by Malcom James
He was about to pack up his gear when his cell phone rang. The number was the Oval Office switchboard.
“Eli Green,” he answered.
“Hi Eli, it’s Martha, the president’s secretary,” she said in a sweet, isn’t-life-grand tone.
“Hi Martha, how are you?” was all he could say.
“Well, it’s been a day, I’ll say that.”
“Yes, it has.”
“The president would like you to join him for dinner tomorrow if you’re free?”
Eli nearly choked. “Um, yes, of course, that would be great.”
“Perfect. He said nothing formal, just a few friends, say about six in the President’s Dining Room? Do you know where that is?”
“Right next to the lounge. Six is great,” he said while his mind raced, trying to guess what the hell was going on.
“I’ll let him know you confirmed, we’ll see you tomorrow evening then, bye-bye,” Martha said sweetly and ended the call.
He stared at his phone in his hand. Didn’t the president, who was being threatened with impeachment for firing the special counsel, have more important things to do than meet with Eli Green?
It had to be the fact that he was scheduled to be interviewed on Friday. He packed his stuff, found his way to a car, and made it back to his apartment, despite being in a daze.
18
Anonymous Sources
While Eli was passed out, the New York Times posted a “BREAKING STORY” on its website in advance of the morning print run. The story, with a by-line from Sherry Andrews and Andy Modanelli, claimed that multiple sources, both inside the White House and the FBI, had confirmed that President Franks had installed a secret taping system in the Oval Office.
***
Upstairs in the Residence, Franks was wide awake, eating cheeseburgers in bed, watching his “super-Tivo” that allowed him to review all the cable news shows on every channel at the end of the day, when the Times story broke.
Franks flew into a rage and called Ken Miller. How had those two hack reporters from the Times found out? Wasn’t she the hot blond who was on CNN sometimes, the trainwreck with the great tits?
Ken got right on it. Within ten minutes he called back and told the president that yes, that was Sherry Andrews, she had a press pass, and was frequently in the briefings. She must have made contact with someone inside, and the list of who knew about the system was very short.
Ken said he would make some calls. Thirty minutes later, just before midnight, Ken called the president again. Franks was pacing his suite, wired and babbling about “traitors in our midst,” when Ken explained that he asked around, and someone mentioned Sherry Andrews and some of the other White House beat reporters occasionally hung around the Franks International Hotel, fishing for leads.
Ken called Mort, Franks’ old-school head of security at the hotel. Mort was on duty, thanks to a large contingent of Israeli lobbyists staying at the hotel — a point which distracted Franks for a moment and made him very happy as he wasn’t aware they were there, and he wondered if they drank expensive liquor or were Jews cheap drinkers? — then Ken continued to explain that Mort had ordered a review of receipts, and they found eighteen charges by Sherry Andrews at the lobby bar.
Ken said he would personally go to the hotel and review what they had.
Just after 1 a.m., with Franks already firing off a round of tweets aimed at the “GARBAGE Fake News Media and and the Failing New York Times,” Ken called the president back, and informed him that he reviewed the footage from the bar for the nights of the charges, and found a video of Sherry and three others hanging out for nearly two hours. One of the others was Eli Green. They left together. Ken even had his credit card receipt.
***
Eli slept terribly, tossing and turning, dreaming of the girl. He saw her as always, on the edge of the bed, the distant stare into space, the tear drop of blood — always ending with him bursting awake in a panic.
It happened twice that night. The first time he awoke to find the lights and TV still on, and shut everything down and rolled over and went back to sleep, never bothering to get out of his work clothes.
The second time, hours later, he squinted toward the balcony to find the sunrise fading in on the horizon. He never went back to sleep, but lay trying, a low-grade buzzing in his head, body craving rest but mind unable to shut off, until he finally gave in to the gray light and rose.
He realized his apartment was a mess. “So is my life,” he uttered to himself. His grand scheme of doing something hadn’t resulted in anything. Every day the president was getting away with murder, metaphorically and possibly literally. He picked up his phone and glanced at the notifications, stumbling into the kitchen to make coffee.
And then he saw the story. He swiped it open, leaning against the formica bar. The headline was direct: “SOURCES CONFIRM SECRET TAPING SYSTEM INSIDE OVAL OFFICE. By Sherry Andrews and Andy Modanelli.”
Here we go, he thought. And then he read the words “source inside the West Wing” and “erased audio files that may have included evidence of conversations with Lonnegan” and his heart nearly exploded — what the fuck?
He read more. It was everything they discussed, but the two critical parts she agreed to suppress — the parts that could make it far too easy to identify him — were both in the story. How could she do that?
He called her. It rang three times and then he got voicemail. “This is Sherry, leave a message,” and that was it. He hung up. He didn’t want to leave a message.
The room was turning sideways. He forced himself to hyperventilate for sixty seconds, in and out, trying to get his bearings.
He didn’t want to believe she’d fucked him over, at least not intentionally. Not after the way they’d been together. Of course they were using each other, but it wasn’t like that, was it? Or did that even make sense? Could two people be transactional on multiple levels, sexual and professional, and yet somehow honor unspoken boundaries not to fuck each other over? He wanted to believe so.
Something must have changed. There had to be a reason. Why wasn’t she answering her phone? She had the hottest story on earth for at least the next few hours, and her phone would be blowing up. CNN would be calling non-stop until she was booked. Was she avoiding him because of what she’d done?
And now he had to go to work and have dinner with the president, and pretend like he knew nothing about any of it. He considered running, but if he didn’t show up, it would be obvious he was the leaker. Even though it might be likely he was the leaker, he didn’t think they had a way to actually prove it. Besides, what could they do? Fire him? He was prepared for that, and maybe it would be a welcome end. Plus, if they fired him, they had to risk what he might spill to the investigators. He resigned to face it head-on, deny his involvement, and see if he could hang on long enough to knock a few more blocks out of the Franks castle wall, before he was felled into the moat.
***
Eli went in to work like he always did, targeting to be at his desk no later than 8 a.m. He wore his best suit, and as he walked the marble halls, he sensed the story dominating the hushed conversations as he passed.
He was now the double agent that pulled the rip cord and turned on his masters, still lurking amongst them, at risk of being exposed at any moment. But on the exterior, he was his casual self, smiling at security, nodding at familiar faces as he grabbed coffee from the break room.
At his desk, he went through the motions, checking emails, of which there were none. No messages from Walter or anyone in the West Wing. He called Walter and got voicemail, and left a message saying he saw the story, and when should they meet as a team? He sent an email to the same effect, and copied Ken Miller.
The Times story was everywhere, and Democrats had already gone on the morning shows to use it as added fuel for the impeachment proceedings, which Speaker Mike Allen still had not allowed to proceed to a vote. But to his credit, th
e Speaker had given a press conference to address the Democrats’ demand, focusing on the “sober and mighty responsibility of this chamber” and asking for calm and patience. But he gave no indication of when, or even if, the Articles of Impeachment might proceed, and he took no questions.
The daily White House press briefing was bumped up to 10:00 a.m. to address the fire storm of the Times story, the firing of Simpson and the threat of impeachment.
Eli knew this would be one more for the history books, and worth watching live. Not showing up for this, on all days, would only add suspicion. He had to be gravely concerned, and in their face about it.
By 9:45 a.m. he cleared security and headed toward the Brady briefing room. The crowd of reporters was unusually large. He stood in the back, scanning for Sherry, but didn’t see her. He waited in a corner, scanning his phone for any message from Walter or Ken Miller, but still there was nothing.
Just after 10:00 a.m., Press Secretary Mary Oakwood Hawkins took the podium, and after her usual preamble about the great successes of the Franks Administration, the state of the booming economy, and a generic statement about the defeat of America’s enemies overseas, she began to take questions.
Her general tactic on the taping system was to claim she had no personal knowledge of such a system, she had not had a chance to ask the president about that, but she would later, and even if they did have a system it would not be illegal, many presidents had used one for the sake of memorializing for posterity the momentous decisions they would make in office, and as usual, the Fake News Media was quoting unnamed, anonymous sources to distract the public from the great work that the Administration was doing.
After three or four tries from various reporters, she shifted to the shaming tactics which alternated between accusing reporters of wanting to twist what she said out of context, and recalling errors that major publications had made that required later updates or partial retractions, and then she pivoted by calling on a friendly conservative media reporter who would throw her a softball about whether the 145,000 jobs that were created last month was on pace with the projections that the Labor Department had issued in the prior quarter.
Then it was on to Simpson, then on to impeachment. Simpson would be replaced by a more capable, trust-worthy professional prosecutor that would regain the trust of the American people, to be named in the next few days, and as always, the White House would continue to cooperate fully with the investigation, and soon be exonerated from the hoax of Russian collusion.
Impeachment was just a desperate ploy by the obstructionist Democrats who had no agenda to offer the American people, and would be wholly inappropriate, since no crimes had been committed by this president. And so it went, round and round. She gave no quarter, and there was no attempt to agree on even a basic set of facts. It was a magic act, and the effect was an audience that was left knowing it was all fake, and yet entertained nonetheless by a brief trip into an alternate reality. Truth is dead, Eli thought.
***
After the press conference, having made his appearance and seeing none of his bosses, Eli headed back to his office. As he walked in the bright morning sun, he heard the distant chants of protestors at the gates of the south lawn, and turned to see the largest crowd since the early days of the travel ban. They yelled and carried signs, calling Franks a traitor and demanding impeachment, and heavily-armed police were gathered to manage it.
There had always been protestors, but this felt different. The nation was teetering on the edge, and despite the warmth of the sun on his back, Eli shuddered.
***
He was at his desk, working his way through a wilted chicken Caesar salad and becoming more concerned that he had not heard from Walter or Ken, when a New York Times breaking news alert appeared on his phone: “NYT reporter Sherry Andrews found dead.”
His breath froze — he clicked on the link and read “Well-known New York Times political reporter and frequent cable news contributor Sherry Andrews was found unresponsive in her Georgetown apartment by a co-worker this morning. She was taken by emergency medics to George Washington University Hospital, where she was later pronounced dead. This is a developing story.”
He stood, dizzy, and held the sides of his cubicle. He read it again to be sure he wasn’t losing his mind, hand covering mouth. He looked over his shoulders; no one was around. He had to fight the urge to just run.
He pulled his breath in and out, trying to clear his mind. Okay, think this through — found by a co-worker, in her apartment. After the article had been published last night. She must have gone home late. Maybe she failed to return this morning and when she wasn’t answering calls — including his — they sent someone to find her. Unresponsive. Later declared dead. They didn’t say killed, they said unresponsive. What the hell happened?
He quickly re-installed MyMask and texted Tate: “Did you see news re: SA?” It felt like an hour but was actually less than two minutes until Tate replied:
“Yes. Need to make calls, stand by.”
Eli paced in his cubicle, waiting. Then he realized that might look odd, so he forced himself to sit, and scanned online for updates. So far, only the Times was reporting the story, which made sense, since she was their employee. After twenty minutes, Tate returned: “Looks like an overdose.”
“I don’t buy it,” Eli replied.
“200 people overdose every day.”
Eli couldn’t believe that was it, she didn’t seem a like a drug addict. Tate had to be jaded in his line of work.
“I’m supposed to be having dinner with the President. Maybe I should disappear.”
“Stay inside if you can. We need you.”
“But what happened to the indictments that were coming?”
“Firing Simpson set us back. Revising strategy. Don’t give up, this is a war now,” and with that, Tate signed off.
19
Loyalty Test
At quarter-to-six, the late fall sky was already dark. Eli stood in the men’s room near his cubicle, splashing cold water on his face under the fluorescent lights. He studied his reflection as he dried his face with a paper towel. He was pale, the bags under his eyes more prominent than ever. He fixed his unruly brown hair, buttoned his collar, tightened his tie, pulled on his jacket, took a deep breath, and walked out.
Minutes later, a flinty-eyed Secret Service agent escorted him down the hallway leading to the Oval Office, stopping short to turn right, and opening the door to the president’s private dining room. The small, formal dining room could seat from four to twelve at the red mahogany table, and was often used by presidents for working lunches or intimate dinners.
When Eli entered, he found Walter seated, nursing a scotch and rocks, and Ken Miller pacing in the corner, cell phone to his ear, staring out the window into the dark, looking at something Eli couldn’t see. Then he heard the faint chants of the protestors in the distance; the barbarians were massing at the gates.
“Come in, Eli,” Walter said in a deadpan voice.
Eli stepped in as the agent closed the door. Franks was nowhere to be found. Ken looked at Eli, then turned his back and continued pacing, listening to whoever was on the other end of the line, looking out the window.
“Have a seat,” Walter said, and he took another sip. Eli set his shoulder bag in a corner, then pulled out a chair across from Walter.
“I tried to reach you a few times today,” Eli offered as he took his seat.
“I know,” Walter said calmly. “It’s been busy.”
“No doubt. So what do we do?” Eli asked. Walter just stared at his glass, and gave a gentle shrug. It wasn’t like him to not have the answer. And it wasn’t like him to not maintain eye contact. Eli shifted in his chair, unable to get comfortable.
“You going to offer me a drink?” Eli asked, hoping to lighten the mood. Walter looked around.
“Sorry, you know he’s a teetotaler. I actually brought this from my office. It’s aft
er six, right?” he replied, checking his watch.
“Yes,” Eli confirmed, checking his watch too. Where the hell was this going?
Ken said “okay” quietly in his phone, then hung up and walked over and pulled out a chair next to Walter.
“They’ll take care of it,” Ken said cryptically to Walter as he sat.
Eli began to sweat; the air was dead, unmoving. He adjusted his tie. The collar was too tight; he always made that mistake when buying dress shirts.
Just then, the door opened and a different agent stepped in and held the door, and President Franks swept in, full suit and tie, his white hair glowing in the overhead lights like a small cloud following a blimp below it.
“Eli, there you are!” Franks said loudly as he stuck out his hand, just as Eli had stood up along with Walter and Ken.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” Eli said as Franks took his hand hard, pulling him closer, almost too close, as he did with everyone. They shook vigorously as Franks held on too long, then finally let him go, and walked to the head of the table.
“Glad you could make it, dinner’s on me!” Franks said smiling, and he pointed to the door, and in came Alexa Franks. She was striking as always, in her matching white suit and patent-leather pumps, her platinum hair pulled tight in an efficient bun, her slender arms adorned with gold bangles and a chunky gold Rolex, her manicured blood-red nails wrapped around two large bags of Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Alexa smiled broadly at Eli, her wide mouth displaying an impossible number of perfect teeth.
“Hey, Eli!” she said smoothly, as if they had ever spoken directly, which they hadn’t. She set the KFC bags on the table, bending over near Eli just long enough to let him glimpse the tightness of her pants from behind. She smelled like the perfume department at Saks.
“Enjoy, gentlemen,” she said with a beaming smile trained on each of them, ending with her father.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Franks said as he pulled out his chair. “You want some?”
