press my ID against an electronic eye. Below the eye is a keypad that looks like the keypad on a telephone, but without any numbers. Within seconds, my ID registers, the beep sounds, and ten red numbers light up inside the buttons. Every time someone checks in, the numbers appear in a different order, so if someone's watching me, they can't decipher my PIN code. It's the first line of security to enter the OEOB, and easily the most effective.
After entering my code, I walk through the X-ray machine, which, as always, goes off. 'Belt,' I say to the uniformed Secret Service officer.
He runs his handheld metal detector over my belt and confirms my explanation. Every day we do this, and every day he checks. He usually doesn't give me a second look; today, his gaze hovers for a few seconds too long. 'Everything okay?' I ask.
'Yeah . . . sure.'
I don't like the sound of that. Does he know? Did Nora's crew put the word out?
No, not these guys. Dressed in their white button-down security guard uniforms, the Secret Service agents at the front door of the OEOB are different from the plainclothes agents who protect Nora and the First Family. In the hierarchy of the agents, the two worlds rarely mix. I keep telling myself that as I grab my briefcase from the conveyor belt and head toward my office.
Just as I open the door to Room 170, I see Pam running straight at me. 'Turn around--we're going early,' she shouts, her thin blond hair wisping behind her.
'When did they--'
'Just now.' She grabs me by the arm and spins me around. 'Senior Staff went early, so Simon bumped us up. Apparently, he's got somewhere to be.' Before I can get a word out, she adds, 'Now what happened to your forehead?'
'Nothing,' I say, looking at my watch. 'What time's it called for?'
'Three minutes ago,' she answers.
Simultaneously, we both race up the hallway. Lucky for us, we have first-floor offices--which means we also have the shortest walk to the West Wing. And the Oval. To an outsider, it might not seem like much of a perk, but to those of us in the OEOB, it matters. Proximity is all.
As the heels of our shoes slam against the black-and-white checkerboard marble floor, I see the West Exec exit straight ahead. Pulling open one of the double doors, we step outside and cross the closed-off street between the OEOB and the White House. On the other side of the narrow road, we head for the awning that leads to the West Wing and make our way through two more sets of doors. Ahead of us, a uniformed Secret Service officer with buzzed black hair sits at a table and checks the IDs that hang around our necks. If our IDs had an orange background, he'd know we only have access to the OEOB and he'd have to stop us. A blue background means we can go almost anywhere, including the West Wing.
'Hey, Phil,' I say, instinctively slowing down. This is the real test--if word's out, I'm not getting in.
Phil takes one look at my blue background and smiles. 'What's the rush?'
'Big meetings, big meetings,' I reply calmly. If he knew, he wouldn't be smiling.
'Someone's got to save the world,' he says with a nod. 'Have a good one now.' At this point, his job is done. Once we're past him, he's supposed to let us go. Instead, he pays us the highest compliment. As we turn toward the elevator, he hits a button below his desk and the elevator door on my left opens. When we step inside, he pushes something else and the button for the second floor lights up. He doesn't do that for just anyone--only for the people he likes. Which means he finally knows who I am. 'Thanks!' I shout as the doors close. As I collapse against the back of the elevator, I have to smile. Whatever Simon saw, it's clear he's kept his mouth shut. Or better yet, maybe he never knew we were there.
Reading the joy on my face, Pam says, 'You love it when Phil does that, don't you?'
'Who wouldn't?' I play along.
'I don't know . . . people with well-adjusted priorities?'
'You're just jealous because he doesn't open it for you.'
'Jealous?' Pam laughs. 'He's a doorman with a gun--you think he has any bearing on your place in the food chain?'
'If he does, I know where I'm going: onward and upward, honey.' I throw in the 'honey' just to push Pam's buttons. She's too smart to fall for it.
'Speaking of fruitless pandering to the top, how'd your date go last night?'
That's the true beauty of Pam. Guerrilla honesty. Glancing at the tiny video camera in the corner, I reply, 'I'll tell you later.'
She looks up and falls silent. A second later, the elevator doors open.
The second floor of the West Wing houses some of the best high-powered offices, including the First Lady's personal office and the one immediately on my right--the last place I want to be right now: our destination--the office of Edgar Simon, Counsel to the President.
Chapter 4
Racing through the already-open double doors and the waiting area where Simon's assistant sits, Pam and I make a sharp right into Simon's office. Hoping to sneak in quietly, I check to see if . . . Damn--the gang's already waiting. Crowded around a walnut conference table that looks more like an antique dining room set, six associates sit with their pens and legal pads primed. At one end of the table, in his favorite wingback chair, is Lawrence Lamb, Simon's Deputy Counsel. At the other end is an empty seat. Neither of us takes it. That's Simon's.
As Counsel, Simon advises the President on all legal matters arising in the White House. Can we require blood tests to nail deadbeat dads? Is it okay to limit cigarette companies' right to advertise in youth-oriented magazines? Does the President have to pay for his seat on Air Force One if he's using it to fly to a fund-raiser? From inspecting new legislation to researching new judicial nominees, the Counsel and the seventeen associates who work for him, including Pam and myself, are the law firm for the presidency. Sure, most of our work's reactive: In the West Wing, the Senior Staff decides what ideas the President should pursue, then we get called in to do the how and if. But as any lawyer knows, there's plenty of power in hows and ifs.
In the corner of the dark-wood-paneled room, hunkered down on the all-powerful couch, the Vice President's Counsel is whispering to the Counsel for the Office of Administration, and the Legal Advisor for the National Security Counsel is whispering to the Deputy Legal Counsel for OMB. Bigshots talking to bigshots. In the White House, some things never change. Squeezing our way toward the back of the room, Pam and I stand with the rest of the seatless associates and wait for Simon to arrive. Within a few minutes, he walks in and takes his seat at the head of the table.
My eyes shoot to the floor as fast as they can.
'What's wrong?' Pam asks me.
'Nothing.' My head's still down, but I steal a quick peek at Simon. All I want to know is whether he saw us last night. I assume it'll show on his face. To my surprise, it doesn't. If he's hiding something, you wouldn't know it. His salt-and-pepper hair is as perfectly combed as it was on Rock Creek Parkway. He doesn't look tired; his shoulders stand wide. As far as I can tell, he hasn't even glanced at me.
'Are you sure you're okay?' Pam persists.
'Yeah,' I answer. I slowly pick my head up. That's when he does the most incredible thing of all. He looks right at me and smiles.
'Is everything okay, Michael?' he asks.
The entire room turns and waits for my answer. 'Y-Yeah,' I stammer. 'Just waiting to get started.'
'Good, then let's get right to it.' As Simon makes a few general announcements, I try my best to wipe the bewilderment from my face. If I hadn't looked him straight in the eyes, I wouldn't believe it. He didn't even take a second glance at the cut on my forehead. Whatever happened last night, Simon doesn't know I was there.
'There's one last thing I want to comment on and then we can get to new business,' Simon explains. 'In this morning's Herald, an article made reference to a birthday party we threw for our favorite assistant to the President.' All eyes shoot to Lawrence Lamb, who refuses to acknowledge even the slightest bit of attention. 'The article went on to mention that the Vice President was noticeably absent from the invite list, and that the crowd was buzzing with rumors of why he wasn't there. Now, in case you've already forgotten, besides the President and the First Family, the only other people in that room were a handful of senior staffers and approximately fourteen representatives from this office.' He rests his hands flat on the desk and lets the silence drive home his point.
