by Chris Hauty
“Never a dull moment, right?” He gestures at the windows and French doors looking out on the Rose Garden. “Like sheltering in a veritable fishbowl.”
“Yes, sir. Hope everyone is okay out there.” Hayley keeps her breathing as normal and steady as possible, aware of her own heartbeat racing.
“The president seems to have a real affection for you. I can see why.” He extends a hand. “James Odom.”
Hayley takes his hand in hers and shakes. “Thank you, sir. Hayley Chill. Sorry about walking in on you downstairs. I was confused by the doors looking all the same.” She pulls off a fairly admirable job of appearing helpless.
“Perfectly understandable. Place is a rat’s maze, in more ways than one, right?” He says this with a conspiratorial grin, seeking connection necessary for recruitment.
“Yes, sir, I suppose some might think so.” Hayley stops there, denying Odom her collaboration. Her eyes briefly glance toward the tablet under his arm but not long enough to arouse suspicion. Clearly Odom expects more from her. “I’m an intern in Operations,” she adds helpfully.
“You look too old for college, Ms. Chill.”
“Discharged about a year ago, sir.”
Odom nods. Of course! She’s ex-military. Why hadn’t he assumed as much in the first place.
“Happy here?” he asks, zeroing in.
“Very grateful to be serving my country, sir, in any capacity,” she answers, deflecting his inquiry with a canned line.
Odom nods again. Without even trying, this young woman is a stone-cold pro.
“After you complete your internship here, come see me at Langley.” He produces his business card and hands it to Hayley. “Our country suffers from a dire shortage of adults.”
A Secret Service agent pokes his head in the doorway that leads out into the corridor. “All clear, folks. You’re free to move about the complex.”
Odom winks at Hayley. “We live to fight another day.”
Before she can respond, the CIA deputy director exits the door leading out into the Rose Garden and takes Scott Billings’s tablet with him.
Hayley looks down at the card Odom had given her, which is stunningly spare.
JAMES ODOM
202-589-1212
She places the business card in her jacket pocket with conflicting emotions. Scott’s computer and all of its resident data are lost to her. Contained in its storage mediums is indisputable proof of a conspiracy to attack the administration, if not POTUS himself. Nevertheless, Hayley has gained two irrefutable facts with its loss. First, the CIA deputy director has revealed himself to be party to the conspiracy, if not its leader. Secondly, Odom’s friendliness toward her suggests the conspirators have no idea Hayley suspects anything. She is an important factor in the game, and none of the other players know it.
The intern follows the others through the door, into the first-floor corridor. Looking over her shoulder, she sees two Secret Service agents walk past on the West Colonnade outside the Cabinet Room doors, carrying P90 submachine guns but chatting casually. It strikes Hayley the agents carry themselves with a swagger, like they own the place.
* * *
THE METROPOLITAN POLICE Department boat, one of two and more typically used as a sobriety checkpoint for inebriated recreational boaters, remains anchored just south of the Key Bridge. Police divers occasionally emerge from the depths with debris they’ve gathered from the river bottom. Uniformed officers in the boat collect the mud-covered items from the men in the water and lay them on tarps spread out on the deck. Tires, baby carriages, fishing rods, dozens of beer bottles, and an artificial leg, among other items, have been collected. Their relation to Scott Billings and the accident remain unsubstantiated. Nevertheless, the divers make repeated trips to the river’s bottom with their collection sacks.
Asher and Hayley watch the police boat and divers at work from the balcony of his condo. It is not quite five p.m. Because of the unexplained gunfire and ongoing investigation, all but the most essential West Wing staffers were sent home early. The sun is setting to the west. Asher has a vodka and tonic in hand. Hayley holds a glass of water.
“It’s like they know your backpack’s there and just haven’t found it yet,” Asher worries aloud.
“They don’t know it’s there. They’re just being thorough,” she responds, earning a dubious look from Asher. Hayley adds, “People in the military and law enforcement, they’re thorough.”
“I get the distinct feeling I’m being patronized.”
“That’s because you are being patronized.”
“A White House intern turns on a computer, and half the government shuts down,” Asher reminds her.
“And confirms POTUS is an active target in a conspiracy headed up by a CIA deputy director.” She pauses as another thought occurs to her. “Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Odom didn’t orchestrate the shelter in place.”
Asher involuntarily howls. “Oh, then what’s to worry?” His sarcasm doesn’t seem to affect her in the least. “Hayley, you were one of six people in the room where Odom found the tablet. Your fingerprints are all over that thing! As a recruit, yours have to be in the database.”
“Which is why I wiped it down.” Hayley dismisses his concerns with a gesture. “Three dozen different people in the West Wing could’ve left that tablet in the Oval, including Scott.”
“Why are you doing this? And spare me all that ‘duly elected’ business. You’re an intern, and I’m barely a White House aide. What’s so terribly wrong watching all of this play out from the sidelines?”
“James Odom doesn’t get to decide who stays president. And if it doesn’t piss you off he thinks he can, then we don’t have a whole lot more to talk about.”
Hayley turns and exits the balcony, heading back into the condo. Is she angry with him? Asher can’t say for sure. He pauses a moment to stare back out over the river and the police boat, bobbing on the flowing Potomac, then turns and reenters the condo.
“Hayley … ,” Asher calls after her. But Hayley keeps walking toward the entry door. In fact, she is angry. Asher’s diffident attitude is so contrary to her personality it gets under her skin. If Asher can’t see the imperative to act, then why waste any more time on him?
“Goddammit, Hayley—stop!” Asher calls out after her. She stops and turns toward him.
* * *
CLYDE’S OF GEORGETOWN is exactly what you’d expect of an insider hangout without pretensions. Brick walls, framed lithographs and a long pine-wood-topped bar with Tiffany lampshades overhead, the vibe is Everyone Knows Your Name at a price. Whether well-heeled lobbyist impressing a would-be client that he or she is regular people who can still enjoy the modest eighteen-dollar hamburger or agency staffer celebrating a birthday with office mates, Clyde’s has been packing them in seemingly since the dawn of time, and this evening is no different.
Thirty minutes after Hayley had nearly walked out in a huff, Asher disconnected a call and turned to her sitting on the couch. “He’ll meet us for drinks after work.”
“You’re sure it’s safe to talk to him? He can be trusted?” Keeping her secret to themselves has been keeping them alive.
“Homer is a family friend and a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist. If we can’t trust him, then we might as well quit and kiss democracy goodbye,” Asher had assured her.
Hayley wasn’t convinced, but what choice did they really have? If she’d learned anything today, they potentially have the entire Deep State arrayed against them in a conspiracy to destroy Monroe’s administration. Powerful allies are a necessity. Her gut was in a knot. It’d been hours since Hayley had had a bite to eat. Eight hours of uninterrupted sleep seemed like an impossible luxury. Without telling Asher, she had wondered if she ought not arm herself. Buying an unregistered weapon in Washington is as easy as purchasing a new pair of shoes. In infantry training, Hayley scored thirty-nine out of forty targets and earned an expert badge. Skills like these are hardly superfluous given the
highly critical situation.
Now, just another hour later, Asher, Hayley, and Homer Stephens are crowded into a leather-upholstered booth built more comfortably for two. The bar area is crowded with Washington worker bees in suits and business skirts, blowing off steam after another day pushing forward the nation’s business. Hayley and Asher had arrived earlier and had finally eaten. Now their guest enjoys an after-dinner Scotch whisky.
Homer Stephens is a middle-aged man who dresses with Tom Wolfe panache, unsurprisingly, since the novelist was Homer’s all-time favorite. With that more famous writer, Homer shares a disinclination for the traditional values of journalistic objectivity. He doesn’t shrink from injecting himself into any reportage, digging down deep into a subject and his own psychology with equal enthusiasm. These sometimes cartoonish efforts have been lampooned by his journalistic peers, but when he was younger and perhaps more rigorous in originality, Homer secured his Pulitzer in 1985 with a feature series on the Scientology movement run by the Post. Despite his diminished stature today, Homer is well-informed if not completely respected. To this day, he serves a vital function in town. His connections to powerful figures, past and present, are multitudinous. Information in Washington is a commodity, and Homer Stephens is the Wall Street of its transactional exchange.
Homer’s expression is best described as dubious as he sits across from Hayley and Asher crammed into their side of the shallow booth.
“Peter Hall suffered two heart attacks within the last seven years. A third, fatal attack is hardly a bolt out of the blue.”
“Sir, the FBI found trace Xylocaine in the autopsy,” Hayley reminds Homer, respectful but persistent.
“Do you have any idea how many people in this town indulge with recreational opioids and narcotics on a routine basis?” he counters.
Hayley doesn’t hide her frustration with the journalist’s dismissive, condescending attitude. “How many of those routine drug users are the White House chief of staff?”
Asher kicks Hayley under the table. Homer levels only a baleful look. She dials it down. “Sir, Scott Billings tried to kill me because of what I’m doing here tonight, raising the alarm.” She pauses for emphasis. “I saw what I saw on his computer.”
“And yet, similarly to the disappearing boot print, neither Mr. Billings nor his tablet are available for inspection.” Homer wears his disapproving frown like a ball gown. See me. Hear me. I am prettier than you. “I’m sorry, but without actual proof, there’s not much here that rises to the level of ‘story.’ It’s really all quite fantastical.”
Asher finally jumps into the fray, with beseeching expression. “Homer—”
Stephens cuts him off with the stern look and outstretched palm of a traffic cop.
“Dear boy, your father spent an awful lot of money to get you a job in the West Wing. I doubt highly a bit part in Three Days of the Condor was what he had in mind for you there.”
But Hayley won’t be dissuaded. “Why did James Odom take that computer, sir? I saw it under his arm with my own eyes. Is the Central Intelligence Agency that hard up with their budget that a deputy director needs to steal computer equipment?”
The journalist has heard enough, gesturing with his index finger as if to a panhandler. Hayley’s persistence grates on his nerves, her intensity an affront to his taste for frivolity and informed wit. He is determined to humiliate her in front of Asher, for whose welfare Homer is now concerned.
“What’s the point?” he asks Hayley sharply. “Do you even know why the CIA’s deputy director of Intelligence Integration would be involved in a plot to kill the White House chief of staff and, if I’m understanding you correctly, the president of the United States? Before you start lobbing accusations, you’d best understand the motivations.”
Hayley reacts with some surprise, startled by such a simplistic and obvious question. “James Odom and others in the government don’t agree with the president’s policies and agenda. They think he’s selling out the country to the Russians.”
Homer makes a face like he just drank spoiled milk, with a denigrating chuckle as chaser. “How little you understand Washington massively undercuts your credibility, darling.”
Hayley is genuinely insulted, but not completely certain that the journalist is wrong in his assessment of her. “Sir?”
Homer leans closer across the table, toward Asher and Hayley, speaking in an undertone. “Let’s say you’re one hundred percent correct. James Odom and all of his Deep State brethren are in a conspiracy to take down the Monroe administration, even if that means assassinating the president himself. All horrifically true. Why would they do such a thing? Over contrary policies and agenda? That’s a hoot! Power, my dear, is the currency in this town, not policy. Our heroic warrior/president has been undercutting the intelligence community with quiet, relentless consistency. At this rate, in six more years of a Monroe presidency, the CIA, NSA, House and Senate intelligence committees will have all the power in this town of a 30-watt lightbulb. If there’s any reason to kill that bombastic buffoon, it’s that. Forget about Russia.”
Hayley is uncharacteristically quiet. Homer’s effort to make her appear ignorant in front of Asher is a success. With some embarrassment, she must concede the journalist’s point. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
Homer continues, falling in love not for the first time with the sound of his own pontificating. “Presidents come and go. The men and women who run federal agencies and departments, they survive in one capacity or another from one administration to the next, clinging to the same position sometimes for decades, accumulating power and influence like casino chips. Threaten to claw back some of that power, and you’ve got a war on your hands.”
But Asher is confused by the journalist’s frank assessment of the infamous Deep State. “And so, judging by what you’ve said, maybe these people really are gunning for Monroe.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Who knows? But who’s to stop them if they are? The Deep State is the US government.” Homer sits back in his seat and takes a self-satisfied sip of his twenty-year-old bourbon. “Why would James Odom take a tablet from a side table in the Oval Office? Haven’t the foggiest. Perhaps we should call him and just ask. I’ve spoken to Jim off the record a few times in the past.”
Hayley reacts with alarm. “You can’t do that, sir. You mustn’t do that!”
Homer raises his arms in mock surrender. “Fine. I won’t call him. But I’ll need much more from you to take a run at this. Just being honest.” He retrieves his wallet, withdraws three twenties, and throws them on the table. Addressing Asher directly, “Stay in touch, my boy. You have an excellent mind and enviable prospects. Just don’t be careless with that future.”
He stands up out of his seat at the booth, briefly letting his gaze fall on Hayley. “Pleasure, Ms. Chill.” Without further ceremony, the journalist strides out of the neighborhood restaurant with the gait and bombast of a Roman emperor.
Asher orders more drinks after Homer has left. The journalist’s sixty dollars will easily pay for a second round, especially given Hayley’s tonic and lime. She processes all of what Homer has said and attempts to formulate their next move. For his part, Asher is a bit weary of the business. He hopes Homer doesn’t contact his father. Life is good at 3303 Water Street. If the money spigot is turned off, God knows what Asher would do. Get a real job? “Are you still close to your family?” he asks Hayley, hoping to take her mind off plots and assassinations. “What about your mom?”
A distracted Hayley takes a drink of her tonic and lime, eyes on Asher’s straight Patrón Reposado over ice. Up until her enlistment, she had been an enthusiastic and joyful drinker. You don’t get elected prom queen by being abstinent, at least not in Lincoln County, West Virginia. Hayley reflects on those days that seem like a different lifetime ago. “My mother died while I was stationed at Fort Hood. Base commander let me attend the funeral on a three-day bereavement leave. It was the first and last time I returned home since joining
up. I felt no connection there anymore. Had no idea what to say to old friends, my brothers and sisters. It was all very awkward. Most of my friends never escaped.”
“God, I can’t even imagine. My childhood and family life was embarrassingly normal and happy.”
“You were never rejected … ?” Hayley awkwardly fails to finish the question.
“Because I’m gay? God, no! You want rejection in Greenwich, Connecticut? Bring a quarter pounder with cheese to a picnic with your friends.”
“That’s Thanksgiving dinner where I come from,” Hayley remarks dryly. A void has yawned open within her. Her past and its misery-infused incidents suddenly loom large, rising up from the darker recesses in her consciousness where she had relegated them. What she had said was no joke. When Hayley was ten years old, her mother did serve them McDonald’s for Thanksgiving dinner.
Oblivious to the shift in Hayley’s mood, Asher continues with his cheerful recitation. “Gay or not, I’ve always been the good son, keeping it between the white lines. A regular gay Eagle Scout. I still send my mother a Valentine’s Day card every year! Embarrassing, I know, but I love my mom and dad.”
“No shame in having good parents, Asher. You’re lucky,” she tells him with flat expression. She abruptly drains her glass, signaling a desire to leave.
“What’s wrong?” Asher asks. Hayley walks off without answering.
Asher catches up with her on the sidewalk out front. “Wait. I’m confused. Did I say something to offend you?”
Hayley burns with a renewed fire to act. Her frustration is obvious. “Your journalist friend wasn’t much help,” she tells Asher accusingly.
“I’m sorry. What did you expect, a story above the fold in the Washington Post? Who’s going to play you in the movie, Hayley? Amy Adams?”
