* * *
Rushing down the steps of the OEOB, I'm swimming against the steady stream of co-workers returning from lunch. Outside the gate, I bob and weave through the crowd, making my way to 17th Street. There's no time to wait for the Metro. 'Taxi!' I shout as I throw an arm in the air. The first two cabs pass me by. I jump into the street waving. 'Taxi!'
An emerald green cab honks his horn and stops dead in front of me. Just as I'm about to get in, I hear someone call my name.
'Michael?'
Looking up, I see a woman with stark black hair making her way toward me. I look at the ID around her neck. It's everyone's first instinct--scan the badge. I don't like what I see. Her ID's got a tan background. Press.
'You're Michael Garrick, aren't you?' she asks.
'And you are . . . ?'
'Inez Cotigliano,' she says, extending a hand. 'I contacted you by--'
'I got your message. And your e-mail.'
'But you still haven't replied,' she teases. 'You're going to hurt my feelings.'
'Don't take it personally. I've been busy.'
'So I hear. Schedule said you had the briefing today. How'd it go?'
Typical reporter--nothing but questions. I decide to give her typical White House--nothing but nothing. 'I don't mean to be rude, but you know the drill--call the Press Office.'
I shut the door to the cab, and Inez leans in the window. Pressed against her chest is a clipboard and a file folder. The tab on the folder says 'WAVES.' She looks down to see what I'm staring at. Then she grins. 'I meant what I said, Michael. We're still interested. And this way, you get to put out your side of the story.'
I'm not that stupid. 'If you want someone who gives good quote, you're betting on the wrong horse.'
'Would it make it easier if there were some financial incentives involved?'
'Since when does the Post pay for stories?'
'They don't,' she shoots back. 'This is just between us--consider it my way of saying thank you.'
'You don't get it, do you?' I ask, shaking my head. 'Some things aren't for sale.'
Laughing to herself, she throws me a wry smile. 'Whatever you say,' she replies as the cab begins to pull away from her. 'Though I wouldn't be so sure of that.'
* * *
Ten minutes later, I'm surrounded by children. Fat ones, quiet ones, crying ones, even one in a forest green sweatsuit who's picking at his crotch something fierce. Located straight up Connecticut Avenue and final home of Hsing-Hsing, Nixon's most-famous panda, the National Zoo is easily one of the best family attractions in the city. And one of the worst places to hold an inconspicuous meeting. Pacing across the bench-lined concrete promenade that serves as the public entrance to the zoo, I'm a dark pin-striped suit amid a rainbow sea of pigtails and camcorders. If I were on fire, I couldn't stick out more. Maybe that was Vaughn's hope--if the FBI is here, they'll find it just as hard to hide. Riding that theory, I try to spot people without kids. By the ice-cream cart are two young adults. And there's a single woman getting out of a cab.
'Popcoooorn,' someone wails behind me. Startled, I spin around. In front of me is an eighteen-year-old kid with two red-and-white-striped boxes of popcorn in each hand. 'Popcoooorn!' he announces, whining the last syllable.
'No, thanks,' I say.
Undeterred, he's on to the next tourist. 'Popcoooorn . . . !'
Hoping to drown out the sales pitch while also getting a better view of the area, I eventually head over to one of the nearby wooden benches. I'm about to sit down when I notice a small red-and-white sign: THIS AREA MONITORED BY SURVEILLANCE CAMERAS. Instinctively, I look up at the trees, trying to spot the cameras. I don't see them anywhere. It doesn't matter; they're out there. Watching me. Watching us. Vaughn, wherever you are, I pray you know what you're doing.
* * *
A half hour later, I'm sitting on the same wooden bench, studying the crowd. It doesn't take long to spot the pattern. Family in, family out. Family in, family out. Still, throughout the constant flux of people, one thing remains: 'Popcooorn . . . Popcooorn!' Over and over, the refrain is grating. 'Popcoooorn . . . Popcoooo--'
'I'll take one,' a deep voice says. I look up, but he's facing the other direction--a tall man in dark jeans and a bright red polo shirt. Handing the kid a dollar, he grabs a box of popcorn. Without another word, he readjusts his sunglasses and heads to a bench on the opposite side of the promenade. I'm not sure what it is--maybe it's the fact he's alone; maybe it's my own paranoia--but something tells me to watch him. Yet, just as I'm about to get my first good look at him, someone steps in front of me, blocking my view.
'Popcoooorn!' the kid announces, holding his red-and-white box in front of my face.
'Out of the way!' I shout.
He couldn't care less. 'Popcoooorn!' he continues. 'Peeeee Vaaaaughn!'
I do a quick double take. 'What'd you just say?'
'Popcoooorn . . . !'
As he steps aside, I look across the promenade. The man in the red shirt is gone. Turning back to the kid, I ask, 'Was that--?'
He holds out his last red-and-white-striped box. 'Popcoooorn . . . Pop--'
'I'll take it.' One dollar later, the kid's moved on, and I'm alone on the bench. I'm tempted to check over my shoulder, but it's more important to appear calm. As casually as possible, I open the box. Inside, there's barely any popcorn--just a handwritten note taped inside. I have to angle the box just right to read it. 'Four P's Pub. Three blocks north. Next to the Uptown.'
Closing the box, I can't fight my instinct. I check to see who's watching. As far as I can tell, no one's there. A quick survey of the promenade shows everything's normal. Family in, family out. Family in, family out. As the parade of smiles marches on, I walk back toward Connecticut and pass the popcorn cart. 'Popcoooorn . . . !' Fully restocked, the kid doesn't give me a second look. Instead, he heads back into the crowd. And I head three blocks up the street.
* * *
Sticking to the shady side of Connecticut Avenue, I try to keep my pace as quick as possible. At this speed, if someone's behind me, they should be easy to spot. Still, my eyes dart from every parked car, to every tree, to every storefront. It all looks suspicious. Coming toward me, I see a woman jogging with her black Labrador. As she's about to pass, I step into the street and look away. I'm not taking any chances--as long as I keep my head down, she can't make an ID. When she's gone, I get back on track.
In the distance, I can already see the red neon sign of the Uptown, the city's greatest old-fashioned movie house and the neighborhood's most popular monument. To its left, half a dozen restaurants and shops fight for attention. Dwarfed by the Uptown, they rarely get a second glance. Today, however, one jumps out: Ireland's Four Provinces Restaurant and Pub.
Under the run-down green and red sign, I take a quick look up the block. Everything checks out--no khakis or polos in sight; none of the nearby cars have government plates. I even brush my eyes past the roof of the Uptown. Far as I can tell, no one's taking photos. Heading for the entrance, I know this is it. Time to meet Vaughn.
As I pull open the door, I'm slapped in the face with bar whiff. It immediately reminds me of my first night with Nora. Inside, it's set up like a real Irish pub. Sixteen to twenty tables, some framed stained glass Irish crests, and an old oak bar along the back wall. To my surprise, the place is packed. One guy's wearing a mailman uniform. Another's dressed by FedEx. I like this place. No tourists. Local crowd.
'Take a seat at the bar,' a waitress says as she blows by me. 'I'll have a table in a second.'
Following her instructions, I pull up a stool and scan the lunchtime group. Nothing too suspicious.
