Annum Guard: Blackout Part 29

"No," I say, dragging out the word. "I have business to attend to."

The driver raises an eyebrow. "What's a girl like you-"

"Stop right there." That's what really drives me crazy about the sixties. The s.e.xism, the condescension, the way everyone's a.s.sumption is that I'm just a dumb little girl who needs help or guidance. "It's really not your place or your right to ask why I'm in Was.h.i.+ngton." I press my lips together and meet his stare. "Why aren't you driving yet?"

He tosses his hands in the air in mock surrender and s.h.i.+fts the car into drive. We pa.s.s a movie theater. There's a poster advertising the recent release of Cleopatra. Liz Taylor is looking at me with expertly painted cat eyes. The whole look is smoldering and intense, and now I miss Yellow.

A little while later, we're on Pennsylvania Avenue.

"Where would you like me to drop you, your highness? Are they expecting you at the gate?"

"This is fine," I tell him. We're about a block away.

The cab driver doesn't argue. He pulls over. I pay the fare and hop out. He's shaking his head as he drives away. I turn toward the White House.

The crisis is like a dark, heavy cloud that hangs in the air with no breeze to blow it away. Two men hustle by me, and I catch one of them whispering about retaliation. The next group that pa.s.ses me murmurs something about an ExComm. I push past a woman saying something about the Kremlin. I try to block it out. Block it all out.

I slow down when I get to the demonstrators. There's a mob of them. Hundreds. On the periphery is a girl with ironed brown hair, wearing black capri pants and a summery white sweater, and holding a sign that reads "Don't Invade Cuba." She looks at me and nods. I bite my lower lip and look past her to a man holding his "Invade Red Cuba Now" sign in front of his head.

Well, glad to see there's some agreement.

I look again. The guy arguing for invasion is vastly outnumbered. There are mothers pus.h.i.+ng babies in strollers, holding signs that say "Negotiation Over Annihilation" and "President Kennedy, Be Careful." I wade through the crowd toward a group of college-age guys. Their black signs with white type say "No War with Cuba" and "Hands Off Cuba" and "Stop Bases, Stop Blockade." Other groups are carrying the American flag.

And in the crowd, wearing a short-sleeved, white dress s.h.i.+rt and high-waisted, pleated pants, is Tyler.

I run in the opposite direction.

There's a line outside the east gate and a sign pointing toward the White House Visitor's Office. Wait, they are still giving tours? I glance at the guards eyeing the protestors, then the yards of tall black gate going all the way around the White House. The tour is my only chance to get inside, so I queue up at the back of the line.

I have no idea if the line is longer or shorter than usual. Frankly, I'm still shocked they haven't canceled the tours.

I'm in line behind an older couple. The husband is talking about Cuba and how they shouldn't be here, and the wife is whining that she hasn't waited seventy years to visit the White House to be thwarted now. Block it out. All of it. The protestors, the supporters, the frightened people on the street, the group of young men in army uniforms shouting for the president to finally strike.

The line moves inch by inch, foot by foot. I shuffle and wait, shuffle and wait, all the while looking over my shoulder. But I don't see Tyler again. Finally, when I'm about seven people from the ticket window, the man inside leans out.

"Sorry, folks, it's noon. We're closed for the rest of the day. You can come back again on Tuesday. We open at ten."

"What?" I shout. "No!"

It's Friday. This mission will be long over by Tuesday.

Everyone in front of me turns to stare, their own grumbling forgotten.

"Please, sir," I beg, pus.h.i.+ng my way up to the window. "This is important. It's for a school a.s.signment."

"Sorry, miss, but we're closed." He starts to slide the window shut, and I reach my hand in to grab it.

"You don't understand. I need to be on this tour. If I'm not, I'll fail." He has no idea how true this is.

The man shakes his head. I keep my right hand on the window and reach into my bra as inconspicuously as I can with my left. It's time to speak the universal language. I pull out a twenty and slide it through the window.

"I can't afford to fail, sir. Please. I'm begging you. Let me on the last tour."

The man looks from me to the money, then back to me again. There's more where that came from. I'll give him whatever it takes. But twenty does it. He slips it into his pocket, and jerks his head toward the group of people about to follow a guide inside. I ignore the protests of the seven people I cut in front of and tear off after the tour.

One step at a time, I tell myself. First, you get inside. Second, you get to the West Wing. Third, you find Ariel. Fourth . . . you'll think of something.

I join the group of twenty or so people inside. It's a mixed bunch. Older married couples, parents with young kids, groups of friends, a few stray loners. And me. I hang in the back, staying as invisible as possible.

Meanwhile, I keep my eyes peeled for anything I can use to get me from the East Wing to the West Wing and for any sign of Tyler. Nothing, so far.

"In here, please," our guide says. He's probably in his mid- to late-sixties, and short, with thin, white hair. There's a proud gleam in his eye that tells me he loves this job. It makes him feel important. That's going to make things harder. I know his type. He lives to micromanage and tell people no.

The guide gestures for us to follow him into a room with a peach-and-white tiled floor, past an enormous bust of President Lincoln. There are framed photographs and portraits on the walls.

"This is the East Garden Room," he says slowly. "I'm sure you noticed the bust of President Lincoln, the work of American sculptor Gutzon Borglum, who is most famous for creating the monumental images of four presidents at Mount Rushmore. You will also find a number of historic photographs on the walls. Please do take a minute to look around."

No, I don't have a minute to look around. I poke my head out of the room and into a long corridor that leads-I get my bearings-west. My heart picks up its pace. There's a group of three men and one woman walking down the corridor, heading toward us. I don't know who they are, but the men are talking fast, and the woman trails behind them, furiously scribbling in a notebook. And then I notice she has some sort of badge clipped to her blouse.

Bingo.

That badge might not get me to the West Wing, but it will get me closer.

I step back into the East Garden Room and pretend to stare at a cl.u.s.ter of pictures on the wall. I'm out of the way now, but that group is going to round the corner and run smack into me in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .

"Oh!" one of the men says as he collides with me. "Uh!" The man right behind him launches a shoulder into his. I stumble backward and think of falling to the floor but decide against it. Even now, half of the people on the tour are looking at me.

The woman rushes forward. "Are you all right?" she asks the men, ignoring me. I stare at her badge. "PRESS" is written on it in large letters. Perfect. So perfect! I pretend to stumble and b.u.mp into her. I put my hands out and knock the notebook to the floor. "Ah!" I cry, and she and I both dive for it. I lean into her, s.n.a.t.c.h the badge, and slip it into my pocket.

Then I step back. "Sorry," I mumble, keeping my head down. "I didn't see you."

The first man who collided with me stands up straight. He gives me one brief nod like he's accepting my completely fake apology. And then they're gone. Through the East Garden Room and away from me.

I shove a hand into my pocket and tighten my fist around the press badge. I can't believe I have it. The tour guide sidles up next to me. "Are you all right?" he asks in his dry monotone.

I keep my eyes on my feet and try to channel Yellow. Naive and innocent. "Is there a restroom nearby I could use? I just want to compose myself a bit."

He points behind me. "But the tour is continuing immediately down the east corridor toward the lower residence floor. We have schedules to keep."

"I'll catch up." I raise my eyes but don't meet his gaze. "Please, sir, I'll only be a minute."

"Very well." Then he looks past me and raises his hands. "This way, please. If you will all follow me, you will notice the windows that look out onto the east garden. The first lady worked with famed designer Rachel Lambert Mellon to landscape the lawn. Take special note of the topiary trees . . ." His voice fades as he leads the group away.

I dash toward the bathroom and pull the press badge out of my pocket. My name is Joanne Mulroney. I'm with Life magazine. Whoa. Life magazine. That was big-time in the 1960s. What if Joanne Mulroney is too high profile, too well known by everyone in the White House?

Then I shake my head. Stop being so pessimistic. This is perfect. I clip the badge to the front of my dress. Then I pinch my cheeks a few times to get some color into them, which makes me look older. I throw back my shoulders and practice a confident smile in the mirror. One that's friendly but a.s.sertive.

I walk down the east corridor into the residence area. My tour has wandered into a room on the left, a room with stark white walls, tons of decorative molding, and several portraits of the first ladies. I turn my face away from the door and speed past, down another long corridor. There are several people around, but after one quick glance at my badge, no one pays me a second look. This thing is magic.

And then suddenly I run into a swarm of reporters. They're all wearing press badges, and they're milling around, waiting for something. I cross my arms over my chest so that only the "PRESS" part of my badge is visible and push my way through. I get a bunch of weird looks, which I understand. I'm the youngest person in this room by at least ten years, and there's only one other woman.

And then we're all ushered into another room, and I instantly recognize it from television. It's the press briefing room. I've made it all the way to the press briefing room! I'm close, so freaking close.

I've only been in this room for about thirty seconds, but already it's clear that journalism in the sixties is a boys' club, which makes me feel really proud of Joanne Mulroney and whoever that woman is in the front, but also makes me way too obvious. I feel eyes on me. Dozens of them. Staring, questioning, trying to figure out who I am. I can feel their gazes penetrating my skin.

Then a tall, thin man with a handsome face struts in, and the room parts to meet him. He's also wearing a press badge. I don't know who he is, but he seems like the prom king of the group.

"Anyone know what this one's about?" he asks. "They finally decide to drop a nuke?" The way he says it-like it's a joke, like this whole situation is a joke-makes me recoil. There's some nervous polite laughter, but I gather most of the reporters feel the same way I do: there is nothing funny about this situation.

There's a shuffling of feet, and everyone scrambles to find a seat as a large man with a wide jaw and thick, black eyebrows enters the room and walks to the podium. The press secretary. I duck my head and slink to the back.

"Good afternoon," the press secretary says. "Earlier this morning, we were able to ascertain that three of the four MRBM sites at San Cristbal and both sites at Sagua la Grande appear to be fully operational."

Every reporter in the room is furiously scribbling. I'm the only one who doesn't even have a notebook. But fortunately, everyone is too busy writing to notice me.

I need to get out of here. And then I look toward the door and see a very young Ariel dart past.

I quickly squeeze my way through two men and out into the hallway. Ariel disappears around a corner. I glance back in the room. All eyes are either on the press secretary or on a notebook. No one cares who I am or where I went.

I hurry after Ariel.

But then I hear a loud voice demand, "Are you from NASA?" I slide to a halt and press my back against the wall.

"I am!" I hear Ariel say. I peek around the corner. Ariel is surrounded by four men. Two are wearing military uniforms. The other two are in suits but are just as intimidating.

"Do you have the cable?" one of them asks. He's wearing an Army uniform with more insignia than I've ever seen-a general, no doubt.

"Right here." Ariel hands over a piece of paper, and the general reads it.

"This has been verified?" the man in the naval uniform asks.

"Yes," Ariel says.

The general nods once. "Follow me." Then the whole group heads toward a staircase leading downstairs.

I have to follow them. I have to know what's going on. But another flash of movement catches my eye. It's a walk I've come to know well. My father's walk. He's heading right toward me.

CHAPTER 30.

There's nowhere to hide. I'm in a long corridor, completely exposed, and I clearly don't belong here. But at the last second, my dad ducks into a room. And then I breathe.

What do I do? Do I try to see what my father is up to, or do I follow Ariel? I can't be in both places at once. h.e.l.l, I don't even know if I can be in one of those places. This press badge has been a golden ticket so far, but for how much longer? Someone is going to catch me eventually, and it's going to take them all of about ten seconds to figure out I'm here with a swiped press badge. The tour guide might have reported me missing by now. Or Joanne might have figured out what happened to her badge. I'm going to wind up in a detention room with some serious explaining to do. What if Tyler makes his way in?

I don't know what to do!

My dad. It has to be my dad. He's the key to finding evidence against Joe Caldwell, and that's why I'm here. To bring down Joe and get everyone back.

And something is telling me that Tyler is trapped outside.

I take a slow breath, then turn my press badge around so it's just a blank white card. Maybe people will a.s.sume I'm the daughter of a congressman or an amba.s.sador whose visitor's badge got turned around. Yellow, I think. Become Yellow. I plant a forced smile on my face that probably makes me look moderately insane, but it's as close to sweet and trusting as I'm going to get.

Another breath, then I round the corner. My smile fades as I run into a woman with deep-auburn hair and a bra that makes her b.o.o.bs look like torpedoes. It's all I can do not to stare at them.

"Who are you?" she asks me, staring at my badge.

"Oh, um . . ." Think! "I'm here with . . ." And then it comes to me. I remember the training mission I went on with Zeta and Indigo, the one where I had to cause a senator to miss a cab. "Senator McCarthy!"

The woman scrunches up her face. "Are you his daughter?"

"His niece. I'm here on an a.s.signment for my school paper. About . . ." I gesture in the air. "You know . . . what's going on."

She glances down at my turned-around badge, and I see her eyes twitch back and forth, like she's figuring out whether to push me further. I s.h.i.+ft from side to side, trying to play up the naive thing.

Finally, she looks up. "How did you get over here? Shouldn't you be in the West Wing reception room?"

"Oh, um, probably." I'm deliberating raising my voice an octave. And I should start making everything sound like it's a question. That will make me sound young and naive, like I'm not a threat. "But I have to go to the bathroom? And I don't know where that is? It's kind of an emergency?"

"Are you here to see anyone in particular?"

"The, um, press secretary?"

Her eyebrow rises an inch. "Mr. Salinger is expecting you?" I can't read her tone. I'll be shocked if she is buying this whole story, but she's not giving anything away.

"I've already talked to him? But then he got called away to do a briefing? I watched some of it. Something about missile sites? But, like I said, I really need a bathroom."

The woman takes a second. Then another second. Then she points down the hallway. "Down there, on the right."

"Thank you!" The enthusiasm in my voice isn't fake at all.

I walk down the hallway, and it's not until I've gone ten feet that I hear the woman's footsteps start again. I pa.s.s by the room where my dad is. The door is open. He's there with three other men. They're just settling into chairs, like a meeting is about to start. I turn my head. The woman is gone, so I stop. Now what?

At Peel, they taught us confidence is everything. Act like you belong, and you have a better chance of not getting caught. It's human nature to trust that everything is as it should be. Our brains actually go out of their way to explain the abnormal, to try to make it fit within the parameters of our normal routine.

It's definitely time to drop the stupid schoolgirl act and get back to the "h.e.l.l yes, I belong here" act.

There's a secretary pool several yards up. At least twenty secretaries are cl.u.s.tered at desks in the center of the room. Their heads are down and their fingers are rapidly firing against typewriter keys. Clack clack clack clack clack. I didn't think it was possible for anyone's fingers to move that fast. I rip the press badge from my dress and stash it in my pocket. Then I wander over.

One looks up at me, a girl in her early twenties. I give her a tight-lipped smile, and she returns it. So I test her. She has a stack of papers to the side of her typewriter. Probably a hundred sheets. I reach over and pick them up. She takes her hands off the keyboard. I flip through the first few. I don't bother reading them. I don't care what they say.

"Very well," I tell her. "Carry on." I turn and walk away. And wait for her to call out, to ask who I am and why I've just stolen a stack of papers from her desk. But she doesn't. Her clack-clack-clacking picks right back up.

Human nature. We're all way too trusting.