The First Counsel Read Online Free PDF Page A

Counsel’s birthday party—all of them White House staff events. At the first, we were introduced; at the second, we spoke; at the third, she asked me out. I think there’re only ten people on this planet who would’ve refused the offer. I’m not one of them. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for the magnifying glass. As I’ve seen so many times before, the moment you hit that glare of publicity is the exact same moment they burn your ass.
    I look back at my watch. It’s almost a quarter to twelve. “So that means you have an hour and a half until you become the pumpkin.”
    “Actually, you’re the one who becomes the pumpkin.”
    She’s right about that one. They’ll eat me alive.
    “Still worried about your job?” she asks.
    “No,” I say, my eyes locked on Simon’s car. “Just my boss.”
    Simon puts on his blinker, makes a left-hand turn, and weaves his way onto Rock Creek Parkway, whose wooded embankments and tree-shaded trails have favorite-path status among D.C. joggers and bike riders. At rush hour, Rock Creek Parkway is swarming with commuters racing back to the suburbs. Right now, it’s dead-empty—which means Simon can spot us easily.
    “Shut off the lights,” Nora says. I take her suggestion andlean forward, straining to see the now barely visible road. Right away, the darkness leaves an eerie pit in my stomach.
    “I say we just forget it and—”
    “Are you really that much of a coward?” Nora asks.
    “This has nothing to do with cowardice. It just doesn’t make any sense to play private eye.”
    “Michael, I told you before, this isn’t a game to me—we’re not playing anything.”
    “Sure we are. We’re—”
    “Stop the car!” she shouts. Up ahead, I see Simon’s brake lights go on. “Stop the car! He’s slowing down!”
    Sure enough, Simon pulls off the right-hand side of the road and comes to a complete stop. We’re about a hundred feet behind him, but the curve of the road keeps us out of his line of vision. If he looks in his rearview mirror, he’ll see nothing but empty parkway.
    “Shut the car off! If he hears us . . .” I turn off the ignition and am surprised by the utter silence. It’s one of those moments that sound like you’re underwater. Staring at Simon’s car, we float there helplessly, waiting for something to happen. A car blows by in the opposite direction and snaps us back to the shore.
    “Maybe he has a flat tire or—”
    “Shhhhh!”
    We both squint to see what’s going on. He’s not too far from a nearby lamppost, but it still takes a minute for our eyes to adjust to the dark.
    “Was there anyone in the car with him?” I ask.
    “He looked alone to me, but if the guy was lying across the seat . . .”
    Nora’s hypothesis is interrupted when Simon opens his door. Without even thinking about it, I hold my breath. Again, we’re underwater. My eyes are locked on the little white light that I can see through the back window of his car. In silhouette, hefidgets with something in the passenger seat. Then he gets out of the car.
    When you stand face-to-face with Edgar Simon, you can’t miss how big he is. Not in height, but in presence. Like many White House higher-ups, his voice is charged with the confidence of success, but unlike his peers, who’re always raging over the latest crisis, Simon exudes a calmness honed by years of advising a President. That unshakable composure runs from his ironing-board shoulders, to his always-strong handshake, to the perfect part in his perfectly shaded salt-and-pepper hair. A hundred feet in front of us, though, all of that is lost in silhouette.
    Standing next to his car, he’s holding a thin package that looks like a manila envelope. He looks down at it, then slams the door shut. When the door closes, the loss of the light makes it even harder to see. Simon turns toward the wooded area on the side of the road, steps over the metal guardrail, and heads up the embankment.
    “A bathroom stop?” I