With nothing left to say, I get up to leave the office.
'By the way,' he adds, 'I've been trading calls with Agent Adenauer's second in command. I have a meeting with him later today, so I'm hoping to have the final list of suspects by this afternoon--tomorrow morning at the latest.'
'That's great,' I say, trying to stay focused. I'm about to switch back to the Oval, but I realize there's something else I should tell him. 'I had another meeting with the FBI.'
'I know,' he says wearily. He rests both elbows on his desk. 'Thanks for keeping me up-to-date.'
It's moments like this, with the even-more-pronounced-than-usual bags under his eyes, that Lawrence Lamb really starts to show his age.
'It's not good, is it?' I ask.
'They're starting to develop theories--I can tell by the way they've been asking their questions.'
'They gave me a deadline of Friday.'
Lamb looks up. That part he didn't know. 'I'll make sure we have the list by tomorrow.' Before I can even say thank you, he adds, 'Michael, are you sure she doesn't know Vaughn?'
'I think so--'
'Don't give me guesses!' he shouts, raising his voice. 'You think so, or you know?'
'I-I think so,' I repeat, well aware that I'll have the real answer in a few hours. It's a panicked question from a man who never panics. But even Lawrence Lamb can't predict Nora.
* * *
I cross over to the West Wing with fifteen minutes to spare, and while I know it's considered bad form to show up early, I really don't care.
Clutching an inch-thick file folder in my sweaty hand, I enter the small waiting room that connects to the Oval. 'I'm Michael Garrick,' I say proudly as I approach Barbara Sandberg's desk. 'I'm here to see the President.'
She rolls her eyes at the enthusiasm. As Hartson's personal secretary, she hears it every day. 'First time?' she asks.
It's a cheap shot, but it lets me know who's boss. A short, no-nonsense New Yorker who enjoys chewing the stem of her reading glasses, Barbara's been with the President since his Senate days in Florida. 'Yeah,' I reply with a forced grin. 'Is he running on time?'
'Don't sweat it,' she says, warming up. 'You'll survive. Take a seat; Ethan will call you when he's ready. If you want, have some fudge. It'll calm you down.'
I'm not hungry, but I still take a toothpick and spear a small square of fudge from the glass bowl on Barbara's desk. I've spent two years hearing about this stuff. Oh, you have to taste the fudge. You won't believe Barbara's fudge. For the bigshots, it's braggart's shorthand for a visit with the President. For those of us on the outside, it brings brownnosing jokes to a rude, crude low. As I take a seat in one of the wingback chairs, though, I finally have my answer. The fudge . . . is awesome.
Five minutes later, I'm fighting massive fudge dry mouth and doing everything in my power not to look at my watch. The only thing keeping me calm is the enlarged photo over Barbara's desk--a spectacular shot of the President the night he won the election. On a stage in Coconut Grove, Florida, he's got the First Lady on his right and his son and Nora on his left. As the seconds tick down, that's who I focus on. Nora. She's frozen mid-scream with a wild smile on her face, one arm pumped in the air, and the other one wrapped around her brother's neck. It's a victory cheer--no pain, no sadness--just true, wide-eyed euphoria. She had no idea what she was in for. Neither do I.
'Want some more fudge?' Barbara asks. With nothing else to do, I get up and head for her desk. Before I get there, though, she looks over my shoulder and smiles. Someone just walked in.
I turn around just in time to see him step in front of me. He's facing the other way, but I know that posture anywhere. Simon.
'Hey, sweetie,' he says as he swipes a piece of fudge. 'We running on time?'
'Actually, pretty close,' Barbara replies. 'Shouldn't be long now.'
'Morning, Michael,' he says, taking my seat in the wingback chair.
I feel like someone just punched me in the chest. An octopus of rage is already crawling its way across the back of my shoulders.
'Oh, c'mon,' he responds to the look on my face. 'You didn't really think you were going alone, did you?'
Before I can answer, he throws a manila file folder into my chest. Inside is what already went to the President: a copy of my decision memo, with the Staff Secretary's summary attached to the top. Below my memo, I notice something else. The original letter I wrote to the Office of Government Ethics about Simon. I don't believe it--that's why I never got any of Simon's financial disclosure forms. The letter never even made it out of the building.
'There's a typo in the second paragraph,' Simon points out, eyeing me carefully. 'I thought you might want it back.'
How the hell did he--?
Behind me, I hear the door to the Oval open. 'He's ready for you,' Barbara announces. 'Go on in.'
Shoving his way past me, Simon heads straight for the door. Feeling as if I'm about to vomit, I follow.
* * *
'How'd it go?' Pam asks as I stand in front of her desk.
'I don't know, it was kinda like--'
The ringing of her phone interrupts my thought. 'Hold on a second,' she says, picking it up. 'This is Pam. Yeah. No, I know. You'll have it by next week. Great. Thanks.' She hangs up and looks back up at me. 'I'm sorry-- you were saying . . .'
'It's hard to describe. When Simon got there, I thou--'
Once again, her phone interrupts.
'Don't worry--let it ring,' she tells me.
I'm about to continue when I see her glance at the caller ID. I know that panicked look on her face. This is an important call.
'It's okay,' I say. 'Pick it up.'
'It'll just take a minute,' she promises as she lifts the receiver. 'This is Pam. Yeah, I . . . What? No--he won't. I promise he won't.' There's a long pause as she listens. This is going to be longer than a minute.
'Why don't I come back later,' I whisper.
'I'm really sorry,' she mouths, covering the receiver.
'Don't worry. It's not a big deal.' Leaving Pam's office, I try to tell myself that's the truth.
Crossing through the anteroom, I decide to call Trey, who's probably still mad at me. As I head to my office, I see a pair of men's white Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear hanging from the doorknob. Above it is a laser-printed sign:
Welcome Home Brief(ing)Master!
Butterfly kisses,All of Your Adoring Fan
I pull off the underwear and open the door. Inside, it only gets worse. On my chair, covering my couch, hanging from my lamps and every picture frame--there's men's underwear everywhere. Boxers, briefs, even a little silk fruit-smuggler. To top it off, a dozen tighty-whities spell out the word 'Mike' across my desk.
'All hail Briefmaster!' Trey shouts from his hiding spot behind the door. He drops to his knees and bows at my feet. 'What say you, Master of the Brief . . . ing?'
'Unbelievable,' I tell him as I admire the effort.
'I even stuffed them in your drawers,' he says proudly. 'Get it? Drawers?'
'I got it,' I say, picking three more pair off my chair. 'Where'd you get all these anyway?'
'They're mine.'
