by L. T. Ryan
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “It has to be done this way. Everything is legit.”
She entered the empty room, stored her belongings, dressed and exited. Beck leaned against the far wall, waiting for her. He lifted an eyebrow as if to ask if everything was good to go.
“All set,” she said.
“Great,” he said. “One more thing.”
She sighed. “What?”
He pulled a lapel pin from his pocket. She flinched when he reached for her. Extending the pin formed like a bald eagle toward her, he said, “Yes, this is what you think it is. And you need to have it on at all times.”
The item she stared at felt light in the palm of her hand. She wondered how it worked. How would they see and hear everything she saw and heard? She also considered what they might do if she covered it up, or outright got rid of it. It was small enough that it would slip right down a sink drain, or succumb to the flush of a toilet. She pulled the back off the pin, stuck it through the lapel of her blazer and fastened it.
“What happens when I need privacy?”
“Press the eagle’s head.”
She tested it out. Beck’s phone beeped. He glanced down at it and said, “And that’s how we know.”
“What happens then?” A moment after she asked, Clarissa waved both hands in front of her chest. “Forget it. I don’t want to know.”
“All right,” Beck said. “Ready for the fun part?”
Chapter 14
Beck led Clarissa down a narrow flight of stairs. The sounds of their breathing echoed off the walls. The dim lights gave the stairwell an air of suspense. She wondered what was at the bottom. For years, since she’d seen the tunnels at her father’s installation as a kid, she contemplated what the tunnels beneath D.C., and specifically the White House, were like. Where did they go? What kind of lights adorned the ceilings? Did water drip down the walls and pool along the corners where the floor met the rounded walls?
“Going in, no one knows anything about you, Clarissa. I’m going to introduce you to a few members of the staff and tell them that your job here is to observe. You’ll pretty much have full access. I’ll give you a tour and tell you where you can and can’t go. Remember, someone will be watching at all times, so don’t disobey.”
“Is there anyone I shouldn’t talk to?”
Beck shrugged. “Don’t approach the president unless he requests you do so.”
“What about the Secret Service stationed in the house?”
“They know nothing about you. You’ll be an employee in there, and they’ll watch your every move. Ultimately, those men report to my chain of command. If there is an issue, you just do as you’re told and we’ll handle it.”
His answer satisfied her. As assignments went, this one seemed to be as easy as they came. Spend a few weeks inside one of the highest profile houses on the planet, and study people. She was under no obligation to provide a certain answer. Any answer, for that matter. If she saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that concerned her, then her time there would come and go and she’d be sent out on assignment by Sinclair.
At the same time, she couldn’t help but hope that she did help them. This post could lead to something new, something better for her. She’d grown concerned that the only way to leave Sinclair’s group would be to take another position within the agency. Otherwise, one of his cleaners would show up and that’d be the end of her. They wouldn’t do that if she became a part of Homeland Security. She knew that the chances of entering the Secret Service were slim, but there were other opportunities out there, and having the backing of certain people might help.
After five flights of stairs, Beck asked her to use her access card on the reader next to a steel door. She swiped her card in front of the device and saw the light change and heard the lock click.
“Every day, this is your routine,” Beck reminded her.
She reached for the door handle and pulled it toward them. The hallway in front of her did not disappoint. She smiled, if only for a second, at the concrete tunnel with yellowish lights lining the ceiling. Her first few steps echoed throughout the tunnel. She wondered why they hadn’t done anything to dampen that, given that it could alert one’s presence. After a few more steps, the echoes faded. She stretched her fingers out and let the tips trace the rough wall. It felt like worn sandpaper.
“We’re heading toward the East Wing,” Beck said.
Clarissa nodded. She knew the layout. When she was young, her father brought her and she received an exclusive tour of the place.
It didn’t take long to reach their destination. They passed through two security doors, turning after each one, and then reached the final door. Beck explained the entry process, which required her badge and a pin number. This time, a guard on the other side of the door opened it. He verified their identities before allowing passage.
A set of stairs led them up to a final security door. Once through, they stood in an empty office that Beck said was located in the back corner of the Secret Service office.
Clarissa turned in a circle and pointed up. “Oval Office?”
Beck nodded. “And that way,” he aimed his finger to the other end of the room, “is the Cabinet Room.”
“Will I be over here much?”
Beck walked away from her without answering. He pulled a door open and motioned her forward. From this point on, she knew she would not be able to ask additional questions. He led her through the Secret Service office. The room seemed to buzz, but she saw no one milling about. Perhaps there were men and women glued to monitors watching every square inch of the property, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. She wondered how many agents were stationed there at any given time. She recalled that around two dozen were always around the president, and they had counter-assault teams in place everywhere he went. Maybe she’d learn more about it during her time on assignment.
Stepping out of the office, Beck turned right and started up a flight of stairs. Clarissa followed closely. At the top, they emerged between the press secretary’s office and the Cabinet Room. They continued past both, turned right and walked through the West Colonnade. A warm breeze washed her with scents from the rose garden. She glanced to her right briefly to take in the sight of the perfectly manicured lawn surrounded by trimmed hedges and flowers in bloom along the perimeter. She reached out and touched a couple of the thick white columns that lined the walkway.
They entered the ground floor of the main building through the Palm Room. Two thick potted plants guarded the door. It felt light and airy in there. She took notice of the latticed walls and a painting of a young woman in period garb carrying an American flag over her head.
The Palm Room led them to the main hallway running throughout the ground floor of the main residence. Beck rattled off the names of the rooms they passed. He adjusted his path toward a closed door.
“One of my offices,” he said, cluing her in that she shouldn’t mention who was in the room or what went on inside.
He motioned her forward, but she hesitated, throwing a glance over each shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he said, hushed.
She took his word for it and followed Beck inside. The room was empty. Clarissa felt relieved. She wasn’t sure why, though. Perhaps she thought that the hardest people to fool would be those who were tasked with seeing anything and everything that went on inside the place. If Beck had told her the truth, no one inside knew her purpose, not even the Secret Service. Wasn’t bringing her into the room a risk?
Beck took a seat at a desk and logged onto the computer. He did not appear to be in a rush to get up and leave.
Clarissa shuffled from foot to foot, waiting for the door to pop open. When it finally did, she felt her face go slack.
Two men entered the room. One paid her no attention. The other, a shorter guy with buzz cut dark hair, smiled at her. She hadn’t met many people in the Service, but the few she had had given her the impression that they didn’
t do that when on duty.
“Beck,” the guy said.
“Jordan,” Beck said.
“Who’s this?”
“Clarissa Weston. She’s new on the staff. They missed something on her profile and I’m taking care of it now.”
Jordan nodded, staring at Clarissa. “Why’d she have to come in here for that?”
“I’m sorry,” Beck said, “but did I miss a memo where you suddenly outrank me?”
Jordan’s cheeks turned a shade of red.
“She’s going to be assigned to McCormick when he returns tomorrow.”
Clarissa stiffened. The vice president had not been mentioned before then. What purpose would she serve with the man? Was he the leak they were concerned with? What happened to monitoring the staff? Beck peered at her from behind the monitor. She knew then to keep her concerns to herself. She felt Jordan staring at her, so she turned to face him.
“He warn you about McCormick yet?” Jordan said.
Clarissa said nothing.
“He’s gonna like you.”
Beck slid the keyboard in front of him and rose. “We can go now.”
She didn’t wait for him to lead the way. In the hallway, she shot him an angry look.
“Would you have accepted if you knew?” Beck asked.
“Knew what?” Clarissa said.
“That you’d be assigned to the vice president.”
She shook her head. “What am I going to be doing?”
“His assistant went on maternity leave last week. It was the perfect opportunity.”
“So he’s the one you suspect?”
Beck glanced over at her as they passed the library. The doors were closed. She recalled the ornate furnishings and built-in bookcases, wondering if and how the current residents had changed the room. Did each president keep the same books on the shelves? Perhaps they placed their favorites there. Or maybe they rotated them.
Beck led her on his rounds. As he introduced her to his staff, she got the feeling that he was more important than he had let on. She saw parts of the residence that not many ever saw. Though the place was impressive, she couldn’t imagine the stress that went along with living or working there permanently. From the top down, it had to take a toll on everyone.
Shortly after noon they returned to the West Wing. Beck showed her McCormick’s office. Tomorrow he’d introduce her personally. She noted the two desks in the foyer. One had pictures and other personal items lining the surface. The other was bare. She assumed that workstation was meant for her. At that moment, she dreaded coming in. At least what she believed she would be doing previously would have allowed her freedom to move around. Now she faced the possibility of sitting at the barren desk answering the phone all day long.
“Why don’t we call it a day?” Beck said.
She didn’t need to hear the suggestion a second time.
Chapter 15
Later that afternoon, Clarissa stood on her balcony, watching the sky change from blue to red as the sun lowered. She’d spent the afternoon reading. Her attempt at keeping the endless questions at bay. Several stories below her, cars jammed the street. A road-rage-ridden driver honked his horn incessantly. The sound echoed between her building and one across the street. After a few minutes, the car had passed and the honking continued. It sounded like a toy horn the further away it went.
She couldn’t imagine a life where she would get up, fight traffic, sit behind a desk all day, and then fight traffic all the way home. From there it only got more exciting, making dinner and falling asleep on the couch to the late news, if she managed to stay up that late. Her life wasn’t perfect, yet, she felt that she had it better than those stuck in traffic below her.
Sunlight faded, but the temperature hardly dropped. She reentered the apartment, started a pot of coffee, and decided to shower and change. By the time she had finished, the coffee was ready. She didn’t care that it was half past eight as she took a sip from her mug. Coffee, and caffeine in general, never had much of an effect on her. It’d wake her in the morning, but beyond that, the effects were minimal. She could drink it up to the moment she lay down at night and still fall asleep within minutes.
An hour into a new book, someone rapped on her front door. Clarissa sat up, startled and concerned. She tossed the paperback onto the coffee table and retrieved her pistol. The weapon brought about a sense of security. She knew that she could handle whoever was on the other side of the door.
She looked through the peephole. Amy leaned her head to the side and smiled.
“I see you in there,” the woman said from the hall.
Clarissa slid the deadbolt to the right, tucked her pistol behind her back and pulled the door open, blocking the entrance with her body.
“That’s not how you’re going, is it?” Amy asked, waving her hand in front of her own outfit.
“Going?”
“To the social gathering tonight. You know, otherwise known as a party. You didn’t forget, did you?”
She had. And at that moment, there was nothing she wanted to do less than go to a party full of people she didn’t know.
Perhaps sensing her resistance, Amy said, “Don’t worry. I won’t leave your side. There’ll be plenty of eligible men in attendance, too. Now, you look clean, so go get changed and meet me out here in thirty minutes.”
“I really just—”
“I’m not taking no for an answer, Clarissa.”
She’d become aware of that. Reluctantly, Clarissa agreed. She closed the door and headed to her room. She picked a casual outfit, one that would not reveal the bump of her weapon holstered behind her in a pair of compression shorts. The jeans and blouse fit perfectly, and revealed nothing. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she’d be left alone most of the evening. She could hope so, at least.
When she stepped into the hallway, a teenage girl with short blond hair and thin blue-framed glasses perched on her narrow nose stood in the middle of the corridor. She smiled at Clarissa and reached out to knock on Amy’s door.
“You’re Adam’s babysitter,” Clarissa stated.
The girl nodded and said nothing.
Amy pulled her door open, said hello to Clarissa, then welcomed the babysitter into her home, calling her by her first name, Beth.
Clarissa waited in the hallway for Amy to return. When the woman did, she said, “Follow me.”
She’d yet to explore the halls of the building. Her time alone had been spent in her apartment, away from prying eyes. Although she doubted everyone in the building was as friendly and inquisitive as Amy. Sometimes it was better to remain a wallflower. This was one of those times. Which was why she had second thoughts about going to the party.
“Listen, Amy. I don’t mean to sound—”
“Don’t try and back out on me now. You’re already accounted for up there. You have to show.”
“What does it matter? It’s not like I’m going to be here long.”
Shrugging, Amy grabbed Clarissa’s wrist and pulled her forward. They reached the end of the hall where a seldom-used set of stairs waited. The stairwell deposited them onto the rooftop.
Clarissa took in the sight of the manicured bushes and flowers. Gravel filled in the spaces between the walkways. At the far end, globe lights hung from a solid-frame structure. Smooth jazz played in the background at a volume slightly above the murmur of the fifty-person crowd.
“You know all these people?” Clarissa asked.
“Most,” Amy said, nodding. “You’d think a building like this would be stuffy, but it’s quite the opposite. Sure, some of the higher-up executive types keep to themselves, but even then, most of them have wives who like to socialize.”
Clarissa took in the sight of the crowd, realizing how out of place she was. Her casual clothing looked like something a bum would don when compared to the outfits these people wore. Although she had limited options to choose from, she wouldn’t have dressed up to their level even if she could. Things like that mattered
little to her.
She felt Amy’s hand wrap around her wrist. A moment later she was pulled forward. They stopped in front of the bar. Amy asked for a glass of Chardonnay. Clarissa, a glass of Cabernet. She tried to leave a tip for the bartender, but he declined with a shake of his head, and a wave of his hands.
Amy led her around the rooftop, introducing her to half the crowd. Clarissa placed faces with names and stored them for those awkward elevator moments. When they reached the other side of the crowd, she felt her stomach tighten at the sight of a man she didn’t expect to see on the top of her building.
Chapter 16
Beck leaned to the side, his right elbow atop the railing, legs crossed at the ankles. He wore a pair of blue jeans and a dark sports coat. At least she wasn’t the only one in denim. The wind lifted his hair. Gray strands reflected the diffused lighting strung two feet overhead. The globe lights swung side-to-side in the breeze. He was engaged in an animated conversation with an older gentleman who appeared to be rather riled up over whatever it was they were talking about.
Clarissa drifted to her left, placing herself in Beck’s peripheral vision. Amy’s voice trailed off. Perhaps the woman had noticed Clarissa staring and figured she was about to make a move on a handsome stranger. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Amy take a few steps back.
“I’ll grab us a couple more drinks,” Amy said.
Clarissa nodded without taking her gaze off Beck.
The older man was the first to notice her. He stopped mid-sentence. Turning to face her, he said, “Help you?”
She said nothing.
Beck turned his head. “Clarissa.”
“Beck.”
“This is Harold McCain.” Beck gestured toward the older man, who stepped forward and extended his hand. “He lives two floors above you.”
