The First Counsel by Brad Meltzer

at this," the Asian woman says from behind the desk.
    Adenauer gets up and heads for the safe. The woman pulls out a manila envelope. She turns it upside down and the contents tumble onto the desk. One. Two. Three stacks of cash. Hundred dollar bills. Each stack wrapped in a First of America billfold.
    I do everything in my power to look surprised, and to my credit, I think I actually get away with it. But deep down, as I stare at the three piles of cash that Nora left behind, I know this is just the beginning.

    Chapter 8
    Two hours of questioning later, I'm walking back to my office with a ruthless migraine and a throbbing pain at the base of my neck. I still can't believe Caroline had the money. Why would she . . . I mean, if she's got that . . . does that mean she was also in the woods? Or did she just pick it up later? Is that why she went after Simon at the morning meeting--because it was ten grand short? My mind tumbles through explanations, searching for the corner pieces of the puzzle. I can barely find an edge.
    Around me, the hallways are almost completely empty, and as I pass every door, I can hear the faint echoes of dozens of televisions. Usually, the televisions in the OEOB run with the sound off. With news like this, everyone's listening.
    The reaction is typical White House. As a former Clinton advisor explained to me years ago, the power structure of the White House is similar to a game of soccer played by ten-year-olds. You can assign everyone to a position, and you can demand that everyone stay where they're supposed to be, but the moment the game starts, every person on the field abandons their post and runs for the ball.
    Case in point: the empty halls of the OEOB. Even before I check in with Trey, I know what's going on. The President is demanding information, which means the Chief of Staff is demanding information, which means the top advisors are demanding information, which means the press is demanding information. From there, everyone else is searching--calling one another and every other connection they can think of--trying to be the first one to reel in the answers. In a hierarchy where most of us are paid similar government salaries, the currency of choice is access and influence. Information is the key to both.
    Every other crisis is put on hold as the kids desperately chase the ball. Under any other set of circumstances, I'd be right along with them. Today, though, as I return to my office, I can't help but think that the ball is me.
    Closing the door behind myself, I turn on the squawk box, then head straight for the TV, where every network with a press pass is live from the White House. To double-check, I glance out the window and see the line of reporters doing stand-ups on the northwest corner of the lawn.
    Panicking, I pick up the phone and dial Nora's number. The toaster says she's still in the Residence, but again, there's no answer. I need to know what's going on. I need Trey.
    "Michael, this isn't exactly a good time," he says as he answers the phone. In the background, I hear what sounds like a roomful of people and the nonstop ringing of phones. It's a bad day to be a press secretary.
    "Just tell me what's happening," I plead. "What do you have?"
    "Rumors are it's a heart attack, though the FBI isn't putting anything out there until two. The first officer on the scene gave us most of it--says there were no external wounds and nothing suspicious." As Trey continues his explanation, his phone doesn't stop ringing. "You should see this guy--typical uniform division--begging for attention, then pretending he doesn't want to talk."
    "So I'm not the ball?"
    "Why would you be the ball?"
    "Because I was the one who found her."
    "So that's confirmed? We heard a rumor, but I figured you'd call me if--Jami, listen to this: I got the . . ."
    "Trey, shut up!" I shout as loud as I can.
    ". . . the best gossip about Martin Van Buren. Did you know they used to make fun of him for wearing corsets?