Caroline's office.'
Rick Ferguson and Gary Seward. One's up for a presidential appointment at Treasury, the other just started at Commerce. 'I don't understand,' I say. 'Why only two?'
'Apparently, she had tons of files all over her office--and not just for presidential appointments. Some were judicial, some were from the Counsel's Office . . .'
'She had mine. I saw it.'
'The FBI's rechecking each one.'
'So they released a full list of the names?'
'Not until they're done. According to the memo, they don't want to tip anyone off. Instead, for security purposes, we get them as they clear them--one or two at a time.'
'And how'd you get these?' I ask, holding up the sheet of paper.
'I told you, Uncle Larry.'
'He gave them to you?'
'Actually, he walked out to talk to his secretary, and I copied the names on some scrap paper.'
'You stole them?'
'Do you want them or not?'
'Of course I want them. I just don't want you stealing them from Lawrence Lamb.'
'He doesn't care. The man's my godfather--he took the training wheels off my bike; he's not gonna care if I sneak a peek at a file. At least this way, we're not sitting in the dark.'
It's no consolation. 'So that means the FBI's looking at my file.'
'Relax, Michael. I'm sure they'll clear you.'
Trying to believe that, I stare down at the list. Nora's handwriting has a circular bubble-quality to it. Like a third-grade girl who's just learning to write in cursive. Rick Ferguson. Gary Seward. Two people who've been declared innocent by the FBI. I try to remember how many files I saw in Caroline's office. There were at least five or six under mine--and probably more in the drawers. Looks like the FBI is also thinking blackmail. Turning back to Nora, I ask, 'Why'd you wait until now to give these to me?'
'I don't know. I guess I forgot,' she says with a shrug. 'Listen, I gotta run. Some Prime Minister's bringing his family by for a photo-op.'
'Are you going to see your uncle there?'
'The only person I'm going to see is the Prime Minister's son. Handsome lad, y'know.'
I'm not sure if she's trying to change the subject or make me jealous. Either way, it's worked. 'So that's who you're dumping me for?'
'Hey, if you get your own country, they'll try to get me to kiss your ass as well. In the meantime, though, I'm puckering elsewhere--these guys'll freak if I'm late.'
'I'm sure they will. Foreign markets'll tumble; honor'll be lost. It goes hand in hand with tardiness: international incident.'
'You like to hear yourself talk, don't you?'
'Even more than you like photo-ops with foreign strangers. But that's just another day in the life, huh?'
'Ever since the last hour of sixth grade.'
'I don't understand.'
'That's the day my dad decided. Running for Governor; or at least, that's the day he told me. I still remember waiting for the last bell to ring--and then tearing out of the classroom and flying toward the bike rack with Melissa Persily. I was supposed to sleep over her house that night. She was one of those cool kids who lived close enough to bike to school--so the bike rack itself was a big deal. She had her own combination lock and this beat-up black ten-speed that used to be her brother's . . .' Nora's voice is racing as she looks up. 'Man, it was tomboy heav--' The second our eyes connect, she cuts herself off. Like before, her gaze goes straight to the floor.
'What?' I ask.
'No . . . nothing . . .'
'What d'you mean nothing? What happened? You're at the bike rack . . . you're going to the sleepover . . .'
'It's really nothing,' she insists, stepping backwards. 'Listen, I really should go.'
'Nora, it's just a childhood story. What're you so scared--'
'I'm not scared,' she insists.
That's when I see the lie.
For the past two months, Nora's spent every day in full election mode--from three-hundred-person luncheons with big donors, to sitting next to her mom at satellite-televised rallies, to, if she's in a real good mood and they can get her to cooperate, giving interviews on why college kids should mobilize and vote--she's been the youngest and most reluctant master of the grip-and-grin. That's what she's known since sixth grade. But today . . . today she got caught up in a real moment; she was even enjoying it. And it scared the hell out of her.
'Nora,' I call out as she heads for the door. 'Just so you know, I'd never tell anyone.'
She stops where she is and slowly turns around. 'I know,' she says, nodding me a thank-you. 'But I really have to go--you know the game--sitting Presidents have to look strong on foreign policy.'
I think back to Bartlett in the front photo.
Nora's almost out the door. Then, just as she's about to leave, she turns my way and takes a deep breath. Her voice is a hushed reluctance. 'When we got to the bike rack, my mom was sitting there, waiting for me. She took me home, my dad told me he was running for Governor, and that was it. No sleepover at Melissa Persily's--I'm the only one who missed it. The next year, Melissa started calling me 'It.' As in, 'There It is,' and 'Don't let It come near me.' It was stupid, but the class sided with her. That was junior high.' Without another word, Nora regrabs the doorknob. The Prime Minister's son awaits.
'Don't you ever get sick of it?' I ask.
Once again, it's a chance to open up. She offers a weak smile. 'No.'
It doesn't take much to see through her answer. But instinct still made her say no. On some level, she doesn't trust me with everything just yet. I'll get there eventually. She said it herself. Whatever else is going on, I'm dating the First Daughter of the United States.
* * *
I walk into Trey's office sporting a Cheshire cat grin. Ten minutes later, he's yelling at me.
'Stupid, Michael. Stupid, stupid, stupid!'
'Why're you getting so nuts?'
'Who else have you told about this? How many?'
'Just you,' I answer.
'Don't lie to me.'
He knows me too well. 'I told Pam. Just you and Pam. That's it. I swear.'
Trey runs the palm of his hand from the light brown skin of his forehead to the back of his shortly buzzed afro. His small hand moves slowly across his head--I've seen it before--he calls it 'the rub.' A quick rub is like an embarrassed little laugh or snicker, used when a dignitary trips or falls in the middle of a photo-op. The speed slows down as the consequences grow, and the slower the rub, the more he's upset. When Time ran an unflattering profile of the First Lady, the rub was slow. When the President was rumored to have cancer, it was even slower. Five minutes ago, I told him what happened with Nora and Caroline. I check his hand to clock the speed. Molasses.
'It's only two people. Why're you making such a big deal?'
'Let me make this as clear as possible: I love the fact that you're moving up in the world, and I love the fact that you trust me with all your secrets. I even love the fact Nora wants to climb in your pants--believe me, we're going to be getting back to that one--but when it comes to something this big, you should keep your mouth shut.'
'So I shouldn't have told you?'
'You shouldn't have told me and you shouldn't have told Pam.' He pauses a moment. 'Okay, you should've told me. But that's it.'
