's not that simple. Right now, when the FBI asks me about Vaughn, I can look them in the eye and say we don't know each other. Hell, I can pass a lie detector if I need to. But once we get together . . . Trey, if the FBI is watching as close as I think--and they see me and Vaughn talking--every defense I ever had goes right down the toilet."

Reaching the end of the hallway, we both fall silent. During laps, you don't talk until you see who's around the corner. As we make the turn, there're only a few people at the far end. Nobody close. "Obviously, it's not the best situation," Trey replies. "But let's be honest, Michael, how else do you plan on getting answers? Right now, you've got about one third of the story. If you get two thirds, you can probably figure out what's going on, but who you gonna get it from? Simon? All that leaves you is Vaughn."

"What if he's setting me up?"

"If all Vaughn wanted was to screw you over, he would've already gone to the police. I'm telling you, if he wants to meet, he's got something to offer."

"Yeah, like copping a plea and serving me up to the FBI."

"I don't think so, Michael--it doesn't make sense. If Simon and Vaughn were working together, and they used your name to sneak Vaughn in, why--when he came in the building--would Vaughn link his own name to the one person he knows is about to look like a murderer?"

Trey looks at me and lets the question sink in. "You think Vaughn got screwed over too?" I ask.

"He may not be a saint, but there's obviously something we're missing."

As we walk, I run my fingertips against the hallway wall. "So the only way to save myself . . ."

". . . is to jump in with the lions," Trey says with a nod. "Everything has a price."

"That's what I'm worried about."

"Me too," Trey says. "Me too--but as long as you've kept your mouth shut, you should be fine."

Slowly, we turn another corner of the hallway.

"Please tell me you've kept your mouth shut," he adds.

"I have," I insist.

"So you didn't tell Pam?"

"Correct."

"And you didn't tell Lamb?"

"Correct."

"And you didn't tell Nora?"

I wait a millisecond too long.

"I can't believe you told Nora!" he says, giving me the rub. "Damn, boy, what're you thinking?"

"Don't worry--she's not going to say anything. It only makes things worse for her. Besides, she's good at this stuff. She's full of secrets."

"No crap, she's full of secrets. That's the whole point. Silence--good. Full of secrets--bad."

"Why're you being so paranoid about her?"

"Because while you're up in the Residence drooling all over the First Nipples, I'm the only one who's still planted in reality. And the more I dig, the less I like what I see."

"What do you mean, 'dig'?"

"Do you know who I was on the phone with when you walked in? Benny Steiger."

"Who's he?"

"He's the guy who shines the mirror under your car when you come in the Southwest Gate. I snuck his sister onto the South Lawn for Fourth of July last year, and since he owes me a solid, I decided to call it in. Anyway, remember that first night when you and Nora were trailing Simon? I had Benny do a little check on the guardhouse records for us. According to him, Nora came home alone that night. On foot."

"I dropped her off. Big deal."

"Damn right it's a big deal. Once you lost the Secret Service in your little car chase, you also lost your alibi."

"What're you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the single easiest way for Nora to cover her ass. If she wanted to, there's absolutely nothing preventing her from saying that after you lost the Service, she got out of your car and you went your separate ways."

"Why would she do that?"

"Think about it, Michael. If it comes down to your word against Simon's, who's gonna back up your story? Nora, right? Only problem is, that's bad news for Daddy. This close to reelection--with our lead barely an eyelash above the margin of error--she's not going to put him through that. But if she wasn't there when Simon made the drop--no more problems. You and Simon can scratch each other's eyes out. Of course, in a catfight, he'll eat you like tuna."

"What about the cop who pulled us over? He saw us."

"C'mon, man, you said it yourself: He pretended not to know her. He's the last person I'd count on."

"But for Nora to do all that on purpose . . ."

"Riddle me this, Batman: When you got back to the Southeast Gate, why didn't you drive her through?"

"She figured the Service would be mad, so she said I should--"

"Ding, ding, ding! I believe we have a winner! Nora's suggestion. Nora's plan. The moment you got busted with the money, her brain was churning its way out of it." As we turn another corner of the hallway, he lets the argument sink in. "I'm not saying she's out to get you; I'm just saying she's got her eye on number one. No offense to your love life, but maybe you should too."

"So even though they haven't classified it as a murder, I should screw her over and turn myself in?"

"It's not such a terrible idea. When it comes to a crisis, it's always better to get in front of it."

I stop where I am and think about what he's saying. All I have to do is give up. On myself. On Nora. On everything. My mother taught me better than that. And so did my dad. "I can't. It's not right. She wouldn't do that to me--I can't do that to her."

"Can't do that to . . . Aw, jeez, Michael, don't tell me you're in l--"

"I'm not in love with her," I insist. "It's just not the right time. Like you said, the meeting's this afternoon. I'm too close."

"Too close to what?" Trey calls out as I head back to the stairs. "Vaughn or Nora?"

I let the question hang in the air. It's not something I want to answer.

* * *

As I walk from the White House to the Holocaust Museum, the sun is shining, the humidity's gone, and the sky is the brightest of blues. I hate the calm before the storm. Still, it's the perfect day for a long lunch, which is exactly the message I worked into my conversation with Simon's secretary.

According to Judy, Simon's got a luncheon up on the Hill in Senator McNider's office. To be safe, I called and confirmed it myself. Then I did the same with Adenauer. When his secretary wouldn't tell me where he was, I told her that I had some important information and that I'd call back at one-thirty. A half hour from now. I don't know if it'll work, but all it needs to do is slow him down. Keep him by the phone. And away from me.

Yet despite all my planning, as I let the loose change in my pocket roll through my fingers, I can't stop my hand from shaking. Every lingering glance is a reporter; every person I pass is the FBI. The ten-minute trip is a complete nightmare. Then I reach the Holocaust Museum.

"I have a reservation," I tell the woman at the ticket desk inside the entrance. She has tiny brown eyes and giant brown glasses, enhancing all the worst of her physical features.

"Your name?" she asks.

"Tony Manero."

"Here you go," she says, handing me a ticket. Entrance time: one o'clock. Two minutes from now.

I turn around and scan the lobby. The only people who don't look suspicious are the two mothers yelling at their kids. As I walk toward the elevators, I steal Nora's best trick and pull my baseball cap down over my eyes.

Outside the elevators, a small group of tourists hovers in front of the doors, anxious to get started. I stay toward the back, watching the crowd. As we wait for the elevators to arrive, more people fill in behind me. I stand on my tiptoes, trying to get a better view. This shouldn't be taking so long. Something's wrong.

Around me, the crowd's getting restless. No one's shoving, but elbow room is dwindling. A heavyset man in a blue windbreaker brushes against me, and I jerk my arm out of the way, accidentally elbowing the teenage girl behind me. "Sorry," I tell her.

"No worries," she says in a hushed tone. Her dad nods awkwardly. So does the woman next to her. There're too many people to keep track of. Space is getting tight.

The worst part is, they're still letting people into the museum. We're all pushed forward in a human tide. Frantically, I search the crowd, scrutinizing every face. It's too much. I feel myself burning up. It's getting harder to breathe. The raw-brick walls are closing in. I'm trying to focus on the elevator's dark steel doors and their exposed gray bolts, as if that'll provide any relief.

Finally, a bell rings as the elevator arrives. It's as heavy-handed as they come, but the elevator operator says it best: "Welcome to the Holocaust Museum."

Chapter
21

Can you tell me how to get to the Registry of Survivors?"

"Just around the corner," a man with a name tag says. "It's the first door on your right."

As I head toward the room, I take a quick scan for Vaughn. The mug shot I saw was a few years old, but I know who I'm looking for. Thin little mustache. Slicked-back hair. I don't know why he picked this museum. If he's really worried about the FBI, it's not an easy place for us to hide--which is exactly what I'm afraid of.

Convinced that he's not standing outside the room, I pull open the glass door and enter the Registry of Survivors. First I check the ceiling. No security camera in sight. Good. Next I check the walls. There it is, in the back right-hand corner. The reason he picked this room: an emergency exit fire door. If it all goes to hell, he has a way out--which means either he's just as worried about me, or that's part of his deal with the authorities.

The room itself is modest in size and sectioned off by dividers. It houses eight state-of-the-art computers, which have access to the museum's list of over seventy thousand Holocaust survivors. At almost every terminal, two to three people are crowded around the monitor, searching for their loved ones. Not a single one of them looks up as I head to the back. Checking the rest of the room, I reassure myself that leaving Trey back at the office was a good idea. We could've put him in a disguise, but after having him spotted at the pay phone, it wasn't worth the risk. I need my two thirds.

I sit down at an empty computer terminal and wait. For twenty minutes, I keep my eyes on the door. Whoever comes in; whoever goes out--I crane my head above the divider, analyzing everyone. Maybe he doesn't want me to be so obvious, I finally decide. Changing my tactics, I stare at the computer monitor and listen to the voices of all the other people around me.

"I told you she lived in Poland."

"With a K, not a CH!"

"That's your great-grandmother."

In a museum that's dedicated to remembering six million people who died, this little room focuses on the lucky few who lived. Not a bad place to be.

* * *

"I hate this place," I mutter fifteen minutes later. Cowardly son of a bitch is never going to show. Fighting frustration, I stand up and take another quick reconnaissance of the room. By now, we're on our fifth round of tourist turnover. There's only one original member of the band, and I'm it.

Circling the main group of tables, I stare up at the wall clock. Vaughn's over a half hour late. I've been stood up. Still, if I plan on waiting it out, it's best to stay in character and act like all the other strangers in the room. Glancing around, I realize I'm the only one on my feet. Everyone else looks exactly the same--pen in hand, eyes focused on their computers--all they do is type in names . . .

Oh, man.

I race back to the terminal and slide into my seat. Punching at the keyboard, I type thirteen letters into the Registry of Survivors. V-A-U-G-H-N, P-A-T-R-I-C-K.

On-screen, the computer tells me it's "Searching for Matches."

This is it. That's the real reason he picked this room.

"Sorry, no matches found."

What? It's not possible. V-A-U-G-H-N, P.

"Sorry, no matches found."

V-A-U-G-H-N.

Once again, the computer whirs into search mode. And once again, I get the same result. "Sorry, no matches found."

It can't be. Convinced I'm on the right track, I throw it every name I can think of.

G-A-R-R-I-C-K, M-I-C-H-A-E-L.