I look around the apartment, studying its details. My desk. The rented furniture. The posters. It all looks the same, but something’s different. For no reason whatsoever, my eyes focus on the black leather couch. The two beige throw-pillows are exactly where I left them. The middle cushion still bears the imprint from where I watched TV last night. A single bead of sweat runs down the back of my neck. Without the air conditioner, the room is stifling. I look back at the name in the note. P. Vaughn. P. Vaughn. The faucet’s still dripping.

I step out of my shoes and take off my shirt. Best thing to do is lose myself in a shower. Clean up. Start over. But as I head to the bathroom, I notice, right by the edge of the couch, the pen that’s sitting on the floor. Not just any pen-my red-white-and-blue-striped White House pen. With a tiny presidential seal and the words “The White House” emblazed in gold letters, the pen was a gift during my first week at work. Everyone has one, but that doesn’t mean I don’t treasure it-which is exactly why I wouldn’t leave it on the floor. Once again looking around, I don’t see anything out of place. It could’ve just fallen from the coffee table. But as I reach down to pick it up, I hear a noise from the hall closet.

It’s not anything loud-just a quiet click. Like the flick of two fingers. Or someone shifting their weight. I spin around, watching for movement. Nothing happens. I put on my shirt and stuff my pen in my pocket, as if that’s going to help. Still nothing. The apartment is so quiet, I notice the sound of my own breathing.

Slowly, I move toward the closet door. It’s barely ajar. I feel the adrenaline rushing. There’s only one way to deal with this. Time to stop being a victim. Before I can talk myself out of it, I race at the door, ramming it shoulder first. The door slams shut and I grab the handle with everything in me.

“Who the hell are you?” I scream in my most intimidating voice.

With my weight against the door, I’m braced for impact. But no one fights back. “Answer me,” I warn.

Once again, the apartment’s silent.

Looking over my shoulder, I peer into the kitchen. A wooden block full of knives is on the counter. “I’m opening the door, and I have a knife!”

Silence.

“This is it-come out slowly! On three! One… two… ” I pull open the door and race for the kitchen. By the time I turn around, there’s a six-inch steak knife in my hand. The only thing I see, though, is a closetful of coats.

Wielding the knife in front of me, I take a step toward the closet. “Hello?” In a teen slasher pic, this is the moment when the killer jumps out. It doesn’t stop me.

Slowly, I pick my way through the rack of coats. When I’m done, though, I realize the truth: No one’s there.

My shirt now pressed with sweat against my chest, I return the knife to the kitchen and turn the air-conditioning back on. Just as the hum returns, I hit the play button on the answering machine. Time to get rid of the silence.

“You have one message,” the machine tells me in its mechanical voice. “Saturday, one-fifty-seven

P.M.”

A second passes before a man’s voice begins, “Michael, this is Randall Adenauer with the FBI. We have an appointment on Tuesday, but I’d like to send some officers over tomorr-” He stops, distracted. “Then tell them I’ll call him back!” he shouts, sounding like he’s covering the receiver. Turning back to the phone, he adds, “I apologize, Michael. Please give me a call.”

Pulling the White House pen from my pocket, I jot down his number and breathe a quick sigh of relief. He sent them over-that’s who it was-gold chains or not, that must’ve been who Joel was talking to. FBI Agent Vaughn. I hit Erase on the answering machine and walk back to my bedroom. When I reach my nightstand, I stop dead in my tracks. There it is, on top of yesterday’s crossword puzzle-a red-white-and-blue-striped pen with the words “The White House” emblazed on it. I look down at the pen in my hand. Then back at the one on my nightstand. Rewinding twenty-four hours, I think about Pam’s visit with the Thai food. It could easily be Pam’s, I tell myself. Please let it be Pam’s.

Early Monday morning, on Labor Day, I’m sitting in the back row of a passenger van, still trying to convince myself that an FBI agent would communicate by sliding a note under my door. P. Vaughn. Peter Vaughn? Phillip Vaughn? Who the hell is this guy?

Driven by a sergeant in a gray sportcoat and a thin black tie, the van thunders down the highway, following the two identical vans in front of it. Sitting next to me is Pam, who hasn’t said a word since our six A.M. pickup in West Exec parking. The remaining eleven passengers are following her lead. It’s a minor miracle, really: thirteen White House lawyers packed in a van and no one’s bragging, much less talking. But it’s not just the early hour that’s keeping everyone quiet. It’s our destination. Today we bury one of our own.

Twenty minutes later, at Andrews Air Force Base, we check in with a uniformed guard at the gatehouse. At barely half past six, the sky’s still dark, but everyone’s wide awake. We’re almost there. It’s my first time on a military base, so I expect to see platoons of young men marching and jogging in step. Instead, as we weave across the winding paved road, all I can make out are a few low-lying buildings that I assume are barracks and a wide-open parking lot with tons of cars and a few scattered military jeeps. At the far end of the road, the van finally stops at the Distinguished Visitors Lounge, a mundane one-story brick building that evokes all the creativity of a 1950s sneeze.

Once inside, just about everyone strolls up to the wide glass window that overlooks the runway. They’re trying to look nonchalant, but they’re too anxious to pull it off. You can see it in the way they move. Like a kid sneaking an early peek at his birthday presents. What’s the big deal? I ask myself. For the answer, I head straight for the window, prepared to be unimpressed. Then I see it. The words “United States of America” are printed in enormous black letters across its blue and white body, and a huge American flag is painted on its tail. It’s the biggest plane I’ve ever seen. And we’re riding it to Minnesota for Caroline’s funeral: Air Force One.

“Have you seen it?” I ask Pam, who’s sitting alone on a bench in the corner of the room.

“No, I… ”

“Go to the window. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed. It’s like a pregnant 747.”

“Michael… ”

“I know-I sound like a tourist-but that’s not always such a bad thing. Sometimes you have to pull out the camera, put on the Hard Rock T-shirt, and let it all hang-”

“We’re not tourists,” she growls, her frozen glare stabbing me in the chest. “We’re going to a funeral.” As usual, she’s right.

I step back to stop myself. Head to toe, I feel about two feet tall. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, refusing to face me. “Just tell me when it’s time to go.”

At a quarter to seven, they lead us out to the plane, where we line up single file. Dark suit, leather briefcase. Dark suit, leather briefcase. Dark suit, leather briefcase. One behind the other, the message is clear: It’s a funeral, but at least we’ll get some work done. I look down at my own briefcase and wish I’d never picked it up. Then I look over at Pam. She’s carrying nothing but a small black purse.

At the front of the line, by the base of the stairs that lead up to the plane, is the Secret Service agent who checks each of our names and credentials. Next to the agent is Simon. Dressed in a black suit and a the-President-wore-one-a-few-weeks-ago silver tie, he greets each of us as we arrive. It’s not often the Counsel gets to run such a public show, and from the dumb look on his face, he’s basking in the glory. You can see it in the way he puffs out his chest. As the line moves forward, Simon and I finally make eye contact. The moment he sees me, he turns around and walks over to his secretary, who’s standing a few feet away, clipboard in hand.