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 theawning 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?”
That’s the true beauty of Pam. Guerrilla honesty. Glancing at the tiny video camera in the corner, I reply, “I’ll tell you later.”
She looks up and falls silent. A second later, the elevator doors open.
The second floor of the West Wing houses some of the best high-powered offices, including the First Lady’s personal office and the one immediately on my right—the last place I want to be right now: our destination—the office of Edgar Simon, Counsel to the President.
CHAPTER 4
R acing through the already-open double doors and the waiting area where Simon’s assistant sits, Pam and I make a sharp right into Simon’s office. Hoping to sneak in quietly, I check to see if . . .
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 theawning 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?”
That’s the true beauty of Pam. Guerrilla honesty. Glancing at the tiny video camera in the corner, I reply, “I’ll tell you later.”
She looks up and falls silent. A second later, the elevator doors open.
The second floor of the West Wing houses some of the best high-powered offices, including the First Lady’s personal office and the one immediately on my right—the last place I want to be right now: our destination—the office of Edgar Simon, Counsel to the President.
CHAPTER 4
R acing through the already-open double doors and the waiting area where Simon’s assistant sits, Pam and I make a sharp right into Simon’s office. Hoping to sneak in quietly, I check to see if . . .
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