by David Pepper
TITLES BY DAVID PEPPER
The People’s House
The Wingman
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2020 by David Pepper
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Hardcover ISBN: 9780593083932
Ebook ISBN: 9780593083949
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0
To Mom and Dad, my first and most loyal readers
CONTENTS
Cover
Titles by David Pepper
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part 1Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part 2Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Part 3Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
PROLOGUE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Even though the HR director had just fired her, a smile was dangerously close to emerging across Kat’s face. So she fixated on the woman’s cold eyes.
Problem solved.
“You will get one month’s pay if you sign this, but because you were here for such a short time, I’m afraid that’s all,” the director said, frowning, those eyes narrowing.
“I guess that’s better than nothing,” Kat said. “It will help me get through this.”
The final termination had come quickly, following months of effort. The dour chief operating officer had called Kat into his office after lunch to make clear that this was her last day. He hadn’t been nasty about it, but firm. He wasn’t going to change his mind.
Good.
She’d cleaned out her desk; sorted through her files; and handed over her work cell phone, office keys, ID badge, and a list of log-in names and passwords. The few personal effects she’d kept in her cubicle lay in the brown Coach purse resting between her legs. And now came the final step: signing the agreement where they’d commit not to disparage one another. This required her to concentrate for a few moments more, not on the words of the HR director, but on leaving the impression that she was upset.
If they only knew. Mere disparagement was the least of their worries.
“I’m so sorry this didn’t work out for you, Kat.” The HR director leaned over the cheap desk to present Kat with the signature page.
/> “I’m sorry, too.”
She’d never gone by the nickname “Kat” in her life, but it was another way to appear younger and less professional. Ordinary. Just as she’d spent the last seven months hunched over, in flats, hiding her otherwise striking five-foot-ten-inch frame.
“It was the job of my dreams.”
Was she overdoing it? Landing the job had been easy, even after she’d dumbed down her résumé. A summa cum laude Princeton grad with an Oxford PhD could pull down a killer salary at her pick of Fortune 500 companies, so why would she want to make peanuts as the party’s deputy data director? That would’ve been a red flag. So her résumé instead touted a North Florida degree with a decent academic record and an impressive history of political activism, enough to land an entry-level post.
She’d mastered the ins and outs in a matter of weeks. Pretty basic stuff—nothing like the jobs she’d held since earning that Oxford diploma. But she’d pretended to catch on slowly, convincing the data director, Emmett, that she needed help. His zealous touching as he mansplained the systems to her reminded her of several handsy professors she’d fended off.
She’d constructed the backdoor in a matter of months. Building it had been the easy part. The tough part had been making sure they could open and close it without a trace, so they’d be able to do their important work from the outside, undetected. Once she’d accomplished that, another month of tests confirmed that it was foolproof.
And that’s when she’d first acted up. Showing up late. Alcohol on her breath after lunch. Unprofessional attire. Outbursts on phone calls. Loud crying.
At first the changes led to anxious glances from coworkers. Their faces had said it all: she must be having a rough go of it. Maybe a bad breakup. Cut her some slack. Even Emmett kept his distance.
After a few weeks, the COO, joined by the same HR director who now stared at her, had summoned her to share his displeasure. She explained she was battling personal demons and vowed to do better. But she started up again the next day, arriving late, coming unglued by 11:30, never returning after lunch.
That was three weeks ago. And yesterday morning’s crying fit had topped them all.
“Well, you have a bright future,” the director said as Kat pretended to carefully review the words of the signature page. “Emmett says you’re a fast learner. You just need to work out the personal stuff.”
She zeroed back in on those miserable, deep-set eyes. Don’t laugh. Emmett, the data director, calling her a fast learner?
“I’m doing my best.”
She sniffled, prompting the director to pass her a Kleenex. She dabbed it below the thin square lenses she had grown accustomed to over the past seven months.
“It’s . . . just been so hard.”
She put the Kleenex down, picked up a blue ballpoint pen from the desk, and signed the last page. Without saying a word, she stood up, careful to hunch over.
“Good luck,” the director said as Kat walked out of the room. “You need a ride home?”
“I’ll take an Uber.”
Kat lifted her personal iPhone from her purse and tapped a few keys as if summoning the car service. But she sent a text instead.
Come in 5. Put the logo in the window.
She’d already informed him hours ago that it was her last day. And to bring her bags for the long trip home.
Drizzle fell lightly as Kat waited outside the building’s main entrance. The white dome of the Capitol beamed from a few blocks away, making the gray skies around it even more foreboding. A fitting omen.
The black Range Rover pulled up, a spotless “U” sticker in its right rear window. She stepped over a puddle and squeezed her long, thin body into the back seat.
As she closed the door, big brown eyes under dark, bushy eyebrows peered at her through the rearview mirror. He pulled the car into the one-way street, then mumbled something in his native tongue.
“Please,” she said. “I’m rusty.”
“All good, Katrina?” he said, switching to a thick-accented English. Oll goot?
Katrina. Her mood lifted as she heard her full name again. Her real name.
The smile that had been billowing up finally escaped as Katrina took off her glasses and placed them in the tan Birkin bag awaiting her in the other passenger seat. She transferred the contents from the Coach purse into the tan bag, tossing the cheap purse to the floor once it was empty. Reaching back with both hands, she loosened the ponytail she’d worn every day for months, shaking her head side to side so her wavy, sandy-blond hair flowed to its natural length, inches above her waist. Then she kicked off her shoes.
“All good,” she said. “You have my bags?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“Shoes?”
He reached over to the front passenger seat, then handed back the black three-inch heels she’d stored in the rear of her closet.
She admired the stilettos before sliding them under the high arches of her feet.
“Did Natalie already leave?”
“Two days ago. Same flight. They yelled at her before she left.”
Her lips curled in amusement. “Not me. I was just a mess they didn’t want to deal with.” She was talking more to herself than to the driver.
She sat in silence for the next forty minutes, taking in the last views of a city she hadn’t been able to enjoy. The teeming streets of Georgetown. The gray waters of the Potomac, sliced by long white lines as rowing sculls skimmed toward Key Bridge. The glass jungle of downtown Arlington, thousands of windows staring back over the river. It was a long way from the grungy Brooklyn streets and shores of her childhood.
They pulled up along the lengthy curb of Dulles Airport minutes after five, only her second time at the oddly shaped terminal. The first time—her arrival—felt like yesterday. But if the seed she’d planted since then grew according to plan, her third visit would be to a city—and a country—turned upside down.
“Would you like help with your bags?” the driver asked after bringing the SUV to a stop.
“Of course.”
She stepped inside the terminal doors with the tan bag in her hand, followed by the driver lugging three calf-leather suitcases behind him. He waved down a baggage handler to take them the rest of the way.
The driver saluted as he stepped back toward the idling car. “Have a pleasant trip. Please give my best to Natal—”
“Where to?” the handler asked from her other side, laying all three bags on his cart.
“Air France. The seven forty flight to Paris.”
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
PLEASANT PRAIRIE, WISCONSIN
Jack Sharpe? Wait, aren’t you like some kind of famous celebrity?”
In this dark cave of a bar, the third Yuengling was definitely taking me where I wanted to go. That, and the sweet simper my auburn-haired bartender flashed as she enunciated my name—she must’ve seen it on my credit card—whittled away at my weeks of gloom. While this road trip offered me one last opportunity to get off the mat, hours behind the wheel had only meant more time to dwell on how I’d fallen facedown in the first place.
“Well, I’m on television sometimes, if that’s what you mean.”
I downed the rest of the beer before setting the empty bottle on the sticky mahogany countertop.
She popped the cap off a fourth Yuengling and slid it my way.
“Weather guy?”
“Not that bad. Politics. You ever hear of Republic News?” I took a deep swig from the fresh bottle.
“That’s right. I see you on that TV all the time. Up there.” She pointed across my shoulder. “With her.”
I spun around on the barstool.
Between two mounted flat-screen TVs showing colleg
e football, she appeared on a smaller screen—the second-to-last person I wanted to see. Anchor Bridget Turner was interviewing someone about something, words scrolling along the bottom, the Republic News logo beaming in the corner. The sight sunk my mood to where it’d been when I’d stumbled into the place.
“Yep, that’s me.”
I forced a smile as I turned back to the bar.
“Well, that’s cool. So what the heck’s a TV big shot like you doin’ here?”
“Drinking more than I should, thanks to you,” I said, downing another gulp.
“Not here. Here, silly,” she said, pointing down at the countertop. “Wisconsin.”
She topped off two dirty martinis for a couple to my right, then stepped back my way.
“We in the press need to get out to the heartland every once in a while, don’t you think?”
Her eye roll made clear that the evasive schtick bored her. So I played it straight.
“I’m actually here for a story.”
“What story? Nothing big ever happens around here.” She flipped her hand forward. “Did some banker kill his wife or something?”
“You’ve been watching too much Dateline,” I said, chuckling, before finishing off the bottle. “No one killed anyone. It’s about a recent election. But it didn’t happen here. I’ve still got a few hours to go. This was—”
“The first exit after the state line. Trust me, that’s most of our business here. Want another?” She reached into the cooler behind her.
“Sure. But that’s the last one. . . . And you should give your town more credit. How could I not stop in a place that sounds as nice as Pleasant Prairie?”
But she was right. After a quick trip across northern Ohio and Indiana, the mind-numbing traffic, endless construction, and back-to-back tolls of Chicagoland had slowed my progress. North of Chicago, heading up I-94, I’d hoped Lake Michigan’s western shore would liven up the journey. But the only hint of a nearby body of water had been five seagulls pecking at scraps at the Lake Forest rest stop where I’d stopped for coffee. That final blast of caffeine propped me up only temporarily before I dozed off again, forcing me to crank up the radio and slap my cheeks to stay awake. Then came more construction, an endless series of outlets, strip malls, and office parks—still no lakefront—until a big blue sign welcomed me to the Badger State. Although I’d set the outskirts of Milwaukee as my finish line for the day, when a water tower featured the name Pleasant Prairie, I’d exited the highway.
