The First Councel

“So where’re you going now? Victory party?”

“I’m late for Vaughn.”

Getting up from his seat, Trey starts to follow. “Are you sure you don’t want me to-”

“No. Not with the FBI watching.”

Trey’s eyes narrow.

“What?” I ask. “Now you don’t think I should go?”

“No, but after what happened at the museum, I just think you should have some backup.”

“I appreciate you offering, but… no… no way.” I’m not putting him at risk. As I say the words, he’s got an annoyed, almost hurt look on his face. I’ve known him long enough to know what he’s thinking. “You think I’m out of my league, don’t you?”

“You want to know what I think?” He slaps his palm flat against my desk. Then he flips his hand, so his knuckles hit the desk. Then back to his palm. Then back to his knuckles. Palm, knuckles, palm, knuckles, palm, knuckles. “Fish out of water.”

“Thanks for the wonderful mime imitation, but I’ll be fine.”

“What if it’s an ambush? You’re out there all by yourself.”

“It’s not an ambush,” I insist as I pull open the door. “I have a good feeling about this one.”

***

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.

***