The First Councel

As the line shortens, I wedge my way in the front door. Inside, under the two-story-high ceiling, two uniformed Secret Service officers sit at an elevated welcoming desk and clear visitors into the complex. I try not to let my eye contact linger, but I can’t help staring them down. Did they hear about last night? Without a word, one of them turns to me and nods. I freeze, then quickly relax. Checking the rest of the line, he does the same to the guy behind me. Just a friendly hello, I decide.

Those of us with IDs are waiting for the turnstiles. Once there, I put my briefcase on the X-ray conveyor and press my ID against an electronic eye. Below the eye is a keypad that looks like the keypad on a telephone, but without any numbers. Within seconds, my ID registers, the beep sounds, and ten red numbers light up inside the buttons. Every time someone checks in, the numbers appear in a different order, so if someone’s watching me, they can’t decipher my PIN code. It’s the first line of security to enter the OEOB, and easily the most effective.

After entering my code, I walk through the X-ray machine, which, as always, goes off. “Belt,” I say to the uniformed Secret Service officer.

He runs his handheld metal detector over my belt and confirms my explanation. Every day we do this, and every day he checks. He usually doesn’t give me a second look; today, his gaze hovers for a few seconds too long. “Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah… sure.”

I don’t like the sound of that. Does he know? Did Nora’s crew put the word out?

No, not these guys. Dressed in their white button-down security guard uniforms, the Secret Service agents at the front door of the OEOB are different from the plainclothes agents who protect Nora and the First Family. In the hierarchy of the agents, the two worlds rarely mix. I keep telling myself that as I grab my briefcase from the conveyor belt and head toward my office.

Just as I open the door to Room 170, I see Pam running straight at me. “Turn around-we’re going early,” she shouts, her thin blond hair wisping behind her.

“When did they-”

“Just now.” She grabs me by the arm and spins me around. “Senior Staff went early, so Simon bumped us up. Apparently, he’s got somewhere to be.” Before I can get a word out, she adds, “Now what happened to your forehead?”

“Nothing,” I say, looking at my watch. “What time’s it called for?”

“Three minutes ago,” she answers.

Simultaneously, we both race up the hallway. Lucky for us, we have first-floor offices-which means we also have the shortest walk to the West Wing. And the Oval. To an outsider, it might not seem like much of a perk, but to those of us in the OEOB, it matters. Proximity is all.

As the heels of our shoes slam against the black-and-white checkerboard marble floor, I see the West Exec exit straight ahead. Pulling open one of the double doors, we step outside and cross the closed-off street between the OEOB and the White House. On the other side of the narrow road, we head for the awning that leads to the West Wing and make our way through two more sets of doors. Ahead of us, a uniformed Secret Service officer with buzzed black hair sits at a table and checks the IDs that hang around our necks. If our IDs had an orange background, he’d know we only have access to the OEOB and he’d have to stop us. A blue background means we can go almost anywhere, including the West Wing.

“Hey, Phil,” I say, instinctively slowing down. This is the real test-if word’s out, I’m not getting in.

Phil takes one look at my blue background and smiles. “What’s the rush?”

“Big meetings, big meetings,” I reply calmly. If he knew, he wouldn’t be smiling.

“Someone’s got to save the world,” he says with a nod. “Have a good one now.” At this point, his job is done. Once we’re past him, he’s supposed to let us go. Instead, he pays us the highest compliment. As we turn toward the elevator, he hits a button below his desk and the elevator door on my left opens. When we step inside, he pushes something else and the button for the second floor lights up. He doesn’t do that for just anyone-only for the people he likes. Which means he finally knows who I am. “Thanks!” I shout as the doors close. As I collapse against the back of the elevator, I have to smile. Whatever Simon saw, it’s clear he’s kept his mouth shut. Or better yet, maybe he never knew we were there.

Reading the joy on my face, Pam says, “You love it when Phil does that, don’t you?”

“Who wouldn’t?” I play along.

“I don’t know… people with well-adjusted priorities?”

“You’re just jealous because he doesn’t open it for you.”

“Jealous?” Pam laughs. “He’s a doorman with a gun-you think he has any bearing on your place in the food chain?”

“If he does, I know where I’m going: onward and upward, honey.” I throw in the “honey” just to push Pam’s buttons. She’s too smart to fall for it.

“Speaking of fruitless pandering to the top, how’d your date go last night?”