The First Councel

“I’m sure you don’t, but if she’s tuggin’ your ya-ya, you gotta know where she’s goin’ with it. Which means we better make some time to get together.”

“What about Si-”

“Ten seconds,” he interrupts. “Write this down. A week from Friday. Seven at night. Woodley Park Marriott-Warren Room. Ya got it?”

“Yeah, I-”

“Five seconds. Plenty to spare.”

“But we-”

“See you next Friday, Mikey. It’ll be worth it.” With a click, he’s gone.

Alone in the anteroom, I’m pounded by silence. It doesn’t make any sense. If she… she can’t. There’s no way. With a tight fist, I tap my knuckles against the desk. It can’t be. I hit a little harder. And harder. And harder. I hammer the desk until my knuckles are raw. The middle one’s starting to bleed. Just like Nora’s nose.

Searching for answers, I reread the note I jotted for myself. A week from Friday. Seven P.M. Woodley Park Marriott. Warren Room. I still can’t shake the nausea that’s choking me, but I remember what he told me right before we split up in the movie theater. Always subtract seven. Seven days, seven hours. In the blink of an eye, seven P.M. becomes twelve noon. A week from Friday becomes this Friday. Tomorrow. Noon tomorrow at the Woodley Park Marriott.

The code was all Vaughn’s idea. If the FBI was able to get that close to our meeting at the zoo, it was going to take more than another popcorn kid to buy us some privacy. I take the extra few seconds and scribble in the revised time. Stuffing the handwritten note in my pocket, I dash back to my office-and back to the one person who can answer my questions.

According to the toaster, Nora’s in the Residence, but a quick phone call to her room suggests otherwise. I flip through my copy of the President’s schedule and see why. In fifteen minutes, the First Family is taking off so they can spend all of tomorrow morning at breakfast fund-raisers. New York and New Jersey. Five stops in all, including the overnight. I glance at my watch, then back at the schedule. If I run, I can still catch her. I tear out of my office. I have to know. As I pull the main door open, however, I see someone standing between me and the hallway.

“How’re you doing?” Agent Adenauer asks. “Mind if I come in?”

CHAPTER 29

Why so out of breath?” Adenauer asks as he backs me into the anteroom. “Worried about something?”

“Not at all,” I say with my bravest face.

“What’re you doing here so late?”

“I was going to ask the same thing of you.”

He keeps moving forward, pushing toward my office. I stand my ground in the anteroom.

“So where’re you running to?” he asks.

“Just going to watch the departure. Takeoff’s in ten minutes.”

He studies my answer, annoyed that it came so quick. “Michael, can we sit down for a second?”

“I would, but I’m about to-”

“I’d like to talk about tomorrow.”

He doesn’t blink. “Let’s go,” I say, turning toward my office. I head for my desk; he heads for the couch. I already don’t like it. He’s too comfortable. “So what’s going on with you?” I ask, trying to move us along.

“Nothing,” he says coldly. “I’ve been looking at those files.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“I didn’t realize you were originally pre-med,” he says. “You’re a man of many parts.”

I’m ready to mouth off, but it’s not going to get me anywhere. If I plan to talk him out of going public tomorrow, he’ll need some honesty. “It’s the dream of every kid with sick parents,” I tell him. “Become a doctor; save their lives. Only problem was, I hated every minute of it. I don’t like tests with right answers. Give me an essay any day.”

“Still, you stayed with it until sophomore year-even made it through physiology.”

“What’s your point?”

“No point at all. Just wondering if they ever taught you anything about monoamine oxidase inhibitors.”

“What’re you talking abou-”

“It’s amazing, really,” he interrupts. “You have two medications that separately are harmless. But if you mix them together-well, let’s just say it’s not a good thing.” He’s watching me way too carefully. Here it comes. “Let me give you an example,” he continues. “Let’s pretend you’re a candidate for the antidepressant Quarnil. You tell your psychiatrist you’re feeling bad; he prescribes some, and suddenly you’re feeling better. Problem solved. Of course, as with any drug, you have to read the warning label. And if you read the one on Quarnil, you’ll see that, while you’re taking it, you’re supposed to stay away from all sorts of things: yogurt, beer and wine, pickled herring… and something called pseudoephedrine.”

“Pseudo-what?”

“Funny, that’s what I thought you’d say.” Losing his smile, he adds, “Sudafed, Michael. One of the world’s best-selling decongestants. Mix that with Quarnil and it’ll shut you down faster than an emergency brake on a bullet train. Instant stroke. The strange part is, on the surface it’ll look like a simple heart attack.”

“You’re saying that’s how Caroline died? A mixture of Quarnil and Sudafed?”

“It’s just a theory,” he says unconvincingly.

I give him a look.