too busy staring at her bra, which is still peeking through the rip in her shirt.
'Sorry,' she laughs, pulling her sleeve up to cover her shoulder. She steps forward and coyly slides her arm around my waist. 'That's what happens when they kick you out of the face-sucking section of the theater.' Before I can object, she adds, 'We'll take it upstairs.'
'Good idea,' the guard says dryly. Without a second glance, he returns to his post behind the desk.
Walking back toward the Ground Floor Corridor, with her arm still around my waist, Nora slides her thumb through the hook on my belt. 'So what's more exciting--that or working on a decision memo?'
Convinced we're well out of earshot, I quickly pull away. 'Why'd you have to do that?'
'Do what?' she taunts.
'Y'know, the . . .' No, don't get into it with her. I take a deep breath. 'Just tell me you put it back.'
She looks up and laughs. Instinctively, I step back. After four years of eating with kings and royalty, the only thing that thrills her anymore is risk--take what you love and risk losing it. Light and dark in the same breath. But now . . . the mood swings are starting to flip too fast.
'C'mon, Michael,' she teases. 'Why would you think I--'
'Nora, playtime's over. Answer the question. Tell me you put it back.'
We reach the entrance that'll take her back up to the Residence, and she flicks me back with her wrist. 'Why don't you go do some work. You're obviously stressed out.'
'Nora . . .'
'Relax,' she sings. She turns into the entryway and heads for the stairs. 'What'm I gonna do? Hide it in my pants?'
'You tell me,' I call out.
She stops where she is and glances over her shoulder. The laugh, the smile--they're gone. 'I thought we were already past that one, Michael.' Our eyes connect and she drives it home. 'I'd never hide anything from you.'
I nod, knowing that she's finally back in control. 'Thank you--that's all I wanted to hear.'
* * *
When I eventually finish at quarter to four in the morning, I'm a bleary-eyed mess. Except for a twenty- minute break for dinner and a ten-minute begging session to get an extension from the Staff Secretary, I've been sitting in my chair for almost eight hours straight. A new personal record. Yet as the laser printer hums with the fruits of my labor, I find that I'm oddly wide awake. Not sure of what to do, and in no mood to go home, I casually flip through my still unopened mail. Most of it's standard: press clips, meeting announcements, going-away party invitations. But at the bottom of the pile is an interoffice envelope with a familiar handwriting in the address box. I'd recognize that bubble cursive anywhere.
Opening the envelope, I find a handwritten note with a single key Scotch-taped to it: 'For when you're done--Room 11. Congrats!' At the bottom is a heart and the letter N. As I pull off the key, I can't help but laugh. Room 11. It's even better than parking inside the gate.
* * *
The sign on the door of Room 11 reads 'Athletic Unit,' but everyone knows it's far more than that. Built by Bob Haldeman during the Nixon administration and limited to only the biggest of the bigshots, the Senior Staff Exercise Room is easily the most exclusive private gym in the country. Indeed, fewer than fifty people have keys. On an average day, I'd be slaughtered if I set foot in here. But at four in the morning, in desperate need of a shower and on the eve of my most important professional moment, I'll take my chances.
With one last look around the deserted hallway, I slide the key in the door. It opens without a hitch. 'Cleaning crew!' I shout, just to be safe. 'Anyone here?' No one answers. Inside, it doesn't take long to tour around. There's a beat-up StairMaster, an outdated stationary bicycle, a broken treadmill, and an odd pile of rusty weights. The place is a shithole. I'd kill for a regular pass.
After a quick workout on the bike and a fifteen-minute stop in the sauna, I'm standing in the shower, letting the hot water run over me. Every time I get accustomed to the temperature, I turn it up a little more. With my eyes closed and my palms pressed firmly against the tile, I'm lost in the steam and completely relaxed. Every day should start this way.
* * *
Back in my office, I lie on the couch, but there's no way I'm falling asleep. I've got less than four hours to go, and the testosterone alone is like a twin-pack of Vivarin. All I can think about are my opening words.
Mr. President, how are you?
Sir, how are you?
President Hartson, how are you?
Dad! How 'bout a loan?
At six-thirty, as the orange sun begins to slice through the morning sky, the newest version of the President's schedule arrives via e-mail. I skim through it until I see what I'm looking for. There it is on the second page.
10:30 to 10:45--Briefing--Oval Office. Staff Contact: Michael Garrick. My fifteen minutes of fame.
Outside, groundskeepers are prepping the lawn and the morning-show reporters are arriving in the press room. On the other side of the iron gates, a family of four early-risers poses for an Instamatic moment. The flash of their camera catches my eye like a bolt of lightning. It's going to be a big day.
Chapter 24
Nervous?' Lamb asks, watching me sit completely still across from his desk, my palms resting on my knees.
'No, not at all,' I reply.
He smirks at the lie, but he doesn't call me on it.
'I appreciate you seeing me like this,' I add as quickly as I can. It's the understatement of the year. In the halls of the OEOB, there're staffers who'd kill for private lessons with the White House's best-dressed old pro.
'The first one's always the hardest. After that, it'll come naturally.'
I know I'm supposed to be listening, but my brain keeps practicing my opening line--Good morning, Mr. President. Good morning, Mr. President. Good morn--
'Just remember one thing,' Lamb continues. 'When you get in there, don't say hello to the President. You walk in; he looks up; you start. Anything else is a waste of time, which we all know he doesn't have.'
I nod as if I knew it all along.
'Also, don't get thrown by his reactions. The first answer he gives is always going to be provocative--he'll yell, he'll shout, he'll scream, 'Why are we doing it this way?''
'I don't understand . . .'
'It's how he vents,' Lamb explains. 'He knows it's always going to be a compromise, but he needs to show everyone--including himself--that he's still got his hand on the moral compass.'
'Anything else?'
He nods his standard nod. 'Just don't forget what you're there for.'
Once again, I'm lost.
'Michael, when it comes to advice, there're three types: legal advice, moral advice, and political advice. What you can do, what you want to do, and what you should do. You may be trained in the first, but he's going to want all three. In other words, you can't just go in there and say, 'Kill the wiretaps--it's the right thing to do.''
I'm still anxiously palming my knees. 'But what if it is the right thing to do?'
'All I'm saying is, don't get married to a victory--my gut tells me this thing's a vote-getter.'
I don't like the sound of that. If Lamb says it, it's truth. 'Is there any chance I'm going to convince him otherwise?'
'Time'll tell,' Lamb says. 'But I wouldn't bet on it.'
