looks like a pool cue with a round unbreakable mirror attached to the end of it. Without a word, he runs the mirror below the car. No bombs, no surprise guests. Knowing the rest of the ritual, I pop my rear hatch. The first officer rummages through the back of my Jeep, as I notice a second officer standing on the side with a way-too-alert German shepherd. When my car's finally parked, they'll send the dog sniffing on an hourly basis. Right now, they wave me in.
I find an open spot on State Place, right outside the steel bars of the gate. At my level, that's the best parking I can get. Outside the gate. Still, at least I have a parking pass.
Traveling the rest of the way on foot, I cross inside the gate, swipe my badge at the turnstile, and wait for the lock to click. I walk past two more guards, neither of whom gives me a second look. As I glance over my shoulder, however, I notice the officer with the mirror on the other side of the gate. Through the bars, he's staring straight at me. Smirk still on his face.
Picking up speed, I head up the sidewalk, with the OEOB on my left and the West Wing on my right. The corridor between the two is lined with Mercedes, Jaguars, Saabs, and just enough beat-up Saturns to stave off elitist guilt. The most prestigious parking lot in the city. All of it inside the gate. An island unto itself, West Exec parking is also where the hierarchy of White House command is laid out for the world to see: the closer your spot to the entrance of the West Wing, the higher your rank. Chief of Staff is closer than the Deputy Chief of Staff, who's closer than the Domestic Policy Advisor, who's closer than me. And even though I don't usually drive to work, that doesn't mean I don't want to be inside the gate.
Getting closer to the front, I can't help myself. I pretend to hear someone calling my name and again look over my shoulder. The guard's still there. Our eyes lock and he whispers something into his walkie-talkie. What the hell is . . . Forget it. He's just trying to scare me. Who could he be speaking to anyway?
I turn back to the parking lot and see a black Volvo in Spot Twenty-six. Simon's somewhere in the building. At the end of the row, there's an old gray Honda in Spot Ninety-four. It belongs to Trey, whose boss lets him use her spot on weekends. Midway between the two, I notice there's a brand-new red car parked in Spot Forty-one. Caroline's been dead less than twenty-four hours, and someone's already taken her parking space.
As I approach the side entrance of the OEOB, I take one last glance at the guard outside the gate. For the first time since I arrived, he's gone--back to sliding his mirror under the belly of arriving cars. Still, it's just like the night on the embankment--not only is my neck soaked--I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched.
Without even thinking, I look up at the dozens of gray windows on this end of the enormous building. Every one of them appears to be empty, but they're all somehow staring down at me like square magnifying lenses. My eyes flick across the panes of glass, searching for a friendly face. No one's there.
Inside the building, it doesn't take me long to reach the anteroom that leads to my office. Opening the door, though, I'm surprised to see that the lights are already on. I didn't see Julian's car on State Place, and Pam told me she was going to be working from home. The office should be dark. Putting the blame on a careless cleaning crew, I snake my arm behind the tallest of our file cabinets to flip off the silent alarm. But as I braille my way along the plaster, I don't like what I find. The alarm's already been turned off.
'Pam?' I call out. 'Julian? Are you there?' No one answers.
Under Pam's door, I notice that the light is on. 'Pam, are you there?' Just as I turn toward her office, I notice that the three stackable plastic file-trays that serve as our mailboxes are all full. Next to the table, the coffeemaker is off. I'm about to open her door when I freeze. I know my friend. Whoever's in there, it's not Pam.
I rush toward my office, push the door open, and dart inside. Spinning around, I grab the deadbolt and lock it. That's when it hits me. I shouldn't have been able to open my door. It's supposed to be locked.
Behind me, something moves by the sofa. Then by my desk. A creak of vinyl. A pencil rolling down a keyboard. They're not in Pam's office. They're in mine.
I turn around, struggling to catch my breath. It's too late. There are two men waiting for me. Both of them head my way. I turn back to the door, but it's locked. My hands are shaking as I lunge for the deadbolt.
A fist comes down and pounds me in the knuckles. My hands still don't leave the deadbolt. Clutching. Clawing. Anything to get out.
Over my shoulder, a fat, meaty hand covers my mouth. I try to scream, but his grip's too tight. The tips of his fingers dig into my jaw, his nails scratching my cheek.
'Don't fight it,' he warns. 'This'll only take a second.'
Chapter 10
Where the hell are we going?' I ask as we head up the hallway. On Saturday, the place is near-empty. The two men are holding me tightly by the back of my arms and forcing me toward the West Exec exit.
'Stop complaining,' the one on my right says. He's a tall black man with a neck as thick as my thigh. From his posture and build, I'm assuming Secret Service, but he's not dressed the part--too casual, not enough polish. And there's no microphone in his ear. More important, they didn't identify themselves--which means these guys aren't who I thought they were.
Skittishly, I try to jerk my arm free. Annoyed, he squeezes even harder and jabs two fingers into my biceps. It hurts like a son of a bitch, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of crying out. Instead, I bite down as hard as I can. He keeps digging, and I feel my face flush red. I can't keep it up much longer. My shoulder starts to go numb. From the smug grin on his face, he's definitely enjoying himself. His pleasure; my pain. 'Ow!' I shout as he eventually lets go. 'What the hell is wrong with you?'
He doesn't respond. He just pushes the door open and forces me out into West Exec parking. Trying not to panic, I tell myself that nothing bad can happen as long as we're in the West Wing--security's too high. Before I can relax, though, a sharp tug to the left lets me know that the West Wing isn't on the itinerary. Crossing toward the north side of the White House, we head past the briefing room and toward the tradesmen's entrance, where most of the mansion's deliveries are made. My eyes are focused on the large yellow van that's straight ahead. There should be workmen around, but I don't see any. We get closer to the van. The back doors are wide open. I stop walking and start backtracking. My arms thrash to break free. I'm not letting them put me in there.
My escorts tighten their grip and drag me forward. My shoes scrape hopelessly against the concrete. My arms are held in place. As hard as I fight, it's no use. They're too strong. 'Almost there,' one of them warns. With one last tug, we're right behind the van. It's empty inside. I'm about to scream. And just like that, they shove me to the right and we're past it. I look over my shoulder and the van fades behind me. Then I look back and realize our real destination. The tradesmen's entrance. I'm not sure which is worse.
Inside the building, they throw a knowing nod to the uniformed officer who guards the door. When he lets us pass, it becomes clear that these guys are doing someone a favor. Only Lamb and Simon have that kind of power.
The hallway is cluttered with dozens of empty crates and boxes. The smell of fresh flowers from the White House florist fills the air.
We make a sharp left and head down another long hall. My heart's pounding against my chest. I've never been down here before. The white guy pulls out a janitor-size set of keys. He turns the lock and pulls the door open.
The area's too secluded. 'Tell me what's--'
'Don't worry--you'll be safe.' He reaches for my arm, but I quickly pull away. This isn't a place to meet Simon or Lamb.
'I'm not going in there!'
The first guy grabs me by the back of the neck. I lash out at him, but I don't have a chance. They twist my arms behind my back and, with a quick shove, force me inside. Stumbling to the ground, I nearly fall on my face. As I crash-land on my knees and the palms of my hands, I finally check my surroundings. It's a long, incredibly narrow room. In front of me is a long polished wooden floor. At the far end are ten striped pins. To my right, I hear the hum of the automatic ball return. What am I doing in a bowling alley?
'Up for a game, sport?' a familiar voice asks.
I turn to the spectator seats behind the scorekeeper's table. Nora stands up and walks toward me. Reaching down and extending a hand, she's hoping to help me to my feet. I refuse the offer.
'What the hell is wrong with you?' I ask.
'I wanted to speak to you.'
'So that's what you do? You send the Planet of the Apes to manhandle me?' I struggle to my feet and brush
