Pam shakes her head and my phone starts ringing.
Refusing to get into it, I go for the phone. 'This is Michael.'
'Hey, Michael, it's Ellen Sherman calling. Am I catching you at a bad time? You talking to the President or anything?'
'No, Mrs. Sherman, I'm not talking to the President.' Mrs. Sherman is the sixth-grade social studies teacher from my hometown in Arcana, Michigan. She's also in charge of the annual school trip to Washington, and when she found out about my job, a new stop was added to the itinerary: a private tour of the West Wing.
'I'm sure you know why I'm calling,' she says with high-pitched elementary school zeal. 'I just wanted to make sure you didn't forget about us.'
'I'd never forget about you, Mrs. Sherman.'
'So we're all checked in for the end of the month? You put all the names through security?'
'Did it yesterday,' I lie, searching my desk for the list of names.
'Howzabout Janie Lewis? Is she okay? Her family's Mormon, y'know. From Utah.'
'The White House is open to all religions, Mrs. Sherman. Including Utah's. Now is there anything else, because I really should run.'
'As long as you put the names throu--'
'I cleared everyone in,' I say, watching Pam continue to smolder. 'Now you have a good day, Mrs. Sherman. I'll see you on the--'
'Don't try and chase me off the phone, young man. You may be big and famous, but you're still Mikey G. to me.'
'Yes, ma'am. Sorry about that.' The Midwest dies hard.
'And how's your father doing? Any word from him?'
I stare at the request for Simon's financial disclosure forms. 'Just the usual. Not much to report.'
'Well, please send him my best when you see him,' she says. 'Oh, and Michael, one last thing . . .'
'Yeah?'
'We really are proud of you here.'
It's easy, but the compliment still makes me smile. 'Thank you, Mrs. Sherman.' Hanging up the phone, I turn to my computer screen.
'Who was that?' Pam asks.
'My past,' I explain as I find Mrs. Sherman's list. Her school trip was the first time I ever left Michigan. The plane ride alone made the world a bigger place.
'Can't you do that la--'
'No,' I insist. 'I'm doing it now.' Double-clicking on the WAVES folder, I open up a blank request form for the Worker and Visitor Entrance System. Before visitors are allowed in either the OEOB or the White House, they first have to be cleared through WAVES. One by one, I type in the names, birthdates, and Social Security numbers of Mrs. Sherman and her sixth-grade class. When I'm finished, I add the date, time, and place of our meeting, and then hit the Send button. On my screen, a rectangular box appears: 'Your WAVES Visitor Request has been sent to the US Secret Service for processing.'
'You finally ready to rejoin the discussion?' Pam asks.
I look at my watch and realize I'm late. Hopping out of my seat, I reply, 'When I get back.'
'Where're you going?'
'Adenauer wants to see me.'
'The guy from the FBI? What's he want?'
'I don't know,' I say as I head for the door. 'But if the FBI finds out what's going on and this thing goes public, Edgar Simon's going to be the least of my worries.'
* * *
I walk into the West Wing with my mind focused on Mrs. Sherman's school trip. It's a cerebral dodge that I hope'll keep me from panicking about Adenauer and whether or not it's a heart attack. The problem is, the more I think about sixth-graders, the more I worry I won't be here to give the tour.
Approaching the guard's desk at the first security checkpoint, I'm dying for a friendly face. 'Hey, Phil.'
He looks up and nods. Nothing else to say.
I watch him as I pass, but he still doesn't give me a syllable. It's like the guard outside the parking lot. The more the FBI gets involved, the more strange looks I get. Trying not to think about it, I pass Phil, make a sharp right, and head down a short flight of stairs. After another quick right, I find myself standing outside the Sit Room.
The regular haunt of National Security Council bigwigs, the Situation Room is the most secure location in the White House complex. One rumor holds that as you pass through the door, you're bathed in a thin band of invisible laser light that scans your body for chemical weaponry. Stepping inside, I don't believe a word of it. We're good, but we're not that good.
'I'm looking for Randall Adenauer,' I explain to the first receptionist I see.
'And your name?' she asks, checking her scheduling book.
'Michael Garrick.'
She looks up, startled. 'Oh . . . Mr. Garrick . . . right this way.'
My stomach drops out from under me. I lock my jaw to slow my breathing and follow the receptionist to what I assume will be one of the small peripheral offices. Instead, we stop at the closed door of the main conference room. Another bad sign. Rather than bringing me to the FBI's fifth-floor office in the OEOB, he's got me in the most secure room in the complex. It's where Kennedy's staff weighed in on the Cuban Missile Crisis, and where Reagan's staff fought viciously over who should be running the country when the President was shot. Set up in here, Adenauer has something serious to hide.
The click of a magnetic lock grants me access to the room. I open the door and step inside. Visually, it's an ordinary conference room: long mahogany table, leather chairs, a few pitchers of water. Technologically speaking, it's much more. The lining of the room is rumored to keep out everything from infrared spy satellites to electromagnetic surveillance systems that measure telephone, serial, network, or power cable emanations. Whatever's about to happen, there aren't going to be any witnesses.
When the door closes behind me, I notice the soft humming that pervades the room. Sounds like sitting next to a copier, but it's actually a white noise generator. If I'm wearing a wiretap or I'm bugged, the noise drowns it out. He's not taking any chances.
'Thanks for coming down,' Adenauer says. He looks different than the last time I saw him. His sandy hair, his slightly off-center jaw--without Caroline's body in the background, both somehow seem softer. Like before, the top button of his shirt is opened. His tie's slightly loose. Nothing intimidating. He's got a red file folder in front of him, but as he sits across the table, his right hand is palm-up and wide open. An outstretched offer to help.
'Is something bothering you, Michael?'
'I'm just wondering why you're doing this here. You could've had me come up to your office.'
'Someone's already using it, and if I had you come down to the main office, you would've been seen by every reporter who stakes out our building. At least here, I can keep you safe.'
It's a good point.
'I'm not here to accuse you, Michael. I don't believe in scapegoats,' he promises in his soft Virginia accent. Unlike last time, he doesn't try to reach out and touch my shoulder, which is one of the real reasons I think he's serious. As he speaks, he's got a fussy professionalism to his voice. It matches his tweed suit--and reminds me of an old high school English teacher. No, not just a teacher. A friend.
'Why don't you take a seat?' Adenauer asks. He points to the chair at the corner of the conference table and I follow his lead. 'Don't worry,' he says. 'I'll make it quick.'
He's certainly taking it easy. When I'm seated, he opens the red file folder. Down to business. 'So, Michael, do you still maintain that all you did was find the body?'
My head jerks up before he even finishes the question. 'What're you--'
'It's just a formality,' he promises. 'No need to get upset.'
I force a smile and take his word for it. But in his eyes . . . the way they narrow . . . he's looking a little too
