by Chris Hauty
Asher can think of no easy response to Hayley’s hypothetical. Without much effort, she has boxed him into his own hypocrisy. Brooding as he steers the Prius into the parking garage two blocks from the White House, he says nothing and thereby concedes the point. It’s five minutes past seven in the morning. The state of the union, by all appearances, is sound.
* * *
THE TOWN OF Shady Side, in Anne Arundel County, Maryland, is famous for nothing. Prior to the nineteenth century, the area was known as the Great Swamp, if that says anything. Today, something slightly more than five thousand souls live within the town’s borders, and few inhabitants want anything other than to be left alone. It is an insular and clannish town on the western Chesapeake Bay as unpretentious as a trim from Supercuts and about as attractive. Steamy and dank in the summer and frigid cold and dank in winter, the town is mostly ignored by day-trippers and tourists. An F-150 Ford pickup is the preferred chariot in Shady Side, and if there’s any reason at all for a brief visit, it’s Andy’s Crab House.
The Bearded Man eases his 2016 Buick Regal TourX into the gravel lot that serves as Andy’s parking lot. He could afford a more expensive car and one that carried with it more status, but the Buick suits the Bearded Man just fine. He is frugal, and the amount of money his fellow citizens spend on their automobiles has always struck him as juvenile, a surrender of common sense to marketing and peer pressure. The other vehicles crowded into the lot are uniformly black and evenly divided between expensive European sedans and gargantuan luxury SUVs. A few of these other vehicles come with drivers, middle-aged men in cheap dark suits who stand in a tight cluster behind a looming Escalade, smoking cigarettes and gazing into their smartphones.
The Bearded Man parks and exits the Buick, heading across the grass lawn toward the low-slung restaurant. Comprised mainly of a wraparound, screened-in porch, Andy’s Crab House has a fine view of the bay, the gentle shoreline not thirty yards away. Everyone must already be here, the Bearded Man thinks as he draws nearer to the screen-door entrance. There’s no overestimating the significance of today’s meeting, as evidenced by the perfect attendance.
The Bearded Man grew up seventy miles as the crow flies from where he stands, and twice that far by automobile. Crisfield, Maryland, on the Chesapeake’s eastern shore, is a crabbing town, and he is, appropriately, the son of a crabber. The crab man’s life wasn’t easy, the hours brutal when crabs were in season and the drinking even more brutal when they were not. The Bearded Man’s father beat him close to every day of his life, until the age of thirteen, when the beatings stopped and were replaced with verbal abuse. The Bearded Man, in hindsight, preferred the physical stuff. His father, especially when inspired by the twin muses of vodka and beer, wielded a lancing wit.
Salvation came in the guise of the sweetly named Belle, a churlish hurricane that thrashed the Delmarva Peninsula on August 9, 1976, and overturned the thirty-two-foot boat the Bearded Man’s father had taken out, against his own better sense and advice of all his peers, to run his traps despite storm warnings. Whether his father had been simply drunk, pressed by mounting unpaid bills, driven by dumb bullheadedness, or some combination of all three, the Bearded Man was liberated from his tormentor at the age of fifteen.
As he pauses before entering the crab shack, the Bearded Man glances at the flat light bouncing off the slate-gray bay that swallowed up his father. He can almost believe he loves the Chesapeake and that he yearns to return for a life here, to build the home he has designed to the last dormer in his imagination. His grandkids will visit him and his wife at this house. The Bearded Man imagines how he will teach them how to crab by hand, with string and raw chicken leg, and how to break apart their shells after steaming and extract all of the succulent meat from inside. He will grow old in a rocking chair on the porch of the fantasy house, watching the sunrise across the bay.
He smiles to himself and shakes his head. He wonders why he’s been succumbing to these absurd musings of late. Sit on the porch and watch the sunrise? Good God, he’d rather blow his brains out. And crabs? He hasn’t been able to stomach the meat of those vile, spindly creatures in decades. Memory of countless hours spent teasing out the meat from cracked-open, razor-sharp shells and stuffing it into plastic containers for the tourist trade are almost too painful to recall. Washington is where he belongs, he reminds himself. That’s where he can be useful.
He enters the crab shack. Its proprietor, Andy, knew the Bearded Man’s father back in the old days. His discretion is guaranteed. With the end of the season, the crab shack never opens before five p.m., if at all. The Bearded Man and the six men seated at one of the long picnic-style tables on the screened-in porch have the place to themselves.
He greets the proprietor with warm embrace. “Hello, Andy. How are you?”
Responding to the pleasantry seems a cross too heavy to bear. Andy pours his newest guest a cup of awful coffee, refills other cups, and then retreats back into his beloved kitchen, his sanctuary. As the Bearded Man takes a seat by pulling up a cheap plastic chair to the end of the picnic table, the others look at him expectantly. All of the men are white, except for one who is black. All of the men are in their fifties or sixties. One of the men we recognize as the senator who was interviewed by CNN outside his office, Taylor Cox. They are all conspirators.
After a moment’s pause, he brings their meeting to order with a simple announcement. “Confirmation came in an hour ago. Positive identification was made. He’s gone.”
“Assessment?” one of the conspirators asks.
“This man was a significant piece. We have other assets inside, of course, but purely intelligence-gathering players. Nonoperational. Our action team is formulating a revised plan, should it come to that.”
“What details do we have about his death? What do we know right now?” another conspirator demands.
“The police have only begun their investigation, but they believe a second person was in the vehicle and that a struggle occurred inside the vehicle prior to it going over the bridge.” The Bearded Man pauses, troubled more than the others might guess by the following piece of information. “The operative’s combat knife has not yet been recovered.”
“How do we know he was even carrying his knife?” asks a third conspirator.
“The empty sheath was strapped to the man’s ankle,” he replies dryly.
“What about his cover?” the first conspirator asks with concern.
The Bearded Man pauses, barely hiding his impatience. “Scott Billings wasn’t undercover.”
“He actually was Secret Service?!”
They’ve covered these general aspects of the operation many times before, but the Bearded Man explains again, this time more tolerantly. “We have allies at every level of every agency in the federal government, and beyond,” he assures them.
“Except for this mysterious ‘second person’ in the car apparently,” Senator Cox reminds them, speaking up for the first time. It’s clear his voice carries weight among the men gathered around the table.
“We’re pursuing that inquiry independent of the police investigation, collecting incidental surveillance cams and eye witnesses. If and when this individual makes himself known, we’ll be there to control the situation.”
The senator nods in approval. “The president is golfing on a day Russia’s Northern Fleet has moved its flagship Kirov-class battle cruiser twenty miles off the coast of Estonia. Time is clearly of essence,” he adds, speaking gravely.
“Is playing golf after Labor Day now a treasonable offense, Senator?” a fourth conspirator asks.
“Is sitting at this table?” the first conspirator interjects before Cox can speak.
The senator clears his throat, an unsubtle signal to the others. If there is a leader of this cabal, it is Taylor Cox. “Argue all you want, but there is no question the country is in grave danger.” He speaks by rote, as if giving a speech. “That’s why we’ve assembled this group, is it not?”
&
nbsp; The others voice their unanimous agreement. The Bearded Man gestures for order.
“Peter Hall was Monroe’s fixer. No one else in the West Wing even knows how to make the toilets work on Capitol Hill. Hall was Monroe’s guy. Now Hall is dead. Without him, he’s just an icon with a noble profile. God willing, the need for additional measures has been alleviated. Time now to just watch and wait.”
Throughout the meeting, the phone or electronic device belonging to each man has intermittently vibrated or alerted a new message. That these notifications have been unanimously ignored is testament to the meeting’s importance. But then, all of a sudden, the devices of everyone at the table begin to simultaneously signal incoming calls, emails, or text messages. This barrage is too much to disregard, and within moments everyone at the table, including the Bearded Man, is peering into their respective electronic device.
* * *
WALKING PAST THE Secret Service agents stationed on West Executive Avenue, Asher and Hayley detect an emergency, all-hands-on-deck vibe as they approach the ground-floor entrance of the West Wing. Asher reacts warily. “All of this excitement isn’t because a Secret Service agent dumped his BMW into the Potomac, is it?”
“I don’t think so,” Hayley surmises. They both retrieve their smartphones to see what’s going on.
Entering the building, Hayley and Asher encounter a frenzied atmosphere. Staffers move up and down the corridor at a half jog, unmindful of anyone in their path. Asher and Hayley pause inside the doorway, avoiding the trampling herds. Karen Rey, her expression drawn tight with anxiety, strides past and pulls a double take on seeing her young staff members taking cover in the doorway. She pauses briefly to have a word with them.
“POTUS due in fifteen minutes! I need you up in Operations, now!” Rey starts to move off again, no time for discussion.
“What about the Japan trip?” Asher asks after her.
“Canceled,” the senior aide informs them. Their blank expressions inform Rey they haven’t heard the news. “Cyberattack on Estonia. Banks. Government. Infrastructure. All down.”
Asher and Hayley try to process the revelation. It doesn’t happen fast enough for Karen Rey.
“Get to your desks and stay the hell out of the way!” Rey turns and hurries up the corridor.
Hayley follows Asher to the stairs. The scene on the first floor is no less frantic. They take refuge in the windowless White House Operations support office, just off the Outer Oval Office. Asher immediately picks up the television remote and turns on CNN. The news channel carries a live feed of Marine One landing on the South Lawn, the white edifice of the Washington Monument in the background. Monroe immediately disembarks, greeted by a saluting Marine in dress uniform, and heads across the still-green grass, grim faced, toward the executive mansion.
“Never fails to freak me out, watching this business on TV when it’s all going down just on the other side of that door,” Asher observes.
Hayley doesn’t respond but instead withdraws Scott’s tablet from a tote bag.
Asher has taken note of this action. “What do you think you’re going to do with that?”
“We’re running out of time. I’m not sure, but the threat against the president may have just increased dramatically.” Hayley can see she has failed to convince Asher, so she adds, “We need to know if POTUS is a potential target.”
Asher gestures at the tablet as if it’s a two-headed venomous snake. “Turn that thing on and you’re no longer the X factor. Go live and you’re real-time and highly GPS-able.”
“Is there a more secure and controlled location on the planet than the West Wing of the White House?”
“I saw those guys, Hayley,” he says emphatically. “That was a hit team!”
“So you learned at Harvard what a ‘hit team’ looks like?”
“I’ve seen every Jason Bourne movie in existence. I can even tell them apart.”
“That puts you ahead of all CIA case officers combined,” she jokes, standing up and heading toward the door, tablet in hand.
“I’m serious, Hayley. Don’t power up that machine.”
“The ground floor is one, big fat Wi-Fi dead zone. There’s zero cell coverage in CoS Support office.”
“Intermittently a dead zone!” Asher corrects her.
In actuality, Hayley’s plan is to try the Room That Is Not To Be Mentioned (RTINTBM), next to the Situation Room and on the same level as CoS. Impervious to wireless eavesdropping and swept twice a day for listening devices, the RTINTBM is a kind of secure phone booth, designed specifically for personal communications. Included in the security packet of everyone who receives West Wing credentials is a sworn oath never to disclose the existence of the Room That Is Not To Be Mentioned. Hayley isn’t even certain what exactly is inside the room. Is there a table and chair, at least?
In the weeks Hayley has been in the West Wing, she has yet to see the RTINTBM in use. It’s also usually locked and secure from unauthorized entry. If Hayley were to mention her plan A to Asher, then he really would have good reason for outrage. Better to lead with the slightly less dumb plan and not even mention unauthorized use of the RTINTBM. She puts her hand on the doorknob, turning to face Asher, who sits in his chair with arms defiantly folded across his chest.
“If Rey comes around, tell her I’m in the bathroom.”
“You’re forgetting she can go check for you in the women’s lavatory,” Asher reminds her. But Hayley ignores this comment and disappears out the door.
* * *
THE ROW HOUSE on W Street is remarkable in its utter un-remarkableness. Sinatra had been able to rent it furnished and on a month-to-month basis. All of his guys are from out of town, and he prefers keeping them together and under close supervision. They’re bored, sometimes spending whole days without leaving the generic, little clapboard row house, but they’re also being well compensated for doing nothing. Operations really are like life while on active duty in a war zone, long stretches of doing nothing followed by short bursts of intense combat and hair-raising action. Except for the hit on Peter Hall, which went flawlessly, Sinatra and his team have done nothing but wait for orders.
While some of his men are sleeping, watching television, or playing video games (Bishop absolutely rules at Counter-Strike), Sinatra checks Redfin on his tablet for new listings. His agent has emailed him late the night before that an offer on the house on King James Place had been accepted by the seller, which distressed Sinatra more than was really appropriate. Scrolling through the listings in and around Alexandria, Sinatra recognizes his manic house search is just compensation for how much he misses his ex-wife. This kind of thinking often devolves into robust self-loathing, and when his cell phone vibrates, Sinatra welcomes the distraction from his own obsessions.
“Hello,” is all he says in answering the phone. The caller ID tells him it’s the Bearded Man calling.
The Bearded Man drives his Buick in moderate traffic on the northbound side of Interstate 395, exiting at Fourteenth Street. He can’t explain the vague depression he has felt since leaving the meeting at Andy’s Crab House but surmises the place brings back unpleasant memories of his father. Andy’s dad had been a drinking pal of the old man. No doubt Andy bears some of the same emotional scars. The Bearded Man recalls gossip regarding Andy suggesting a stint in state prison. Remembering this lifts the cloud hanging over him. Life could’ve turned out a lot worse. It’s important to count one’s blessings. Always. Placing the call to Sinatra, getting back to work and in control of things just makes him feel that much better.
“What do you hear?” the Bearded Man demands to know.
“Police are widening their search of the river. They’re pretty convinced there was a passenger in the car. We know there was.”
“Incidental surveillance?”
“Nothing happens on the DC city streets without a hundred cameras recording it. Our analytics team located tape clearly showing a second person in the car, but video quality and angl
es are reportedly bad. Can’t even determine gender.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
The Bearded Man’s taking the Lord’s name in vain, with an obscenity no less, offends Sinatra, who never misses Sunday mass. He reaches for a cigarette, self-medication for his habitually short temper.
“Analytics believes the passenger made it out of the river,” Sinatra adds after lighting up.
“That’s unfortunate.” The optimism and glow the Bearded Man had been feeling just a minute before is fast disappearing. Checking his watch, he sees he’s late for his next meeting.
“Who knows? Maybe the police will find something,” Sinatra offers as consolation, far too casually for the Bearded Man’s taste. Not for the first time he wishes he’d hired Israelis for this job.
“Anything else?” he asks, ignoring Sinatra’s lame assurances.
“The FBI is still pushing the Hall investigation.” Sinatra pauses before revealing this next piece of news, but then plunges ahead. It’s not like the Bearded Man won’t find out anyway. “They found trace Xylocaine in the autopsy.”
If there’s a silver lining of this call with Sinatra, it’s that it came after the meeting at Andy’s Crab House.
“I’m working on a fix. Adjusting dosages,” Sinatra promises him.
“A little late for that, don’t you think?” The Bearded Man’s cold fury comes over the phone line like an Arctic blast. “Anything else?”
“One more thing. We didn’t find our man’s computer at his house. We’re thinking it was lost in the accident. If not, we’ll have a location the second it’s turned on.” With a brave burst of optimism, Sinatra adds, “It might be just the lead we need to find the passenger.”
“Who must suspect something amiss. Otherwise he or she would’ve gone to the police by now.”
“How do we know the passenger isn’t halfway to Alexandria, swept conveniently downstream?”
