The First Councel

I don’t like the dark. “I want to know now,” I say suspiciously.

Once again, she stops. “Don’t worry, Michael,” she says in a soft voice. “I’ll take care of you.”

I haven’t heard that tone since the day with my dad. Still, now’s not the time. “Nora… ”

Without a word, she turns away, striding to the far end of the basement hallway. There’s a steel door with an electronic lock. If the rumors are right, I’m pretty sure it’s a bomb shelter. Nora punches in a PIN code and I hear the thunk of locks tumbling.

With a sharp tug, Nora pulls open the door. Instantly, my eyes go wide. It can’t be. But there it is in front of me. The greatest myth in the White House-a secret tunnel.

Nora looks me in the eye. “If it’s good enough for Marilyn Monroe, it’s good enough for you.”

CHAPTER 33

With my mouth hanging down by my ankles, I’m staring into a secret tunnel below the White House. “When did… Where…?”

She steps in close and takes me by the hand. “I’m here, Michael. It’s me.” Reading my bewildered expression, she adds, “They may get it wrong in the movies, but that doesn’t mean it’s bullshit.”

“Still, the-”

“C’mon, let’s go.” By the time I blink, she’s gone. Zero to sixty. Instantly.

The tunnel itself has cement walls and is better lit than I would have expected. It looks like a straight shoot under the East Wing. “Where does it let out?”

She doesn’t hear me. Either that or she’s not telling.

At the end of the tunnel is another steel door. Frantically, Nora taps in her code. There’s a noticeable shake in her hands. We stare at the electronic lock, waiting anxiously for the thunk of access. It doesn’t come.

“Try again,” I say.

“I’m trying!” Once again, she enters a code. Again, nothing.

“What’s the problem?” I ask. I’m clenching my fists so hard, my arms are aching.

“Let us out!” Nora shouts, lifting her head.

“Who-?” I follow her gaze to the corner of the ceiling. There’s a small surveillance camera pointed right at us.

“I know you’re watching!” she continues. “Let us out!”

“Nora,” I say, gripping her arm, “maybe we shouldn’t-”

She pushes me away. She’s looking at that camera the same way she looked at the Secret Service our first night out.

“I’m not playing around, asshole. He’s just my boyfriend. Call Harry-he cleared him in.”

Now she’s gambling. Harry may’ve cleared me in, but he certainly doesn’t know we’re running out.

“Can you believe this?” she says to me, forcing a flighty laugh and flipping her hair back. “I’m so embarrassed.” I get the idea. But it takes a superhuman effort to relax my hands and slow my breathing.

“No, don’t sweat it.” I casually rest one arm against the wall. “Same thing happened last time I was in the Gulag.”

It’s a great moment. It’s also fake. That’s probably how it’s always been.

Nora looks at me with a small, appreciative grin, then glances up at the camera. “So? Did you call him?”

Silence. I’m almost faint with the desire to turn and run. Then, out of nowhere-the pop of a churning lock. Nora pulls open the door and lets me out. The camera can’t spot us anymore.

“We’re in the basement of the Treasury Building,” she whispers.

I nod. Next door to the White House.

“You can walk up the parking ramp to East Exec, or take the stairs and leave through Treasury. Either one’ll lead outside.”

I go straight for the stairs. Nora follows. Turning around, I hold my arm up and stop her, keeping her at the threshold of the tunnel.

“What?” she asks.

“Where’re you going?”

She looks at me with the same look she gave my dad when he was hysterical. “I meant what I said. I’m not leaving you, Michael. Not after all this.”

For the first time since we started running, my eye stops twitching. “Nora, you don’t have to-”

“Yes. I do.”

I shake my head. “You don’t, Nora. And while I appreciate the offer, we both know what’ll happen. If you’re caught running around with the press’s main suspect… ”

“I don’t care,” she blurts. “For once, it’s worth it.”

Stepping in close, I try to force her back toward the door. She doesn’t budge. “Please, Nora, it’s no time to be stupid.”

“So now it’s stupid to want to help?”

“No, it’s stupid to shoot yourself in both feet. The moment the press puts us together, they’re going to leap for your throat. On every page one. Above every fold. ‘First Daughter Linked to Murder Suspect.’ It’ll make your Rolling Stone story look like the back page of People magazine.”

“But-”

“Please-for once-don’t argue. Right now, the best thing I can do is lay low. If you’re around… it’ll be impossible, Nora. At least this way, we’re both safe.”

“You really think you’re safe?”

I don’t answer.

“Please be careful, Michael.”

I smile and head for the stairs. Hearing her like that… it’s not easy to leave.

“So where’re you going?” she calls out.

I freeze. My eyes narrow. And slowly, I turn around. Behind her, the outside of the reinforced steel door is disguised to look like an ordinary exit. The whole thing’s an illusion. “I’ll tell you when I get there,” I reply. With nothing left to say, I turn away and start walking. Then jogging.

“Michael, what about-”

Then running. Keep going. Don’t look back. Behind me, I hear her calling my name. I let it roll off.

Bounding upstairs two at a time, I race up the interior stairwell of the Treasury Building. Nora’s voice has all but faded away and the only thing I’m focused on is the small black-and-white sign that reads “Exit-Lobby Level.” Approaching the door, I want to kick it open and make a mad dash out the front. But, afraid of the attention, I inch it open and peek out-just enough to figure out where the hell I am. Down the hall in front of me is a metal detector and a sign-in desk. Behind the desk, with their backs to me, are a pair of uniformed Secret Service. Damn-how am I going to get through-Wait-I don’t have to get through anything. I’m already in. All I have to do is leave.

Stepping out of the stairwell, I lift my shoulders, stuff confidence into my posture, and move firmly toward the turnstile at the exit. As I get closer, the officers are checking IDs and clearing in visitors. Neither of them has noticed me.

I’m less than ten feet from the turnstile. Do I need to swipe my ID to get out? Studying the woman in front of me, I don’t think so. I step into the turnstile, but just as the metal bar presses against my waist, the officer closest to me turns my way. I force a smile and give him a two-fingered salute. “Have a good one,” I add.

He nods back without a word. But he’s still staring. As I pass through the turnstile, I feel his eyes on the back of my head. Ignore him. Don’t panic. Only a few more steps to the glass door that leads outside. Almost there. A little farther. Across the street, I see the white-and-gold entrance of the Old Ebbitt Grill. This is it. If he’s going to stop me, it’s going to be in the next five seconds. Four. Three. I lean into the door