by Chris Hauty
But Russia is as Russia does. The olive branch extended by the president to Moscow has not changed or modified that nation’s truculent behavior in the least; hard to teach old dogs new tricks, regardless of the reshuffling of the world’s order. Even more difficult is changing generational fears and hostilities. Resistance to Monroe’s thawing of diplomatic relations with Russia has existed at every level of the US government since his inauguration. The worth of any leader, however, is measured by his ability to fulfill his vision. To that end, the president hopes to turn policy into reality by inviting Russian President Fedor Malkin for an official visit to the White House.
One notch below a state visit, forgoing a twenty-one-gun salute and state dinner, President Malkin’s trip is nevertheless seen as a major diplomatic breakthrough between the two superpowers. Russia’s antagonisms toward neighboring Estonia, so close to Malkin’s visit, are an indication of Moscow’s disregard for old-line thinking and inhibitions. With a friend in the Oval Office, and a common foe in Beijing, the Kremlin intends to tidy up their side of the fence however they please. The vain hope of Washington establishment figures like Taylor Cox, of course, is that Monroe will exert pressure on his friend Malkin in the course of the Russian’s brief stay in Washington.
The five-hundred-million-dollar Russian-built upgraded Voronezh IL-96-300PU long-haul jetliner lands at Andrews Air Force Base about the same time James Odom sits down across the table from Asher in the Arlington Starbucks. Traveling with a police escort of significant size and extravagance, complete with MRAP (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected) vehicle, Malkin’s motorcade travels directly to the Embassy of the Russian Federation on Wisconsin Avenue, north of Georgetown, where a sizable throng of mostly Estonian protestors is waiting. Assembled on the sidewalk across Wisconsin Avenue from the embassy complex, the impassioned Estonians carry signs decrying Russia’s hostile actions toward the much smaller country and call out Malkin specifically for his tyrannical ways.
The Russian president’s armored limousine enters the complex through a secured gate and stops at the embassy entrance. More than three dozen bodyguards, dressed in dark suits and carrying an assortment of weapons, create a human barricade, shielding the Russian leader from the protestors, more than seventy-five yards away from the embassy entrance. As Malkin emerges from his vehicle, he looks to the Estonian protestors across the street and then gestures toward his head bodyguard, whispering into his ear over the din raised by the demonstration.
The bodyguard nods, then turns to have words with the men in his charge. Within seconds, the entire contingent of Russian bodyguards head toward the embassy gate as Malkin disappears inside the building. Sensing impeding attack, the unarmed Estonians begin to disperse in the face of an advancing phalanx of Russian bodyguards.
DC police on the scene, numbering less than a dozen, are unable to stop the bloodbath that ensues. Numerous protestors, males and females, are clubbed over the head with truncheons and then kicked after falling to the ground. The beatings continue for ten minutes, until the grim-faced bodyguards run out of potential victims. Police reinforcements arrive on the scene only after the Russians have already crossed Wisconsin again. Dozens of stunned Washingtonians in their cars, stopped in traffic lanes, watch the thugs troop back through the embassy gate.
When asked about the incident an hour later, a White House spokesman suggests the Estonian protestors had incited an admittedly too extreme response from the Russian security personnel when rocks were thrown at Malkin’s car. In the later days and weeks, no witnesses, except those connected with the embassy, could attest to seeing any objects hurled at the barricade. All in all, five Estonians were hospitalized, two of them with serious injuries.
* * *
IT WASN’T FEAR Hayley experienced learning Homer Stephens had been murdered, but impotent rage. The unfamiliarity and rawness of this emotion twists her guts into a knot and only diminishes her ability to devise an alternative plan. While she dawdles and remains inactive, her enemies become more entrenched. No amount of exercise or other diversions alleviate her roiling thoughts. She has been useless in the office, second only to Asher’s distraction. An impenetrable fog has descended on both, isolating them from each other.
Hayley arrives home well after eight p.m., her usual bus having broken down. Once inside her apartment, she shucks off her coat and collapses into a chair. There’s a knock at the door. Annoyed and wanting only to disappear for a few moments from her life, Hayley goes to the door but hesitates opening it.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“Secret Service,” comes the voice through the closed door, neither friendly nor officious.
Hayley checks the peephole and whatever she sees is enough for her to unlock and open the door partway. Bishop stands at the threshold, wearing jeans and an expensive-looking leather jacket. “Hayley Chill? Jim Christie, US Secret Service,” he tells her, holding out his credentials for her inspection.
She is on guard. Thoughts, questions, and hypotheticals careen inside her brain. Trust no one, Peter Hall said. It is impossible to miss the Sig Sauer P229 in the man’s vertical shoulder holster. Without checking, Hayley recalls a knife left on a cutting board in the tiny kitchen area behind her back. Her military instruction in Close Quarters Combat included scenarios in which an attacker is armed with a handgun. Hayley factors into the equation her estimation the man hasn’t been as diligent with his training as she has been.
“Yes? What is it?” Hayley retains cool detachment, betraying nothing.
“May I come in? Just have some questions for you.”
Hayley hesitates.
Bishop offers a seemingly genuine smile. “It’ll only take a few minutes, Ms. Chill. I promise.”
Hayley holds the door open wide for Bishop to enter. She leads him toward the small dining table at the other end of the cozy studio apartment, beside the kitchen alcove. In choosing a seat, Hayley takes the chair where she will be within arm’s reach of the knife on the cutting board. Bishop sits opposite her, taking a moment to gaze around the studio and its modest furnishings.
“Cozy place,” he offers.
Hayley remains silent, staring evenly at the operator.
“My apologies for intruding like this, Ms. Chill. Approaching you at home seemed like the better choice. Security reasons, you understand.”
“Security reasons?”
“It would appear a job at the White House is becoming a deadly proposition. In only the last week, the chief of staff and a Secret Service agent, both dead.”
“I thought those were both accidents. Are you saying Mr. Hall and Scott Billings were murdered?”
“Still under investigation, Ms. Chill.” As if an afterthought, he adds, “That’s why I’m here.”
Hayley won’t be rattled. “Isn’t the FBI leading those investigations, Agent Christie?”
“We take care of our own,” Bishop fires back. Sitting back in his chair, he places his right ankle across his left knee, in the process exposing the sole of his right boot. Linear x’s and dashes above an array of squares, she is only slightly surprised to see in a glance.
“What does any of this have to do with me?” she asks without any different modulation of voice or tenor.
Bishop gets to the point. “Did you have a relationship with Agent Billings?”
“Why would the Secret Service be interested in my romantic life?”
“Our sworn duty is to protect the president of the United States. That makes us extremely interested in any person who comes in contact with him, including Scott Billings and, by extension, you, Ms. Chill.”
“I believe the oath prospective agents take before service is to support and defend the Constitution of the United States.” As she finishes, Hayley checks the distance between her hand and the knife, estimating she can have it in hand within two seconds.
Bishop’s eyes seem kind enough but behind them is an impulse to throttle this young woman with his bare hands. “We can finish this at
H Street. Makes no difference to me.”
“I had no personal relationship with Scott Billings. He was a nice guy in a blue tie, dress shoes, and dark suit who I said hello to in the West Wing.”
Bishop scrutinizes her face, boring in with his intense gaze. “What about Homer Stephens? Any contact with him?”
Hayley doesn’t flinch. “Who?”
Bishop lets it go, standing. The intern had failed to be flustered by his off-tempo questioning. “Of course, after we’ve had the opportunity to examine Mr. Billings’s phone, we’ll be able to gauge the veracity of your statements to me tonight.” He turns for the door.
“Is my life in danger, Agent Christie?”
He stops, looking back toward Hayley. “Any reason why you think it would be?”
Hayley shrugs, playing it noncommittal.
“Have a good night, Ms. Chill.”
In a few minutes, Bishop rejoins Sinatra in the SUV parked outside Hayley’s building. The cigarette smoke roils in a thick cloud inside the vehicle. Bishop waves his hand in front of his own face, repulsed.
“Jesus!”
Sinatra really couldn’t care less about his man’s discomfort. How many bodies has he piled up to earn the right to smoke in a mission vehicle if he wanted? It would be difficult to come up with an exact number. He should’ve put it all on QuickBooks a long time ago when he first started. Too late for that now. For these purposes, a ballpark figure will have to suffice. Twenty-two bodies, directly by his hand, is a good estimate. Surely twenty-two notches earns one the right to smoke when and where one pleases.
“Well?” he asks Bishop, gesturing with the crown of his head toward Hayley’s building.
Bishop makes a show of deliberation. This is his first job with Sinatra, and he’s been careful not to antagonize his unit leader. Everyone on the team agrees that Sinatra is odd stuff. His rampant Catholicism is the source of much speculation. Some of the guys wonder if he is a lapsed priest. Sinatra is certainly creepy enough to suggest such an irregular past. Special Operations draw the highly strung and hard-to-read from the military ranks. Not much different from serial killers, Bishop muses, we just like getting paid for it.
“She doesn’t know shit,” Bishop tells Sinatra, referring to Hayley.
“What makes you so sure?”
“I can just tell. Unless she’s a better covert operative than just about any I’ve met, this intern is a nonactor. She’s Walmart white trash desperately trying to claw her way out of Oxy-Appalachia.”
“You can just tell,” Sinatra murmurs dubiously.
Irritated and maybe a little frightened of Sinatra, Bishop again waves the cigarette smoke away from his face.
“Look, man, what did you send me in there for if you don’t trust my judgment?” Bishop jerks his thumb toward the building he had just exited. “She doesn’t know shit!”
Sinatra stares placidly at his man with an expression that is impossible to read. After a long moment of regarding an increasingly anxious Bishop, he touches the screen on his phone a few times and then lifts it to his head. He never takes his gaze off Bishop as he does so.
“It’s me,” Sinatra says into the phone. After a brief pause, “The intern isn’t involved.” Another pause. “Yes, we’re sure.”
He disconnects the call and lowers the phone. Eyes are still on Bishop.
“You know that I pray, correct?”
Bishop nods. “Yeah. I know you pray.”
“But do you know what I pray for, Bishop, or whatever your real name is?”
Bishop shakes his head. “Haven’t a clue.”
“I pray you’re right about the intern. I pray for that in the very worst possible way.”
Bishop says nothing. He’s having a difficult time meeting Sinatra’s gaze.
“Would you like to pray with me? Shall we do that together? Let’s pray that you’re right about this ‘Walmart white trash’ intern.”
Petrified, Bishop can barely nod his head okay. His eyes are like a steer’s before slaughter, peeled back and unseeing. Sinatra, without warmth, offers his hand. Bishop takes it, flinching slightly at the other man’s tight clasp.
Sinatra bows his head and closes his eyes. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …”
Bishop can scarcely believe this is happening. But, not wanting to take any chances, he bows his head and closes his eyes, too. With Sinatra, he joins in recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.”
* * *
HAYLEY’S ALARM GOES off at five a.m., waking her from a night of restless sleep. While showering after her usual workout, she finds herself recalling the Sunday afternoon her mother packed all six kids into the dilapidated Buick and drove up to Charleston for a visit with their grandmother. These trips were bright moments in an otherwise monochrome childhood, highly anticipated by Hayley and her siblings. Their grandma lived in a modest two-bedroom house on a tree-lined street. After a lunch of fried chicken and ice cream, Hayley and the other children would go outside to play while the women visited. Only many years later did Hayley realize the trips to Charleston were occasioned by her mother’s need for cash, grudgingly dispensed by a former public school teacher on a fixed income.
Their favorite game at the time was hide-and-seek. As the oldest, it was Hayley’s role to play referee. The middle girl, seven-year-old Sadie, had hidden behind bushes below the open window of a next-door neighbor but fled this perfect spot within seconds and approached Hayley with a frightening observation. Sadie reported hearing strange sounds coming from within the house. Hayley went to the window in order to investigate and, peering through a rip in the pulled window shade, saw something that both mystified and terrified her. Only after she joined the military did Hayley realize what the man was doing to his wife was a form of torture known popularly as “waterboarding.” Hayley, eleven years old, only recognized the intense terror of a middle-aged woman, sadistically abused by her husband.
Hayley’s siblings crowded around to look inside the house, and she silently shooed them off, not wishing to alert the man to their presence and incite his anger. Crouching down to their level, Hayley told her siblings to run back inside Grandma’s house and tell the adults to call the police. She told them to hurry and run as fast as possible. Not one of the kids ever disobeyed a direct order from their big sister, and within moments Hayley stood alone at the window.
Looking again inside the neighbor’s house, she saw the man continuing to torment his wife. Splayed on the dining room table, dish towel draped over her entire head, the woman choked and struggled against rope bonds as the man poured water from a glass pitcher over her covered face. Her frantic efforts to escape and grotesque choking suggested nothing short of imminent death. Hayley looked back over her shoulder at the house, where her siblings had disappeared. There was no sign of adult rescue. There was nothing, only the useless rhododendron bushes on either side of the back door exploding with blazing white blossoms. The agony of inaction was more than Hayley could bear. While she hesitated to act, the man was inflicting more and more pain on the woman, enough it seemed at the time to kill her.
Hayley squatted down below the window and picked up a jagged rock not much smaller than her hand. She clutched the rock as hard as she could, coerced by the sounds of struggle and choking filtering through the open window above her head. She squeezed and squeezed the rock, so hard that when she unfurled her fingers, Hayley saw blood welling up from several cuts in her palm. Emboldened by the sight of her own injury, the pain banishing all fear, she stood to her feet and threw that rock through the window of the neighbor’s house, startling the man. Hayley remained rooted in place just outside the window, even when the man came thundering over, boots cracking broken glass scattered across the wooden dining room floor, and spewed a stream of vile obscenities at her.
Two police cars, lights ablaze, pulled to a stop in the middle of the street where the man had cornered Hayley betwee
n two parked cars. The cops were able to throw him to the ground, rescuing Hayley, after he had only managed to hit her twice. Later, when her grandmother was treating the rock cuts in the palm of Hayley’s hand with iodine, the woman who lived next door appeared at the back door. Cleaned up and wearing dry, freshly laundered clothes, she hardly resembled the woman who had undergone such a horrific ordeal only two hours before. The woman offered nothing in the way of reward for Hayley’s help except for tearful thanks. “You are a gift sent from God” is exactly what the woman told the eleven-year-old Hayley. “You are a guardian angel.”
If this is who she is, Hayley ponders as she dries off from her shower, then this is who she must be. The solution had come to her in the middle of the night, when she had woken up with the realization that she must speak directly with the president. She must tell him everything she knows and in that way save his life. This is her duty. Certainly, buttonholing the president will cost Hayley her internship, if not get her arrested. She is completely willing to make that sacrifice. The real problem will be getting close to the president. There is no other way to convey her message. Hayley must speak to Monroe himself before Odom or any of his henchmen determine she has knowledge of their crimes.
