The First Councel

Flicking off the TV, I decide to head over to the Dip Room, where Trey’s Dateline opus is getting ready to roll. Whatever else Bartlett’s up to, tonight’s interview is still the biggest game in town. So why watch it on TV when Trey can clear me in to see it in person? Besides, after what Nora said earlier, she can use the support.

From the west end of the Ground Floor Corridor, I see that, as usual, I’m not the only one who had the idea-a small crowd of staffers is already gathering. Going live in the White House is no small task, and the way everyone’s running around, it’s got its usual circus feel. Peering over the shoulder of the guy in front of me, I get my first look at the set.

With the room’s wallpaper-nineteenth-century landscapes of North America-as the warm-fuzzy backdrop, the whole thing’s set up around two sofas and an antique chair. But instead of the cold, wood-back sofa that’s usually in the Dip Room, they’ve replaced it with two plush, comfy sofas that, if memory serves, are from the second floor of the Residence. It’s gotta look like a real family. No one-not the parents, not the kids-sits alone.

Surrounding the makeshift living room are five separate cameras that’re set up in a wide semicircle-the twenty-first-century firing squad. Beyond the cameras, on the other side of the reams of black wiring that zigzag across the floor, the President and Mrs. Hartson are schmoozing with Samantha Stulberg and a stylish, late-thirties woman dressed all in black and wearing a headset. The producer. Hartson lets out a hearty laugh-he’s putting in his final bid to keep the interview on soft focus. I look at my watch and realize they have a full ten minutes to go. This is big for him. If it weren’t, he’d never be down here this early.

In the background, amid the sound people, cameramen, and makeup artists, I spot Trey talking on the phone. Looking anxious and almost panicked, he walks over to Nora’s brother, Christopher, who has taken his seat on the sofa. It’s not until Trey starts whispering in his ear that it hits me. The President, Mrs. Hartson, Christopher, their staff, the TV crew, the producer, the interviewer, the satellite experts… everyone’s here. Everyone but Nora.

Finished with Christopher, Trey gingerly tiptoes behind the First Lady and taps her on the shoulder. As he pulls her aside, I can’t hear what he’s saying. But the First Lady’s face says it all. For one slight, barely noticeable nanosecond, she lapses into a red rage, then-just as quickly-it’s back to a smile. She knows those cameras are on her; there’s a guy with a handheld taping for a local newscast. She has to keep it cool. Still, I can read the growl on her lips from here.

“Find her.”

Holding his head high, Trey walks calmly out of the room, shoving his way past us. No one really pays much attention-they’re all watching POTUS-but as soon as Trey sees me, he shoots me that look. That this-is-gonna-cause-me-sexual-dysfunction-I’m-so-scared look. I leave the crowd and fall in right behind him. The farther he gets down the hallway, the faster he goes.

“Please tell me you know where she is,” he whispers, still in speed walk.

“When was the last time you-”

“She said she was going to the bathroom. No one’s seen her since.”

“So she went to the-”

“That was a half hour ago.”

I stare silently at Trey. As we blow through the doors to the West Colonnade, he starts to run. “Have you checked her room?” I ask.

“That’s who I was on the phone with. The guards by the elevator said she never went upstairs.”

“What about the Service? Have you notified them?”

“Michael, I’m trying to convince a fifteen-person Dateline crew and one hundred million viewers that Hartson and his family are Ozzie-Harriet clones. If I tell the Service, it’ll be a manhunt. Besides, I called my friend at the Southeast Gate-according to him, Nora hasn’t left the grounds.”

“Which means she’s either in the OEOB or on the first two floors of the mansion.”

“Do me a favor and check your office,” Trey says.

“I was just there. She’s not-”

“Just check it!” he hisses, his forehead covered with beads of sweat.

As we enter the West Wing, Trey darts for the Oval. I keep going-taking off for the OEOB and checking my watch. Eight minutes to go. Turning around to run backwards, I ask, “How long is the-”

“There’s a one-minute intro, thirty seconds for credits, and two minutes of B-roll footage from the birthday party.” His voice is shaking. “Michael, you know the numbers. If this turns into a crisis… ”

“We’ll find her,” I say as I start to run. “I promise.”

CHAPTER 27

I throw open the door to the anteroom and it slams into the wall. “Nora? Are you here?”

No answer.

I keep going, flinging open the door to my office. “Nora?” Again there’s no response. I check for myself. Couch, desk, fireplace, couch. Nowhere in sight. Seven minutes to go.