The First Councel

Without even thinking, I look up at the dozens of gray windows on this end of the enormous building. Every one of them appears to be empty, but they’re all somehow staring down at me like square magnifying lenses. My eyes flick across the panes of glass, searching for a friendly face. No one’s there.

Inside the building, it doesn’t take me long to reach the anteroom that leads to my office. Opening the door, though, I’m surprised to see that the lights are already on. I didn’t see Julian’s car on State Place, and Pam told me she was going to be working from home. The office should be dark. Putting the blame on a careless cleaning crew, I snake my arm behind the tallest of our file cabinets to flip off the silent alarm. But as I braille my way along the plaster, I don’t like what I find. The alarm’s already been turned off.

“Pam?” I call out. “Julian? Are you there?” No one answers.

Under Pam’s door, I notice that the light is on. “Pam, are you there?” Just as I turn toward her office, I notice that the three stackable plastic file-trays that serve as our mailboxes are all full. Next to the table, the coffeemaker is off. I’m about to open her door when I freeze. I know my friend. Whoever’s in there, it’s not Pam.

I rush toward my office, push the door open, and dart inside. Spinning around, I grab the deadbolt and lock it. That’s when it hits me. I shouldn’t have been able to open my door. It’s supposed to be locked.

Behind me, something moves by the sofa. Then by my desk. A creak of vinyl. A pencil rolling down a keyboard. They’re not in Pam’s office. They’re in mine.

I turn around, struggling to catch my breath. It’s too late. There are two men waiting for me. Both of them head my way. I turn back to the door, but it’s locked. My hands are shaking as I lunge for the deadbolt.

A fist comes down and pounds me in the knuckles. My hands still don’t leave the deadbolt. Clutching. Clawing. Anything to get out.

Over my shoulder, a fat, meaty hand covers my mouth. I try to scream, but his grip’s too tight. The tips of his fingers dig into my jaw, his nails scratching my cheek.

“Don’t fight it,” he warns. “This’ll only take a second.”

CHAPTER 10

Where the hell are we going?” I ask as we head up the hallway. On Saturday, the place is near-empty. The two men are holding me tightly by the back of my arms and forcing me toward the West Exec exit.

“Stop complaining,” the one on my right says. He’s a tall black man with a neck as thick as my thigh. From his posture and build, I’m assuming Secret Service, but he’s not dressed the part-too casual, not enough polish. And there’s no microphone in his ear. More important, they didn’t identify themselves-which means these guys aren’t who I thought they were.

Skittishly, I try to jerk my arm free. Annoyed, he squeezes even harder and jabs two fingers into my biceps. It hurts like a son of a bitch, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of crying out. Instead, I bite down as hard as I can. He keeps digging, and I feel my face flush red. I can’t keep it up much longer. My shoulder starts to go numb. From the smug grin on his face, he’s definitely enjoying himself. His pleasure; my pain. “Ow!” I shout as he eventually lets go. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He doesn’t respond. He just pushes the door open and forces me out into West Exec parking. Trying not to panic, I tell myself that nothing bad can happen as long as we’re in the West Wing-security’s too high. Before I can relax, though, a sharp tug to the left lets me know that the West Wing isn’t on the itinerary. Crossing toward the north side of the White House, we head past the briefing room and toward the tradesmen’s entrance, where most of the mansion’s deliveries are made. My eyes are focused on the large yellow van that’s straight ahead. There should be workmen around, but I don’t see any. We get closer to the van. The back doors are wide open. I stop walking and start backtracking. My arms thrash to break free. I’m not letting them put me in there.

My escorts tighten their grip and drag me forward. My shoes scrape hopelessly against the concrete. My arms are held in place. As hard as I fight, it’s no use. They’re too strong. “Almost there,” one of them warns. With one last tug, we’re right behind the van. It’s empty inside. I’m about to scream. And just like that, they shove me to the right and we’re past it. I look over my shoulder and the van fades behind me. Then I look back and realize our real destination. The tradesmen’s entrance. I’m not sure which is worse.

Inside the building, they throw a knowing nod to the uniformed officer who guards the door. When he lets us pass, it becomes clear that these guys are doing someone a favor. Only Lamb and Simon have that kind of power.

The hallway is cluttered with dozens of empty crates and boxes. The smell of fresh flowers from the White House florist fills the air.