by Chris Hauty
“That kind of blue-sky thinking will put your ass in a federal penitentiary, as well as mine. Let’s assume we’re dealing with a trained counter-operative and act accordingly.”
Sinatra detests being patronized like this, but he holds his tongue. The soothing cigarette smoke expanding in his lungs helps him stay calm and keep his emotions in check. But he truly does hate this job.
“Roger that.”
“Keep me informed.” Saying that, the Bearded Man curtly disconnects the call as he’s pulling up to the White House’s southwest gate. The DC Park Police manning the security kiosk there have checked him through numerous times in the past, but protocol remains the same. Everyone receives a thorough identification inspection upon each arrival. The Bearded Man has his federal ID and passport available on the seat next to him and passes it through the open window. Within moments he’s driving up the White House driveway to an available parking space, exclusively for VIP visitors.
* * *
HAYLEY COMES DOWN the stairwell linking the first floor with the ground floor two steps at a time. Entering into the ground-floor corridor, she finds a much calmer scene than just thirty minutes before when first arriving for work. Aides and support staff must be huddled in their respective offices, allowing for Hayley’s unobserved passage through the rabbit warren of corridors and small offices that define much of the entire West Wing. With this brief window of opportunity, Hayley scoots up the hallway, jogging past her old office space and the entrance to the Navy Mess, devoid of customers in this moment of international crisis, and stopping just short of the next corner leading to the always guarded Situation Room, at an unmarked door.
Of course, Hayley has never been inside the Room That Must Not Be Mentioned and has no idea what lies within. But Becca, in her ongoing effort to pump up her own self-importance, made a point of telling Hayley all about the RTINTBM because secrets are a narcissist’s currency of influence and manipulation. Spilling insider knowledge was the NYU grad’s first play in a long game of gaining power and control. In this moment of need, Hayley appreciates Becca’s obnoxious tendencies. She only can hope it pays off.
Fully expecting the secure room to be locked up tight, Hayley puts hand to doorknob and, to her amazement, is able to turn it. Looking up and down the empty corridor, she pushes the door open and steps inside, finding herself in a relatively small room, walls covered with signal-blocking Faraday. The Bearded Man, a Northrop Grumman SCS-100 integrated briefcase communication system opened before him on a desk, is startled to have a visitor. He glares at Hayley with irritation.
“Yes?” the Bearded Man demands with a tone of voice that would make most men cower in response.
Hayley doesn’t express anything but sincere apology, masking her disappointment. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. Wrong door.”
Wondering who the visitor might be, Hayley backpedals out the door, closing it firmly behind her, and heads back up the corridor toward the CoS Support office. The man seemed more like college professor than DC insider. Whoever he is, he must have top security clearance to have free rein of the RTINTBM. Pressing forward with plan B, Hayley guesses correctly the former janitorial closet will be empty. Soon as she has pushed the door closed, she checks her Blackphone for Wi-Fi or cellular signal. There is nothing. The phone is a plastic brick.
Hayley places Scott’s tablet on her old desk and sits. Closing her eyes, she recalls the morning a few days earlier in the Secret Service agent’s kitchen and, from an upside-down perspective “sees” Scott tap a four-digit PIN on the tablet’s screen, gaining access. Grateful for her eidetic memory, Hayley opens her eyes again and types the pass code into the computer. Access is granted. The interface displays Scott’s tablet homepage, containing the usual jumble of folder icons and files.
“Shit!” Hayley exclaims, analyzing the tablet screen. The cellular icon in the top right corner of the desktop suggests the faintest of connections.
Working quickly, Hayley taps the settings icon and shuts off Wi-Fi and cellular connections on the device. She doesn’t delude herself. If the bad guys were anticipating their fellow conspirator’s device to be activated, they’ve made its location within only a few moments of triggering. The damage is done.
Hayley returns to the tablet’s desktop screen and begins searching folders, quickly closing one and opening the next after quick review. She finds nothing of particular interest. Stored on the Secret Service agent’s device is the exact sort of data one would expect to find. For a moment, Hayley is stumped. She stops searching and broods on it.
On a hunch, she goes to the tablet’s display settings and deactivates the Reduce Transparency option. Returning to the desktop, Hayley sees that a previously hidden folder titled DAMOCLES has appeared there. She clicks on the folder, revealing dozens of files with random, alphanumeric names. Hayley hovers the cursor over one file, chosen unsystematically, and clicks it open. The file contains a log of Peter Hall’s personal schedule for the week past, down to the minute, with specificity that could have only been created through intense surveillance.
Hayley closes the Hall file and randomly selects another file. It contains a detailed blueprint of Hall’s residence on Kalorama Road. She closes that file and chooses another, revealing the doctor’s report of the president’s latest physical examination, a document that isn’t supposed to be seen by anyone but Monroe or his wife.
Hayley pauses to reflect on the confirmation of her suspicions. Without a doubt, the president’s life is at risk. She guesses the plan is for Monroe to suffer a “heart attack” similar to Hall’s. Timing for the potential attack remains a complete unknown, however. Hayley’s reverie is interrupted when the door is abruptly pushed open, revealing an unhappy Karen Rey on the other side. Hayley closes out the Monroe file without taking her eyes off the White House aide standing in the doorway.
“Ma’am?” Hayley asks innocently, aware she has no valid excuse for hiding in the CoS Support office.
“I’ve been looking all over for you!” Rey exclaims.
“Ms. Rey, I’m—”
But her supervisor cuts her off with a hand gesture. “No time for that. Follow me,” she orders Hayley, disappearing from the open doorway.
Hayley powers down the tablet and sees on its dark display a profusion of her fingerprints. Alarmed, she swipes the tablet glass with her shirtsleeve and hurries to catch up with Rey in the corridor, halfway to the stairwell.
“Oval Office briefing in three minutes. POTUS asked specifically that you be on hand to support,” Rey explains as she walks. “Don’t ask me why,” she adds with a cutting look back at Hayley.
* * *
THE BEARDED MAN closes the briefcase communications unit. He’s due in the Oval Office in seven and a half minutes. As CIA deputy director, Office of Intelligence Integration, one of James Odom’s responsibilities is daily communication with the National Counterterrorism Center, back at McLean. Without a clear directive from the White House regarding ongoing election meddling by the Russians, among other active campaigns of international espionage, Odom has made it his personal mission to direct the NCTC to conduct clandestine countermeasures against Moscow. Several levels of the US intelligence community, above and below, support his efforts. Were they to become public or made known to the administration, Odom would be fired. With the CIA’s powers under assault by a hostile executive branch, he doesn’t see that termination as much worse a fate.
Odom exits the West Wing ground-floor-level secure room and hurries toward the stairwell. The Russians’ cyberattack on Estonia demands immediate response from the West, and the CIA deputy director is determined to convince the president to lead that action, despite Monroe’s bewildering hard-on for Russia. Charging up the stairs to the first floor, Odom reminds himself to maintain respect when speaking with Monroe. It will be no small task. Though the president’s military record is to be commended, the man is completely ill-suited for the office he holds. His election is the strongest evi
dence for the ultimate failure of democracy and certainly puts the future of the United States as perennial superpower in doubt. As he strides into the Outer Oval Office and is greeted by the president’s personal secretary, Odom can only worry about his children and grandchildren. Who knows what the United States of America will look like in twenty-five years?
The CIA deputy director is ushered into the Oval Office, where he finds one of the West Wing’s dozens of aides as well as the young woman who had barged into the secure room downstairs, an intern, judging by her young age. The more senior aide fusses after him in the manner to which Odom is accustomed, far too obsequious for his taste.
The intern, in contrast, displays a cool nonchalance in his presence. As evidenced by their earlier, accidental meeting, the young woman does not fluster easily. Odom is impressed with the intern’s poise. He knows from experience such a character trait cannot be learned. The CIA deputy director makes a mental note to follow up with inquiries regarding the young woman, after the current crisis has been resolved. The agency is always on the lookout for potential recruits, and this intern with the pleasant southern twang just might make an ideal candidate. Who knows? Maybe she could be a deputy director one day.
* * *
AS HAYLEY FOLLOWS Rey up the stairwell, to the West Wing’s first floor, she processes the evidence she has gleaned from Scott’s tablet, fighting against the panic welling up within her. Everything she has experienced in life has conditioned her to control fear and compartmentalize it. Properly handled, fear can serve primarily as motivation, fuel for the fire necessary to act. To be brave.
Whom to trust is the question that looms large. Asher Danes is a helpful ally but hardly possesses the necessary skills or facilities to roll back a threat to the president. The Secret Service is clearly not the answer, not while it remains unclear whether Scott was an authentic member of that organization or covert operative. Perhaps the FBI is where she can turn. Agent Udall appears genuine in her investigation of Peter Hall’s death, but Hayley decides it’s too soon to reveal her findings. Doing so makes herself a target. Her best defense remains her anonymity. She has a hunch the conspiracy is currently in a holding pattern, waiting for further international developments or corresponding actions by the president. By the time Hayley follows Rey into the presently unoccupied Oval Office, she has soothed her anxieties and resumes being in full control of her emotions.
“Unnoticed and unseen. Listen only for a direct request from the president or myself,” Rey instructs Hayley as she surveys the large room for anything amiss.
“Yes, ma’am,” Hayley tells her. “Will do.”
Rey sees the tablet in Hayley’s hand. “Give me that thing!”
Rey abruptly snatches the tablet from Hayley just as the door leading from the Outer Oval Office opens. With no other options, given the obvious time crunch, Rey stashes the tablet on a side table and turns to greet James Odom as he strides into the room.
“Deputy Director Odom! Welcome to the White House, sir!” Rey exclaims to the CIA official, hating how loudly she has said it.
Odom makes no move to shake Rey’s hand and barely acknowledges her even with a glance. Instead, he surveys the room, his eyes falling on Hayley standing to one side and recognizing the intern from the interruption downstairs just twenty minutes before. The West Wing really is an awfully cramped space, with people practically working on top of one another.
Hayley feels the deputy director’s eyes on her but simply nods, meeting his gaze with a neutral expression. She briefly entertains the notion of seeking his help in combating the conspiracy against the administration then dismisses the idea. How could she ever approach an individual of his stature even if he could be trusted? She might just as well shout it from the rooftops. It’s ludicrous to even consider.
Rey, meanwhile, continues to flutter around Odom like a nervous bird in search of bread crumbs. “Some coffee, Mr. Odom? Or hot tea?”
Odom dismisses the offer with a shake of his bald head and points at the couch. “Here?” he gruffly asks Rey.
“Yes, sir. That’s perfect.”
As Odom sits, the door leading into the president’s private study opens, and Monroe strides into the room like MacArthur storming Blue Beach at Luzon, trailed by Deputy Chief of Staff Kyle Rodgers, Vice President Vincent Landers, and the president’s wonkish national security advisor, Albert Seretti.
Monroe’s eyes find Hayley before anything else. “Ah, our intruder-defying intern.”
Hayley responds with only the most demure smile. “Good morning, sir.”
James Odom has risen again to his feet. He is respectful but not reverential. “Mr. President,” he says as he extends his right hand to Monroe.
The president shakes Odom’s hand. “Thanks for swinging by, Jim.” There is no warmth in their greeting, only business.
The vice president lurches into the uncomfortable pause in the conversation. “Can you believe these fucking Russians? The president tries to go over to Japan for alliance building in the Far East, and Fedor unleashes his cyber-monkey horde on the soft underbelly of NATO. The Second World War wasn’t painful enough for these crazy bastards?”
No one in the room quite knows how to respond to the vice president’s outburst. Monroe sits on a chair presidentially placed before the fireplace. Odom takes his seat again on the couch. The vice president and Al Seretti take seats on the opposite couch, while Kyle Rodgers joins Karen Rey standing against the far wall.
Monroe stretches his long legs before him, sliding down into the chair, hands thrust into his pockets. “In his own way, the vice president raises the essential question, Jim. What are we to make of this? Are we sure Moscow is behind it?”
Odom glances toward Hayley, hesitant to begin the briefing in front of someone clearly without even a whiff of security clearance. Monroe nods impatiently.
“How about a grilled cheese from the mess, Ms. Chill?” He looks to his guest. “Jim? Anything?”
“No, thank you, Mr. President.”
With a nod from Karen Rey, Hayley turns and quickly exits the door leading into the Outer Oval Office.
“Okay. Let’s hear it,” Monroe tells Odom.
“In short, sir, it’s the opinion of the Central Intelligence Agency and the intelligence units of our cooperating allies that these cyberattacks by Moscow are a debilitating precursor of a full-scale military invasion of Estonia.” Odom pauses for a reaction from the president and gets none. Monroe stares at Odom without expression. The CIA deputy director continues. “This is the Russian playbook, sir. It represents the final trip wire, a test of US and NATO resolve to intervene on behalf of an otherwise defenseless member nation.”
“But they’ve launched a cyberattack against Estonia before,” National Security Advisor Seretti interjects.
More than ever, Vice President Landers is anxious to display his grasp of the issues. “In 2009, I think. Tiff over some old Soviet memorial the Estonians wanted to move.”
But no one in this room is going to outperform James Odom. He addresses the vice president with a slightly patronizing tone. “It was 2007, Mr. Vice President. The Bronze Soldier of Tallinn.” Odom turns back toward Monroe. “Last night’s attack was fifty times broader in scope than 2007 and, at this hour, continues to intensify. Digitally speaking, sir, Estonia is operating this morning at a pre–Industrial Age capacity.”
Monroe doesn’t seem terribly concerned. “Could be worse. One ICBM from Yoshkar-Ola and the entire country would be eating dog food from a can.”
Odom remains stone-faced, keeping his emotions in check. He knows he must choose wisely the perfect time in the meeting to go on the attack. He only gets one chance.
Seretti elbows his way into the discussion. “Isn’t it problematic to attribute a DOS attack like this to a government entity? Could just as easily be a few nationalist-minded Estonian teenagers with mad love for Fedor Malkin.”
Odom feels his phone vibrate with an incoming text. He discr
eetly checks the phone while Seretti continues with his pedantic blather. He sees a text from an unidentified caller, reading: connected ten mins ago.
The president sees Odom checking his phone and isn’t pleased. “Something more important on your phone than a meeting with your president, Jim?”
Odom looks up from his phone on the couch next to him and gives his full attention to Monroe. “Our hackers are better than their hackers, despite what you hear. We know who did it, sir. Russia attacked Estonia. Sanctioned in full by Moscow.”
As he finishes addressing Monroe, Odom feels the phone vibrate again. Fortunately, Seretti launches into another long-winded monologue, and the CIA man has the opportunity to glance quickly at his phone again.
The second text from the unidentified number, presumably Sinatra, reads inside WH.
While Seretti drones on, with the vice president occasionally interjecting in order to prove his usefulness, Odom looks up from his phone and glances around the room. With a jolt he sees that the only tablet in sight is Scott’s, as clearly described to him by Sinatra, on the side table where Karen Rey had left it.
With an economy of movement, Odom taps a response to Sinatra’s texts: need diversion.
The meeting with the president and the need to convince him of taking action against Moscow has now taken a back seat to recovering the tablet. Odom cannot take his eyes off the device as Seretti and Vice President Landers get into a low-grade beef, each trying to impress Monroe with their incisive analysis. The president, for his part, doesn’t seem interested. His decision regarding a response to the Russian aggression was undoubtedly made before the meeting even started. Odom waits for his moment.
* * *
WHEN HAYLEY REACHES the “to go” window of the Navy Mess, Leon Washington, white hair matching his chef’s uniform, is just about to cover a piping hot, beautifully grilled cheese sandwich, presented on a stainless-steel room-service-style tray. She is surprised to find the food already prepared, and the cook, in his early sixties, reads her expression.
