by Chris Hauty
“Fuck you, Asher.”
He is understandably perplexed by Hayley’s attitude. “What did I do but try to help?!”
“Help better.” She starts to turn away but then stops to face Asher again. “Must be nice. Loving parents? Nice. Multimillion-dollar condo on the Potomac? Super! Sexy job in the White House. Why not? Hell, you’re even gay with privilege and entitlement. Thing is, rich people don’t even know how to be angry. They just get pissy.”
Asher stares at Hayley in disbelief. “You’re. Not. Being. Fair.”
Hayley dismisses him with a flip of her hand. “I don’t have time for fair.” She turns and stalks off.
Within thirty seconds of leaving Asher in front of Clyde’s, Hayley regrets losing patience. Asher was an easy target and Hayley knows it. By the time she has reversed course, rounded the corner again, and returned to the restaurant entrance, her friend and coworker is gone. She considers messaging him but decides a texted apology is lame. Better to call Asher when she gets home. If he refuses to accept her apology, then Hayley will be once again on her own. It won’t be the first time.
She starts walking east, passing the usual collection of higher-end retail franchises that have all but erased the neighborhood’s original character, heading toward Wisconsin to catch the bus there. Glancing over her shoulder, she clocks a late-model blue Taurus that seems to be keeping pace with her. She feels her heart rate accelerate slightly and focuses on remaining calm and prepared. With normal traffic on M Street, the Taurus should pass her quickly. Hayley faces forward again and maintains a steady pace for ten seconds, then looks over her left shoulder again. She sees the Taurus has pulled over to the curb and parked. Her suspicions were nothing more than paranoia. No one is following her.
A stop for the Arlington-bound 38B Metrobus is only a half block away. Hayley crosses the street and stands at the curb just short of the intersection with Wisconsin Avenue. After only a few moments, she sees the blue Taurus leave its parking place across the street and cruise past at far too deliberate a pace for her comfort. In the evening’s gloom, Hayley cannot make out any defining features of the two individuals inside the vehicle. The Taurus turns right at Wisconsin and drives out of her view.
Later, when Hayley steps off the bus on Wilson Boulevard at Oak Street in Rosslyn, she looks up and down the block for the Taurus and sees nothing. The streets are quiet. With quickened pace and alert, Hayley walks up Oak toward her building three blocks north. In addition to marksmanship, her army training included hand-to-hand combat skills. But Hayley must concede that two armed men, with the element of surprise and cover of night, could easily abduct her or worse. As she approaches the intersection of Key Boulevard and Ode Street, her footsteps echo up and down the silent, residential block. The houses are buttoned up tight for the night. Will her screams be heard through those closed windows? But after a minute of more walking, there is still no sign of the Taurus. Hayley silently upbraids herself for succumbing so readily to useless fears.
Breathing easily for the first time since leaving Clyde’s and her heart rate slowing to a more normal speed, Hayley reminds herself as she turns right on Ode to call Asher. Her apartment building is the second one north from Key Boulevard and, with most lights inside ablaze, seems cheery and inviting. Glancing to her left, Hayley sees the blue Taurus parked directly across the street, with the lights off and its occupants plainly visible inside.
Hayley doesn’t react in the least. She hasn’t changed her pace in any way since first noticing the vehicle tailing her. She continues to the walkway leading to her building entrance and turns right, approaching the entry door with her keys already in hand. She artfully adopts the mien of the typical commuter, home from work and happy hour drinks. Hayley reaches the door to the building and enters. Once inside the entry vestibule, she senses the Taurus passing by out front and just manages to catch sight of its taillights. Peering out the closed entry door, Hayley sees the Taurus turn left at Key Boulevard, heading east. Letting out a long breath she had held since walking up to the front door, Hayley leans her back against the vestibule wall and drops her chin to her chest. The thought occurs to her she might be in wildly over her head.
* * *
HOMER STEPHENS, WEARING his favorite silk robe and hedonistically enjoying a late-night second glass of his favorite bourbon, watches CNN on his computer screen. Nothing surprises him, not anymore. The cable news anchor is relaying the news, in the typical shrill manner, that the White House has confirmed reviewing long-standing treaty guarantees, including Article 5, all on the eve of a visit from Russia’s president. Though many in Washington had predicted that President Monroe, with the death of Peter Hall, might retreat from a possible realignment of European alliances, it is now recognized by most pundits across the political spectrum there will be no shift in the administration’s policy.
Homer chuckles and takes another sip of his marvelous bourbon, savoring its sharp bite. No one really cares about Europe, and that goes double for Estonia. It’s the relationships, stupid. As Monroe keeps stumbling around, blindly obliterating those very valuable connections between players in their respective countries, he’s undercutting individual power alliances that have existed for decades. The US intelligence community has invested God knows how much money, time, and energy in relationships with allies and overseas assets that will take generations to rebuild. This is a power struggle of the ages, one in which the parties involved are playing for keeps.
The Pulitzer winner toggles down the volume with the keyboard. He broods on the events of the day and his drinks meeting with Asher and his friend earlier. The girl had obvious intelligence and grit but is inexperienced. What cannot be easily dismissed is the fact Hayley Chill had seen something of significance at Hall’s residence on Kalorama Road. And what is there to make of her wild and completely unsubstantiated tale of her near murder? Homer considers himself a wily interviewer. He knows how to get subjects to reveal themselves without even realizing they’re being questioned. Why not give the CIA deputy director a call? Perhaps the old warhorse might inadvertently disclose something that will be the seed of a story. If even just a fragment of what the West Virginia girl alleges is true, then conceivably there might be a second Pulitzer in Homer’s future!
Across town, James Odom is preparing a midnight snack in the kitchen when he sees his phone on the marble counter top light up and vibrate like those ridiculous gadgets restaurants hand out to patrons waiting for tables. Curious who might be calling at this late hour, he snatches up the phone and accepts the call. Phone pressed to the side of his head, he utters a single word that lands with the thud of an artillery shell. “Odom.”
* * *
HAYLEY EXITS HER building before sunrise, dressed for her regular morning workout. Unable to afford the sort of gear on which civilians spend hundreds of dollars, she wears the PT uniform issued to her in the army: black pants with US Army star logo on the left thigh, black long-sleeve shirt with gold ARMY lettering on the front, black jacket with gold chevron across the chest and back. Her running shoes came from a discount sports outlet in Silver Spring, on sale for $24.99. It was her drill sergeant who coined a phrase that sticks in her head to this day. “Physical fitness requires minimal expenditure and maximum sweat.”
She did not expect to see the blue Taurus on the street and is correct in that assumption. Hayley pondered on it overnight and reasoned Odom was only testing anyone who had had access to the Oval Office yesterday. It would not surprise her if three dozen people in the West Wing were similarly tailed in such a blatant manner. Hayley credits her military training to maintain composure in high-stress situations for passing this blunt-edged test. She is positive she in no way betrayed incriminating behavior when Odom’s goons executed their drive-bys.
Regardless of having fooled her adversaries, Hayley knows she is operating on borrowed time. Whether by connecting her to Scott Billings or his tablet, Odom will identify her as a witness who cannot be allowed to
exist. Without knowing the full reach of the conspiracy, Hayley is prohibited from raising the alarm. It would be like putting a target on her back. As she jogs at a strong pace through the dark streets, Hayley resists the urge to despair. Leaving town would be as simple as buying a train or bus ticket. All of her worldly belongings can fit in her one duffel bag. Surrender would be almost too easy.
But Hayley will not leave. Consideration to do so is a passing fantasy, having the life span of a yawn. Imagining James Odom’s possible success makes Hayley seethe with anger, especially given the CIA deputy director’s self-interested motivations. Without thinking, Hayley increases her running tempo, channeling her deep-seated rage into a furious pace. Feet barely seem to touch the ground. There is no traffic in the street to impede her. Desire for action surges through her body. Odom and his cabal just think they’re winning. She imagines how their arrogance would only increase if they knew their opponent was a mere intern. She is undeterred, feeling more impactful than ever. “Believe you can is halfway there.” That was another favorite saying of that legendary drill instructor at Fort Benning.
By the time Hayley has finished a forty-five-minute run and stopped again in front of her building, she has settled on a next step. The first attempt at convincing Homer Stephens was not a total failure. The journalist was not completely dismissive of Hayley’s allegations. A second attempt must be made to convince Stephens to join with them and lead a professional investigation of the so-called Operation Damocles. Excited to share her thoughts with Asher, Hayley hurries inside to shower and get ready for work, having decided to forgo the remainder of her daily workout routine. Her coworker had never returned a voice mail from the night before, but Hayley would be shocked if Asher still harbored any ill feelings regarding her moody acting-out at Clyde’s.
* * *
KAREN REY EXITS the ground floor of the West Wing with a colleague, Harriet Cohen, the deputy chief of staff for Policy. They’re due in the EEOB in five minutes for a morning staffer. The intern wrangler sees Hayley passing the informal Secret Service checkpoint dividing West Wing from Eisenhower Executive Office Building and heading in their direction. Rey turns to confide conspiratorially to Cohen. “You can’t be too aggressive dealing with a bright, young thing on the rise. Next thing you know, she’s in the Oval and I’m planning luncheons for FLOTUS.”
Cohen follows her friend’s gaze to Hayley approaching from across the narrow plaza. “What? The intern? I’ve heard about her. How the hell did that hillbilly get out in front?”
“Making the evening news in her first week didn’t hurt. Don’t make the same mistake I did and let appearances fool you. Hayley Chill is smart, disciplined, and extremely capable.”
“What’s your play?”
“Surgical removal,” Rey responds, grimly determined.
“Fair enough. When?”
Rey frowns. Hayley is only one of innumerable problems currently facing her, and certainly not one of highest priority. “Unsure. Timing’s got to be right,” she admits.
Hayley comes abreast of her superior and offers a polite smile. “Good morning, ma’am.”
Rey merely nods curtly in response. Walking a few more steps before glancing over her shoulder to see Hayley disappear through the entrance of the West Wing’s ground floor, the White House aide shakes her head with bitter resignation. “As if we don’t have enough shit hosed into our faces every day.”
* * *
HAYLEY BOUNDS UP the stairs to the first floor, eager to smooth over Asher’s hurt feelings and then conspire together how best to take another run at Homer Stephens. Surely they can gather evidence sufficient to win the journalist’s interest. Though no longer employed by newspaper or journalist organization, Homer has the contacts to pitch the story as a freelancer. If he still refuses to throw in with them, perhaps he can recommend someone of equal stature who will.
Entering the White House Operations support office in her usual rush and with her speech to Asher fully rehearsed, Hayley stops in her tracks the moment she clocks her coworker’s expression. Asher looks not only morose but scared.
“What?” Hayley asks warily.
He says nothing, seemingly unable to talk.
“Asher, what is it?” Hayley repeats herself, more emphatically.
“Homer Stephens was shot and killed outside his brownstone. Mugged.” He continues incredulously. “Eight in the morning, off Dupont Circle? They’re saying he resisted the mugger’s demands.”
Hayley processes the news. “They tried to snatch him. He wouldn’t go, so they shot him.”
Asher slams his palm on the desktop. “Fuckers!”
Hayley stands motionless in the open doorway. Homer Stephens is dead. Forces terrifyingly larger than her are at work, gigantic spheres of power and influence that will crush any opposition in their path. Her newfound optimism to reach out again to Homer Stephens seems now, with his murder, to be puny and futile. What’s to be done? Contrary to her earlier assessment, the bad guys are winning … if they haven’t already won.
6
ASHER
The Russell Senate Office Building is a Beaux-Arts marble edifice of unique grace and dignified stance. To score an office here, the thirty-five senatorial occupants have outlasted dozens of political opponents within and outside their party, won reelection a minimum of four times and achieved the kind of status in Congress only the very biggest lobbying dollars can buy.
A franchise player in the intelligence community and defiantly above the consumer-grade political fray, James Odom would be welcomed through any door in the building. Several senators and senior aides signal for a private word with the CIA deputy director as he strides down the grand corridor, but he waves off all such invitations. He’s too busy for glad-handing and steps through the open doorway leading into the office suite assigned to Senator Taylor Cox. An aide greets Odom and immediately shows him into the senator’s expansive office. Cox, seated at his glossy-topped desk, gestures to his man. “That’ll be all, Michael.”
The aide silently retreats from the wood-paneled sanctum, closing the big, heavy oak door behind him. Odom takes a seat opposite Cox behind his desk. “Are we on mute?” he asks as a precaution.
The senator nods. “Not encouraging news last night.”
“We’ve been ordered to sit on satellite images indicating forward units of Russia’s Sixth Army have engaged with Estonian forces at the border.”
“The IC assessment?”
“Moscow knows they have a pass. Striking while the iron is hot. Use any platitude you want, but Monroe will play to his base and the rest of us can take a flying fuck. You know any Estonians? Is your mother-in-law Estonian?”
The old senator frowns. “Proverbial bull in a china shop. He can’t not break things. Fucking amateur.” Cox trembles with rage, hand too shaky to keep a grip on a thousand-dollar Meisterstück Solitaire Blue Hour ballpoint pen. “Your boss?” he asks, already fearful of the answer he anticipates.
“What do you think? Monroe installed him. I’ve lost more than forty percent of my funding, with more reappropriation to come. Early retirement has been muttered into my ear by his retinue of flying monkeys more times than I care to remember.”
“Maybe something we both should consider? Take our chips off the table,” Cox suggests, adding, “while we still can.”
“I grew up on a crabbing boat. Not ready to die on one, thanks.”
The senator sighs. He has no desire to exit the political stage, either. Colleagues who have disappeared from public life are exactly that: disappeared. Useless and inconsequential. Once you’ve tasted real power, willingly giving it away is nearly impossible. No one voluntarily leaves Washington. You’re either voted out, fired, or you die. Without his senate seat, Cox must admit, he is quite literally nothing. His wife dead now seven years, kids grown up with their own families, Cox’s entire reason for being is the US Senate. The perks aren’t half-bad, either.
“We’re inching precipitousl
y close to jump off, James,” the senator warns his longtime DC ally. Both of them came to the capital in the same year and came up the ranks together. A bond like theirs is gold. They have each other’s back, that is, up to the point of self-preservation.
Odom nods somberly. “Yes.”
“The vice president—”
“Can be contained.” Odom has never been reluctant to finish Cox’s sentences for him.
The senator nods, concurring.
“There’s something else. A finite degree of exposure,” Odom admits to his friend.
“Finite degree,” Cox repeats, obviously finding the phrase unsettling.
“One or more individuals in play against us. They have the broad outlines only, if that. Making efforts to learn more. To stop us.”
“The infamous Second Passenger.”
Odom nods. “I’m thinking low profile. Bit players who attempted to solicit Homer Stephens’s assistance, who then called me.”
Cox reacts with alarm. “Stephens was shot and killed outside his house this morning!”
Odom’s expression is studied and mild. “No kidding?”
Cox panics on hearing Odom’s response but masks it as best he can. The effort to counteract the president’s reckless behavior in office has spun wildly out of control, in Cox’s private opinion. But there is no retreating now. The damage is done. As Cox stands abruptly, gesturing toward the door, he really wonders if his old friend has lost his mind. “Keep me posted, James. Thanks for stopping by.”
Odom stands and follows the senator to the door, well aware Cox is shrieking in silent, abject terror. It’s laughable. Some men simply aren’t equal to their office or standing. “More as it comes into focus,” he glibly tells Cox as he glides past him.
Odom strides through the office antechamber, ignoring the respectful salutations of the senator’s staff, and enters the marble-lined corridor. The thought strikes him the Russell Senate Office Building would make a wonderful residence. These weird and random thoughts he’s been having lately amuse him more than worry. Like imagining a leap from the subway platform as a train hurtles into the station, his daydreams are trifles of an overactive mind. Who doesn’t occasionally indulge in such fantastic speculations?
