by Sam Bourne
‘All right, but humour me. What did you hear?’
‘Just that he flew into a complete rage in the middle of the night. Summoning aides, waking everyone, storming into the Sit Room.’
‘The Sit Room?’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘And do you know what it was about?’
‘Just that he was swearing and shouting. The staff in the Residence were terrified, apparently.’
‘Or what might have sparked it?’
‘You know Martinez? The butler?’
‘Wasn’t he sacked?’
‘He’s leaving in the summer. Anyway, he says the boss was watching the Sunday talkshows. You know, he records them?’
‘So something to do with that?’
‘Maybe. I mean who the hell knows with this guy?’
On the way back, Maggie listened to Eleanor complain some more about McNamara, and then talk about her son, before settling on the perennial topic of her daughter’s useless boyfriend. Eventually that prompted the older woman to give her a raised eyebrow which, Maggie knew, was an inquiry as to how things were going with Richard. Maggie considered confessing her worries about the flirting she thought she had spotted with the First Daughter, but thought better of it. It would only sound ridiculous. Besides, Maggie had always picked up from Eleanor a vague sense of disapproval when it came to Richard. Nothing you could put your finger on, but enough that Maggie didn’t want to feed her any ammunition.
They said goodbye in the corridor. Then Maggie made straight for the Situation Room.
The duty officer was unfamiliar, but she was undeterred. She asked if they could speak in a side room. She could see that he was on secondment from the CIA, which she decided to view as an advantage. He would be used to internal investigations by the Agency’s office of the Inspector General and so she simply said that he should see her as doing the equivalent job for the White House.
She asked him what had happened on Sunday night.
He looked her straight in the eye and said that he had not been briefed on that.
‘On what?’
‘On what happened on Sunday night.’
‘But you know something happened?’
‘Like I say, ma’am, I was not on duty and I have not been briefed on that incident.’
‘So there was an incident?’
‘I’ve not been briefed, ma’am.’
They went round and round like that until Maggie, exasperated, asked to see the duty log for that evening. He stalled on that too, saying that would require the permission of the Watch Commander.
‘All right,’ she sighed. ‘I would like to see the roster of Watch Teams for the last two weeks.’ Pre-empting any resistance, she added, ‘And under Executive Order 13490, Ethics Commitments by Executive Branch Personnel, Section Seven, the provision relating to Assent to Enforcement, I have the authority to demand immediate sight of those documents. Which is what I am doing. Right now.’ She smiled sweetly.
He attempted to say that it would take some time to produce a hard copy. She gave that short shrift, saying that he could save them both some time by sitting down in front of a computer and logging into the roster. She would hover over his shoulder.
His reluctance was obvious, but he did what he was told, scrolling through the calendar until he reached the overnight shift that took in the early hours of Monday morning. As she expected, there were five names: three duty officers, a communications assistant and an intelligence analyst. She scribbled all five names down, but she knew that for her purposes it was the comms officer she wanted.
‘Mary Rajak,’ Maggie repeated. ‘And how can I reach Ms Rajak?’
‘I’m afraid Lieutenant Rajak is on leave, ma’am.’ Maggie was sure she saw a hint of a smile.
‘Leave? For how long?’
‘Indefinite, ma’am.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Lieutenant Rajak is on sick leave, Ms Costello. She’s been signed off for stress.’
18
East Falls Church, Virginia, Wednesday, 12.44pm
Julian Garcia would have dropped everything, wherever he was on the face of the earth, to answer a call from Jim Bruton, the man he would think of forever as his commanding officer. As it turned out, he had not had to make too great a journey.
When he got the call – number withheld, it had said on his phone – from the Defense Secretary the previous night, he had been visiting his sister in Philadelphia. After what they had both been through, it wasn’t right to let her suffer alone. Even though it had been so many years since they had lived under the same roof, even though her husband and children were strangers to him, he found it helped a little. Just to be with someone whose memories overlapped with his.
Besides, he had another reason to make the short journey south towards Washington.
He had heard about Jorge Hernandez’s situation perhaps six weeks ago. The men of the unit, they had their own ways to stay in touch. They couldn’t use Facebook or email, obviously. But they had their ways. ‘Jungle drums,’ Jorge called it.
So when Bruton’s call came, Jorge came straight to mind. Garcia had planned it immediately: he would go to the Pentagon and come here directly afterwards. He knew it was an indulgence; he had no time for such a detour. Bruton had given him a month-long mission to complete in three days. But, as he had told the Defense Secretary, they were part of a group that looked out for each other. Always.
Hernandez’s home was modest, a bungalow on Roosevelt Street, with a small car outside. Tidy, designed to attract no attention. Garcia recognized it: in the places he had lived – ‘homes’ would be overstating it – he had created much the same look.
As soon as Hernandez opened the door, Garcia could see the situation was as bleak as he’d heard. His comrade was stooped, the skin around his neck loose, his face a sallow shade somewhere between grey and yellow.
Jorge managed a smile. ‘Welcome to the horror show,’ he said.
He ushered Garcia into a living room, sparsely furnished – a couple of fake leather chairs and a big TV playing cable news – then disappeared into a kitchen and came back holding two beers. ‘It’s early, I know.’
They clinked bottles and Hernandez spoke first, jabbing at his own chest. ‘It’s in here. My gullet. The oesophagus, the doctors call it. Bottom line: I can’t eat much and I’m gonna die soon.’
Garcia chugged back the beer. ‘That’s what I heard.’
A long pause and then Hernandez said, ‘I’m glad you came. It’s good to say goodbye.’
Garcia didn’t argue with him. ‘Even a cat got only nine lives.’
They both smiled. Then Garcia spoke again. ‘I mean, how many times did you cheat that motherfucker?’
‘Which motherfucker’s that?’
‘The angel of death. Five times? Six?’
Hernandez liked the question. He counted on his hands. ‘Basra, twice. Tora Bora, twice. Tikrit, once. Pakistan, once.’
‘When you eyeballed OBL?’
‘I wasn’t even counting that one. Seven.’
‘At least.’
Another pause, another swig of beer. ‘Can you get around at least?’
‘That’s the hell of it. I look like shit, but I can function. I can walk, I can drive. You’d meet me and think, “All right. He might have a year or two.”’
‘But?’
‘It’s probably a few weeks. Anyway, one thing I can tell you. The only thing worse than dying is talking about it so goddamn much. So: what brings you to sunny Virginia?’
‘I can’t talk about it.’
‘Ah, that’s exciting. I wish I had something I couldn’t talk about. I mean it. A mission. That would be good. Instead of sitting here all day, watching that asshole.’ He gestured towards the TV, where – muted – the President was holding forth to a gaggle of reporters in the Oval Office. The subtitles said he was denouncing immigrants. Not just undocumented ones but all of them. ‘We’re a big country, but not
that big,’ the President was saying. ‘Now if you look at the last election, and if you counted only the people whose grandparents were born here … ’
Jorge Hernandez smiled a bitter smile. ‘I guess neither of us would make that cut-off.’
‘Nope.’
‘Can you believe that? Good enough to kill and be killed for this country, but our President says we don’t deserve to vote.’ Hernandez began to cough.
‘Take it easy, brother,’ Garcia said, leaning forward to take the bottle of beer from his friend’s hand.
‘I’m good, I’m good.’ Jorge brushed off some foam – part beer, part saliva – that had landed on his thighs. ‘But I wish I could do something. I don’t have anyone here.’
‘What about your nephew? The one you were always writing to?’
‘Antonio? I got him through college. Texas A&M. He was at grad school. That kid’s some kind of genius, Julian.’
Garcia could feel a ‘but’ coming.
‘But after my brother was gone, the wife, she never liked me. She wouldn’t let me speak to the boy no more. Six years, no contact.’
‘That’s rough, man.’
‘But two weeks ago they deported him. Put the boy – he’s got, like, a PhD or something – they put him on a bus, dumped him in Mexico.’
‘But your family’s not—’
‘—even from Mexico. That’s right. But to that guy,’ he gestured at the mute President on the TV screen, ‘we’re all the same.’
He coughed some more and then spoke again. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that. I heard about your mom.’
Garcia nodded.
‘So don’t tell me anything, obviously. But this job you’ve got to do. Is it high-risk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your life in danger?’
‘If I do it properly, yes.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It sounds strange, but it means that right now I think the only way to secure all the objectives of the mission is if someone gets caught. If I go free, if I walk away, that could risk everything. They need someone to blame, so they can say “Case closed.”’
‘And when you say “caught” – I don’t know who the enemy is – but if you get caught, what does that mean? Do these people take prisoners? Or are you going to end up getting your head chopped off on YouTube?’
‘Not that.’
‘But maybe dead?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And you would do that? You would do that for him?’ He didn’t even look at the TV screen this time.
‘I wouldn’t do it for him, no.’
They were quiet together. Garcia could hear the clock ticking in his old friend’s kitchen.
Finally, Hernandez spoke once more. ‘Why did you come here today?’
‘I came here to say goodbye, Jorge.’
‘And a dying man gets to have a last request, don’t he?’
‘Yes. Yes, you do.’
‘Tell me, is there anyone you trust in the world more than me?’
‘No one.’
‘Good. So listen to what I have to say.’
19
Silver Spring, Maryland, Wednesday, 12.58pm
It turned out that Mary Rajak lived with another woman, also working for the Defense Intelligence Agency. She was young enough for that to mean they were simply room-mates, or they could have been a couple. There was no way to know for sure; the file was silent on that issue.
Parked just down the street, but with a clear line of sight to the front door of the small, timber-clad house the two women shared on Leighton Avenue, Maggie glanced once more at the printout she had obtained (with Eleanor’s help). It was a personnel file and therefore yielded little: born and raised in rural Nebraska, stellar college career, straight to the DIA, highly rated as an analyst. Maggie didn’t need a file to tell her that. It was obvious. Only the best and brightest were loaned to the White House.
Maggie had been here twenty minutes, trying to work out a gameplan. She had wondered about sending a text but found it impossible to strike the right tone. Every formulation she tried sounded like a trap or a hoax. Hi Mary, you don’t know me but I’m a colleague of yours at the White House …
The car radio was on. Checking the time, Maggie turned it up.
This is NPR News in Washington. The United States has appealed for calm in its ongoing nuclear stand-off with North Korea. Speaking following a meeting with his French counterpart at the Pentagon this morning, Defense Secretary Jim Bruton said he hoped the North Koreans were choosing to ‘pause and reflect’ rather than allowing the situation to deteriorate further.
Diplomatic sources in Pyongyang, however, reportedly believe that any pause is likely to be short-lived, and that plans for further nuclear testing remain active …
Maggie listened closely as the clip of Bruton played. He sounded firm, even unbending. But he was not reckless; he was not bellicose. Given the President he served, Maggie found his voice unexpectedly reassuring.
My message to Pyongyang is clear. This is a dispute we can resolve calmly and that is our intention. But let there be no misunderstanding. The United States will always defend itself, through overwhelming force if necessary.
Maggie wondered who the real audience for that remark was. Obviously the DPRK. But she suspected there was some internal positioning going on too: there always was. Instinct made her wonder if the reference to ‘overwhelming force’ was there to placate the hawkish faction in the White House, perhaps even the man at the top.
Now the radio was on to a second story, outrage over a tweet the President had sent in the middle of the night, relating to a sixteen-year-old singer who had just won a TV talent contest. Maggie could hear the embarrassment in the voice of the female reporter who had to repeat the tweet verbatim: That skirt far too short for a teenager on primetime. Still, if she wants to perform a private show for me @WhiteHouse, the answer is yes! Women’s groups had condemned the President. His allies said he had clearly intended to be humorous and complimentary to the young woman, who had told Fox News she was ‘thrilled’ by the President’s remarks.
Next came an item about Silicon Valley mourning the tragic death of Icelandic tech pioneer Birkir Arnason – missing for a few weeks, police had now concluded that he had stumbled and fallen into a geothermal pool on a hike in his native country – but Maggie was not listening. She was thinking about Bruton and the North Korean situation. Not so long ago, she’d have been involved in a crisis like this. The previous president would have wanted to hear her views, especially on negotiation strategy. That was her background, after all: peace mediation. She could imagine what she’d be saying, if she were in the room. We have to give them a way to climb down the tree. We need to allow them not to lose face …
But that was a lifetime ago. She was not in the room now. She was here, with a job to do.
Much as she dreaded the prospect, Maggie realized there was only one way to do it. She would have to knock on Mary Rajak’s door, cold.
She knew the woman was inside. She could see her car parked on the street, its plates helpfully detailed in the personnel file. So Maggie ventured up the path and knocked. Somehow a knock, rather than the bell, seemed less intrusive. There was no response.
Maggie tried again. Still nothing. Then she tried the bell. Nothing. She turned around and looked at the front lawn. Overgrown.
Maggie pulled back the screen door, moved close until her mouth was almost touching the pane of glass and spoke.
‘Mary, you’re not in any trouble, I promise. My name’s Maggie, I work in the Counsel’s office at the White House – and I’m on your side. I just need to talk.’ She paused, before saying again, for good measure, ‘I promise you, you’re not in trouble.’
Still nothing.
Maggie didn’t leave, but decided to take a calculated risk. Actually, ‘calculated’ was flattering herself. It was based on nothing more than a hunch. She knocked on the glass door. ‘Just so you know,
Mary: I’ve been working at the White House for a few years. I was not appointed by this President.’ She paused to let that sink in. ‘I came to work for the previous one.’
Now there was movement, a shadow which she took to be Mary. Maggie guessed she’d been sitting on the stairs, out of view, listening.
A few seconds later, she was there, on the other side of the glass. Wearing grey sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, she looked pale, drawn, her hair pulled back into a serviceable ponytail. Her eyes seemed to be sunk into hollows. She did not smile but said in a quiet voice, ‘Can I see some ID?’
The door opened a crack, allowing Maggie to squeeze her White House pass through, holding it up long enough for Mary Rajak to read it properly. Instinct made her take a pace back; she wanted to give this woman space.
At last the door opened fully. Rajak said nothing. She simply turned around and started walking towards the kitchen. Maggie followed. They sat at a small table. Mary didn’t offer her anything to drink. Maggie took that not as rudeness, but as confirmation that this woman was in an awful state.
‘Mary, I’m glad you let me in. Thank you.’
She said nothing. Maggie thought of the personnel file, including its beaming photo. That Mary Rajak was dynamic, confident. The woman in front of her – hunched, listless – could have been a different person.
Maggie tried again. ‘I see you were on duty on Sunday night. The overnight shift.’
A small nod.
‘And you’ve not been back since. I’m guessing something happened that night. Something bad.’
Now Rajak met Maggie’s eye. Her expression was accusing but, more than that, it was … wounded. Maggie understood that expression, very deeply.
‘You felt let down. Am I right, Mary?’ Another pause. ‘Who let you down?’
Now Rajak spoke. In a quiet voice, she said: ‘If I talk to you, what happens to me?’
‘Nothing happens to you unless you want it to happen. What you tell me is in the strictest confidence. I will do nothing with it, unless and until you decide you want me to do something.’
‘And so you won’t tell anyone we talked?’
