“Yeah, like copping a plea and serving me up to the FBI.”

“I don’t think so, Michael-it doesn’t make sense. If Simon and Vaughn were working together, and they used your name to sneak Vaughn in, why-when he came in the building-would Vaughn link his own name to the one person he knows is about to look like a murderer?”

Trey looks at me and lets the question sink in. “You think Vaughn got screwed over too?” I ask.

“He may not be a saint, but there’s obviously something we’re missing.”

As we walk, I run my fingertips against the hallway wall. “So the only way to save myself… ”

“… is to jump in with the lions,” Trey says with a nod. “Everything has a price.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

“Me too,” Trey says. “Me too-but as long as you’ve kept your mouth shut, you should be fine.”

Slowly, we turn another corner of the hallway.

“Please tell me you’ve kept your mouth shut,” he adds.

“I have,” I insist.

“So you didn’t tell Pam?”

“Correct.”

“And you didn’t tell Lamb?”

“Correct.”

“And you didn’t tell Nora?”

I wait a millisecond too long.

“I can’t believe you told Nora!” he says, giving me the rub. “Damn, boy, what’re you thinking?”

“Don’t worry-she’s not going to say anything. It only makes things worse for her. Besides, she’s good at this stuff. She’s full of secrets.”

“No crap, she’s full of secrets. That’s the whole point. Silence-good. Full of secrets-bad.”

“Why’re you being so paranoid about her?”

“Because while you’re up in the Residence drooling all over the First Nipples, I’m the only one who’s still planted in reality. And the more I dig, the less I like what I see.”

“What do you mean, ‘dig’?”

“Do you know who I was on the phone with when you walked in? Benny Steiger.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s the guy who shines the mirror under your car when you come in the Southwest Gate. I snuck his sister onto the South Lawn for Fourth of July last year, and since he owes me a solid, I decided to call it in. Anyway, remember that first night when you and Nora were trailing Simon? I had Benny do a little check on the guardhouse records for us. According to him, Nora came home alone that night. On foot.”

“I dropped her off. Big deal.”

“Damn right it’s a big deal. Once you lost the Secret Service in your little car chase, you also lost your alibi.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the single easiest way for Nora to cover her ass. If she wanted to, there’s absolutely nothing preventing her from saying that after you lost the Service, she got out of your car and you went your separate ways.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Think about it, Michael. If it comes down to your word against Simon’s, who’s gonna back up your story? Nora, right? Only problem is, that’s bad news for Daddy. This close to reelection-with our lead barely an eyelash above the margin of error-she’s not going to put him through that. But if she wasn’t there when Simon made the drop-no more problems. You and Simon can scratch each other’s eyes out. Of course, in a catfight, he’ll eat you like tuna.”

“What about the cop who pulled us over? He saw us.”

“C’mon, man, you said it yourself: He pretended not to know her. He’s the last person I’d count on.”

“But for Nora to do all that on purpose… ”

“Riddle me this, Batman: When you got back to the Southeast Gate, why didn’t you drive her through?”

“She figured the Service would be mad, so she said I should-”

“Ding, ding, ding! I believe we have a winner! Nora’s suggestion. Nora’s plan. The moment you got busted with the money, her brain was churning its way out of it.” As we turn another corner of the hallway, he lets the argument sink in. “I’m not saying she’s out to get you; I’m just saying she’s got her eye on number one. No offense to your love life, but maybe you should too.”

“So even though they haven’t classified it as a murder, I should screw her over and turn myself in?”

“It’s not such a terrible idea. When it comes to a crisis, it’s always better to get in front of it.”

I stop where I am and think about what he’s saying. All I have to do is give up. On myself. On Nora. On everything. My mother taught me better than that. And so did my dad. “I can’t. It’s not right. She wouldn’t do that to me-I can’t do that to her.”

“Can’t do that to… Aw, jeez, Michael, don’t tell me you’re in l-”

“I’m not in love with her,” I insist. “It’s just not the right time. Like you said, the meeting’s this afternoon. I’m too close.”

“Too close to what?” Trey calls out as I head back to the stairs. “Vaughn or Nora?”

I let the question hang in the air. It’s not something I want to answer.

As I walk from the White House to the Holocaust Museum, the sun is shining, the humidity’s gone, and the sky is the brightest of blues. I hate the calm before the storm. Still, it’s the perfect day for a long lunch, which is exactly the message I worked into my conversation with Simon’s secretary.

According to Judy, Simon’s got a luncheon up on the Hill in Senator McNider’s office. To be safe, I called and confirmed it myself. Then I did the same with Adenauer. When his secretary wouldn’t tell me where he was, I told her that I had some important information and that I’d call back at one-thirty. A half hour from now. I don’t know if it’ll work, but all it needs to do is slow him down. Keep him by the phone. And away from me.

Yet despite all my planning, as I let the loose change in my pocket roll through my fingers, I can’t stop my hand from shaking. Every lingering glance is a reporter; every person I pass is the FBI. The ten-minute trip is a complete nightmare. Then I reach the Holocaust Museum.

“I have a reservation,” I tell the woman at the ticket desk inside the entrance. She has tiny brown eyes and giant brown glasses, enhancing all the worst of her physical features.

“Your name?” she asks.

“Tony Manero.”

“Here you go,” she says, handing me a ticket. Entrance time: one o’clock. Two minutes from now.

I turn around and scan the lobby. The only people who don’t look suspicious are the two mothers yelling at their kids. As I walk toward the elevators, I steal Nora’s best trick and pull my baseball cap down over my eyes.

Outside the elevators, a small group of tourists hovers in front of the doors, anxious to get started. I stay toward the back, watching the crowd. As we wait for the elevators to arrive, more people fill in behind me. I stand on my tiptoes, trying to get a better view. This shouldn’t be taking so long. Something’s wrong.

Around me, the crowd’s getting restless. No one’s shoving, but elbow room is dwindling. A heavyset man in a blue windbreaker brushes against me, and I jerk my arm out of the way, accidentally elbowing the teenage girl behind me. “Sorry,” I tell her.

“No worries,” she says in a hushed tone. Her dad nods awkwardly. So does the woman next to her. There’re too many people to keep track of. Space is getting tight.

The worst part is, they’re still letting people into the museum. We’re all pushed forward in a human tide. Frantically, I search the crowd, scrutinizing every face. It’s too much. I feel myself burning up. It’s getting harder to breathe. The raw-brick walls are closing in. I’m trying to focus on the elevator’s dark steel doors and their exposed gray bolts, as if that’ll provide any relief.

Finally, a bell rings as the elevator arrives. It’s as heavy-handed as they come, but the elevator operator says it best: “Welcome to the Holocaust Museum.”