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.Sherman.Including Utah’s.Now is there anything else, because I really should run.”“As long as you put the names throu—”“I cleared everyone in,” I say, watching Pam continue to smolder.“Now you have a good day, Mrs.Sherman.I’ll see you on the—”“Don’t try and chase me off the phone, young man.You may be big and famous, but you’re still Mikey G.to me.”“Yes, ma’am.Sorry about that.” The Midwest dies hard.“And how’s your father doing? Any word from him?”I stare at the request for Simon’s financial disclosure forms.“Just the usual.Not much to report.”“Well, please send him my best when you see him,” she says.“Oh, and Michael, one last thing.”“Yeah?”“We really are proud of you here.”It’s easy, but the compliment still makes me smile.“Thank you, Mrs.Sherman.” Hanging up the phone, I turn to my computer screen.“Who was that?” Pam asks.“My past,” I explain as I find Mrs.Sherman’s list.Her school trip was the first time I ever left Michigan.The plane ride alone made the world a bigger place.“Can’t you do that la—”“No,” I insist.“I’m doing it now.” Double-clicking on the WAVES folder, I open up a blank request form for the Worker and Visitor Entrance System.Before visitors are allowed in either the OEOB or the White House, they first have to be cleared through WAVES.One by one, I type in the names, birthdates, and Social Security numbers of Mrs.Sherman and her sixth-grade class.When I’m finished, I add the date, time, and place of our meeting, and then hit the Send button.On my screen, a rectangular box appears: “Your WAVES Visitor Request has been sent to the US Secret Service for processing.”“You finally ready to rejoin the discussion?” Pam asks.I look at my watch and realize I’m late.Hopping out of my seat, I reply, “When I get back.”“Where’re you going?”“Adenauer wants to see me.”“The guy from the FBI? What’s he want?”“I don’t know,” I say as I head for the door.“But if the FBI finds out what’s going on and this thing goes public, Edgar Simon’s going to be the least of my worries.”• • •I walk into the West Wing with my mind focused on Mrs.Sherman’s school trip.It’s a cerebral dodge that I hope’ll keep me from panicking about Adenauer and whether or not it’s a heart attack.The problem is, the more I think about sixth-graders, the more I worry I won’t be here to give the tour.Approaching the guard’s desk at the first security checkpoint, I’m dying for a friendly face.“Hey, Phil.”He looks up and nods.Nothing else to say.I watch him as I pass, but he still doesn’t give me a syllable.It’s like the guard outside the parking lot.The more the FBI gets involved, the more strange looks I get.Trying not to think about it, I pass Phil, make a sharp right, and head down a short flight of stairs.After another quick right, I find myself standing outside the Sit Room.The regular haunt of National Security Council bigwigs, the Situation Room is the most secure location in the White House complex.One rumor holds that as you pass through the door, you’re bathed in a thin band of invisible laser light that scans your body for chemical weaponry.Stepping inside, I don’t believe a word of it.We’re good, but we’re not that good.“I’m looking for Randall Adenauer,” I explain to the first receptionist I see.“And your name?” she asks, checking her scheduling book.“Michael Garrick.”She looks up, startled.“Oh.Mr.Garrick.right this way.”My stomach drops out from under me.I lock my jaw to slow my breathing and follow the receptionist to what I assume will be one of the small peripheral offices.Instead, we stop at the closed door of the main conference room.Another bad sign.Rather than bringing me to the FBI’s fifth-floor office in the OEOB, he’s got me in the most secure room in the complex.It’s where Kennedy’s staff weighed in on the Cuban Missile Crisis, and where Reagan’s staff fought viciously over who should be running the country when the President was shot.Set up in here, Adenauer has something serious to hide.The click of a magnetic lock grants me access to the room.I open the door and step inside.Visually, it’s an ordinary conference room: long mahogany table, leather chairs, a few pitchers of water.Technologically speaking, it’s much more.The lining of the room is rumored to keep out everything from infrared spy satellites to electromagnetic surveillance systems that measure telephone, serial, network, or power cable emanations.Whatever’s about to happen, there aren’t going to be any witnesses.When the door closes behind me, I notice the soft humming that pervades the room.Sounds like sitting next to a copier, but it’s actually a white noise generator.If I’m wearing a wiretap or I’m bugged, the noise drowns it out.He’s not taking any chances.“Thanks for coming down,” Adenauer says.He looks different than the last time I saw him.His sandy hair, his slightly off-center jaw—without Caroline’s body in the background, both somehow seem softer.Like before, the top button of his shirt is opened.His tie’s slightly loose.Nothing intimidating
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