by Chris Hauty
She takes her time on the walk home. It had been an emotionally draining day, beginning with the unsettling visit to the Pentagon to see Charlie Hicks and only getting worse with the Metro derailment. Only now does she recall the voice mail on her office phone from Sam McGovern. He called the White House in the late afternoon, following up on their chance meeting at Darlington House. But his voice message barely registered in a day of seemingly unending chaos. Hayley’s mind works in such a peculiar way, her encyclopedic memory like an overstuffed closet. Essential items can become lost in the clutter. In her roundabout way, she only now recalls this effort Sam made to connect with her. Brooding on it, Hayley realizes his call was easily the best thing that happened in an otherwise dreadful day. As she strolls north, Hayley reaches for her phone and dials the number he left in his voice mail.
Sam answers on the second ring.
“How’s it going?” he asks brightly.
“I was on that train, slugger.”
“What? Are you okay?” Sam’s alarm seems authentic.
His concern moves her, an emotion she pushes down. “I’m fine, really. My paramedical training came in handy.”
“Gosh, I wish I could’ve been there to help. Our unit was working a building fire on Twenty-Fifth Street.”
“Honorable mention for being the first person in a long time to say ‘gosh.’ ” She thinks about it for a second. “Maybe ever.”
Sam is undoubtedly secure enough to laugh at himself. “I didn’t even realize I said it.”
“That’s okay. I like it.”
In his embarrassment, the fireman changes the subject.
“Cyber Jihad, huh?”
“If that’s what the TV says.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? Can I see you? Buy you a drink?”
“I’m whipped. Rain check?”
“Sure. Call me when you’re ready. I don’t want to be a pest.”
“You’re not a pest.” After a pause, she says, “I’m glad you called.”
Sam’s inordinately pleased she has said these words. “And I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
They continue talking for a few minutes, relieved that the hard part of just making the first phone call was over. Hayley tells him about the crash and suspicions of a Russian-sponsored cyberattack. He asks questions and never once acts like he knows more than she does. It feels easy, the banter between them. After they make their goodbyes, Hayley is surprised to be standing across the street from her apartment building. Without realizing it, their conversation has carried her the whole walk home. Recognition of her nearly immediate connection with the fireman troubles Hayley. Does she have the time and energy for something resembling a real relationship? For most of her adult life, the deeper state operative has adopted more of a “gun-and-run” romantic strategy. A prospective partner who seems, superficially, at least, to be a normal, well-adjusted man slightly unnerves her. As she crosses the street, approaching the entrance to her building, Hayley decides she won’t call him for at least a week. Better to allow the urgency of this thing between them, whatever it might be, to flatten out and test its durability. If she still has the itch to see Sam McGovern again after a cooling-off period, then maybe there’s something to it.
As Hayley punches the entry code to unlock the door to the building, she hears movement in the darkness to her right and instinctively braces for an attack.
“You look like shit,” a female voice says, without menace.
A young woman, wearing ripped jeans, a James Perse T-shirt, and a Chanel bouclé jacket, steps out from the shadows. Hayley hasn’t seen April Wu in more than two years, not since leaving the Publius training camp in central Oregon. They had a rocky start there, to the extent that Hayley broke April’s finger in a “test your mettle” fight over cafeteria seating. That hostile rivalry quickly evolved into a friendly one. Of the several dozen agent candidates vying for the assignment of the organization’s first operation, the deeper state would select only one. Mission details were unknown at that time. Hayley would eventually learn the truth, of course, but their superiors never informed the other agent candidates of Richard Monroe’s identity as a Russian mole.
Hayley is pleasantly surprised to see her rival from training camp. But she remains guarded, nonetheless. Her orders are clear. The exact nature of her operation at the White House must be withheld from April. Publius wants its agents compartmentalized when it comes to privileged information.
“Maybe I don’t feel like spending half of my annual income on clothes. What the hell are you doing here, April?”
April laughs, incredulous. “Half?” She gestures toward the door. “You mind?”
Hayley privately chides herself. Whatever her deeper state colleague has to say requires privacy. They head inside her building.
* * *
“YOU’VE BEEN IN DC all this time? Why didn’t you contact me? Are you active duty?” Hayley’s questions come rapid-fire. She wants to point out that she thought they were friends and that the army lieutenant’s negligence to visit has hurt her feelings, but she refrains from saying the words.
April isn’t the least bit contrite. “I didn’t know you were here, either. That is, not until I saw your name splayed all over the news after that business at Camp David,” she says, referring to the assassination attempt early in the president’s second year in office. “I don’t think they wanted us just hanging out.”
Hayley nods, in control of her emotions. Some unidentifiable thing about April seems off. What is it? Until she knows the reason for this surprise visit, the less said the better.
“Was that your mission? To protect the president from the… Shady Side cabal?” April asks, mockingly waggling all ten fingers.
“You know I can’t talk about the specifics of my assignment.”
“Well, it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?” It still irks her that their superiors selected Hayley for Publius’s first mission. She could be going to work at the West Wing every day. She could have saved the president’s life.
Hayley asks, “What about you? Are you still in?”
“With Publius? Of course. Not long after you left training camp, they sent us all back into the world. Sleeper agents, I guess you could call us. I went back to where they first found me.”
“Cyber Command?”
April nods. “I like the work. Most of the people there are humongous math nerds, but I can deal with that.”
“Being kind of a nerd yourself.”
“There are worse things,” April says, finishing her beer. Like Hayley, April hasn’t managed to forge much in the way of stable relationships as an adult. Despite relaxing into spontaneous chatter, there is a sense of buying time.
They talk. All the while, Hayley studies April’s every move. What is it about the other woman that nags at her? Hayley has relied on a preternatural instinct for deception all of her life. And those alarm bells clang loudly inside her head.
April stands up from the kitchen table to grab a couple more beers. “You want another, right?”
“Sure.” Hayley watches April go to the refrigerator. As casually as possible, she says, “Weird thing is, I’ve been getting this vibe from Andrew Wilde.”
“Really?” April starts to return to the table with two fresh bottles.
“And whoever he answers to.”
The army lieutenant nods, seemingly intrigued, and starts to sit down again.
“You mind grabbing me the charger? My phone’s almost zeroed out.”
“Sure.” April turns and retreats into the kitchen. She stops in front of the middle drawer, pulls it open, and retrieves the charger.
Returning to the table, she freezes, a stricken look on her face. “Shit.”
Within only a few seconds, April finds herself on the floor, flat on her stomach and right arm wrenched behind her.
Straddling the other woman’s back, Hayley leans down close to April’s ear. “It’s almost as if they don’t trust me.”
“So it was you.”
“Ripping this Chanel jacket won’t necessarily facilitate my cooperation.”
“But it might.”
“Get off me for Christ’s sake. I was only following orders.”
Hayley releases her submission hold and stands up. April also gets to her feet, albeit more slowly.
April sits. She takes a few extra seconds to crack open one beer and then the other, needing the extra moment to compose herself. “The charger fetch was just for confirmation. What gave it away?”
“The things a black balaclava can’t hide.” She points at April’s face. “Your eyes.” Then traces her finger down, the length of the army lieutenant’s body. “The way you carry yourself.”
April shrugs but betrays a measure of defeat. “Like I said, I was only following orders.”
Hayley sits. “The standard defense of concentration camp guards, not good friends.”
“Good? Really?”
Hayley accepts the bottle from April and takes a quick drink. “You didn’t find anything, did you?”
“I also didn’t break anything… of real value.”
“You owe me about fifteen bucks. My laundry money.”
“Fourteen-fifty, to be exact.”
“They tell you why?”
“My instructions were to look for anything weird. Anything out of place.” She shrugs. “Consider it due diligence.”
Hayley ruminates on it for a moment. “These fucking guys.”
“They really don’t trust us, Hayley.”
“Why should I even trust you?”
“Don’t. It’s your choice.”
“Due diligence for what?”
April grins, all of a sudden having a good time. “For joining my team.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cyber Jihad. Publius wants to know who’s behind the cyberattacks and doesn’t trust the administration or IC to provide accurate attribution,” says April, referring to the intelligence community.
Hayley is still trying to wrap her mind around her recruitment by April Wu. “But you’re stationed at Cyber Command, a computer science major from West Point. I’m stuck in an office at the White House and can’t program a microwave oven. How am I supposed to help you?”
“I don’t know, Hayley. Maybe you can tell me,” April says pointedly. The army lieutenant tilts the Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, drains the bottle, and then slams it down again, releasing a loud belch.
“God,” Hayley says, waving a hand in the space between them.
April stands and heads for the door visible through the kitchen doorway.
Hayley jumps to her feet and follows April into the kitchen area. As much as she needs her friend’s expertise to cope with the threat posed by Cyber Jihad, it irks her the way Andrew Wilde has engineered their partnership. “Next time you need to search my place, maybe just ask.”
“What fun would that be?”
The door is shut with an exclamation mark.
Hayley spins on the balls of her feet and marches back into the kitchen, where she left the KryptAll phone in her bag.
She trashes my place, THEN you ask me to back her up?
After Hayley has sent the message, she stares at the phone’s screen and waits for a response from Andrew Wilde. It comes within seconds.
I don’t know whether to be impressed by your skills or disappointed in hers.
Hayley taps out her response. What the hell is going on?
For a long moment, there is no reply from her superior. Then, the phone vibrates with the entirety of Wilde’s message back. Help her but your mission is the priority.
Hayley rears her arm back to throw the device against the wall and barely refrains from doing so. Raised in poverty, she appreciates the value of things.
* * *
TUESDAY, 5:50 A.M. She meets Clare Ryan at Lincoln’s Waffle Shop on Tenth Street. A spring shower releases a near torrent on the street outside, but inside the tidy restaurant, it’s dry and wholly welcoming. To say the place is no-frills is an understatement. Lunch is available for less than five bucks if you don’t mind settling for a not-bad hot dog. The Homeland Security secretary has ordered one of Lincoln’s signature waffles. Hayley makes do with coffee, dry wheat toast, and a hard-boiled egg.
“How the hell do you get through a morning on that?” Clare asks, gesturing toward her companion’s Spartan breakfast.
“I had a big dinner last night.”
“No, you didn’t.” Given the unfolding crisis, Clare knows no one in the West Wing had the time to eat a damn thing yesterday.
“Light eating, light on my toes, ma’am.”
Clare unabashedly digs into her waffle. “What would I know about that?”
Though the cabinet secretary is ten pounds over what would be considered an ideal weight for a woman of her age and body frame, Clare Ryan couldn’t care less. Her well-tailored wool crepe suit, nude kid leather pump, and shoulder strap Tanner Krolle purse are a testament of a woman of a certain means, taste, and achievement. Her self-esteem is secure.
“I’m not going to have any luck getting you to call me Clare, am I?” she asks, happily chewing her first big bite of fried, doughy goodness.
“Not likely, ma’am.”
Clare shrugs. “So I had a fascinating meeting with the NSA director yesterday afternoon, who was nice enough to swing by my office. I don’t think anyone has talked to me like that since the third grade.”
“General Hernandez can be abrupt.”
The cabinet secretary lets loose a sharp laugh. “Abrupt? I love it! I can see how you’ve gotten as far as quickly as you have.”
Clare Ryan was born in 1975 and raised in Santa Cruz, California. Both of her parents were professors at the university and encouraged curiosity, intellectual rigor, and athletics in their only child. An accomplished surfer by the age of eight, Clare spent countless hours in the lineups at Pleasure Point and Steamer Lane. Having a high school boyfriend who worked weekends and summers at Santa Cruz’s boardwalk had its perks. Fifteen-year-old Clare attained local fame by setting an unofficial record for the most continuous rides in a single, twelve-hour day of operation (144) on the Giant Dipper roller coaster. Besides these achievements, Clare was an excellent student with a host of community-minded extracurricular activities. Acceptance by every college submitted an application wasn’t a surprise, nor was her selection as valedictorian at Brown University four years later.
As she embarked on her business career, few obstacles remained in her path for very long. Following a two-year stint at Goldman Sachs, Clare obtained an MBA from Harvard and then resumed her meteoric rise. Recruited by the Boeing Corporation not long after the transfer of its headquarters from Seattle to Chicago in 2001, Clare gravitated toward the company’s defense-oriented division for no other reason than missiles offered the quickest advancement. With typical competence and focus, she was a driving force behind Boeing’s development and manufacture of the SLAM-ER (Standoff Land Attack Missile-Expanded Response) precision-guided, air-launched cruise missile weapon system, an early utilization of terminal phase target acquisition via an onboard computer (DSMAC). Clare’s superiors in the company were not the only folks to take note of her outstanding achievement in the deployment of these tactical weapons.
The War Resistance League, headquartered in London, boasted a global membership of fewer than one hundred people. What the outlaw organization lacked in numbers was more than made up for by the outlandishness of their criminal actions. Mail bombs, sabotage, and kidnappings were all tools employed by WRL in pursuit of its political goals. Fighting fire with fire was the organization’s governing philosophy. A profile of Clare in Forbes magazine, trumpeting her work in the international sale of the Harpoon weapons system, propelled her to the top of the activists’ target list. Snatched from the parking garage of her
condo, Clare was held captive by domestic terrorists—four men and three women—for fifty-one days in a rented farmhouse in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Miles from the closest neighbor and ineptly heated, the ramshackle structure was Clare’s prison until Boeing paid a ransom of $500,000 and took out a full-page advertisement in the New York Times apologizing for the suffering around the world caused by weapons the company had manufactured.
Within a week of Clare Ryan’s release, the FBI captured all seven of the plot’s active perpetrators and arrested a dozen of their supporters. The experience was life altering for the conspiracy’s sole victim. Clare quit Boeing, got her law degree from the University of Chicago Law School, and ran for political office, winning a seat to represent Illinois’s Fourth Congressional District. With an indomitable resolve forged in the crucible of her kidnapping ordeal, Clare dedicated herself to mastering issues of domestic safety. In her third term, she secured the coveted chairmanship of the House Committee on Homeland Security. After Richard Monroe’s election, Representative Ryan was the logical choice for heading up DHS. It seemed a long and twisty journey—from surfing the break at Pleasure Point to cabinet secretary—but also a perfectly logical one. The woman with iron determination running the show at the Department of Homeland Security is the same who secured the record for most consecutive rides on the Santa Cruz boardwalk roller coaster. Clare Ryan knows what she wants and, more crucially, how to get it.
Marriage came later in her life. Not until her first reelection to Congress did Clare truly appreciate the advantage of having a husband. Otto, a successful Georgetown heart surgeon, brought her companionship, an end to the rumors that she was gay, and, at the age of forty-three, a son. With both of them being extremely busy people, their time together has been limited since their earliest days of matrimony. Like many romantic unions of the high-powered, the whiff of a corporate merger permeates the relationship. And after nine years of business, the marriage appears bankrupt. Otto has betrayed a singular lack of imagination by selecting his yoga instructor as a girlfriend. Clare, with nobler aspirations as mother-protector of the nation, buries herself in work at DHS. Otto Jr. has become a bit lost in the shuffle. A team of well-paid helpmeets is available for around-the-clock support.
