"Any new developments in the investigation? I saw you spoke with Coulson today."
"Not much. We're in a holding pattern. They're waiting for their undercover agents both in Kashmir and in Kansas to build enough trust to gain access. Same with the CI on the Baltimore Police Department. The only new development is that they analyzed all the camera feed they pulled from cameras around Gulat Babur's apartment in Baltimore."
Del leaned forward. "Did they learn anything new from that?"
"The same guy shows up on the images a couple of times, and it's the same man who sent the money order to Puerto Rico and picked up the bomb from Babur's car in the airport parking lot."
"He's a key player, then. No ID, I assume?"
"No. They have build and height, but he's been careful about shielding his face, wearing hats, caps, hoodies, and whatnot to prevent cameras from getting a good angle. All they've got is his chin and neck and part of his right hand, but not a complete picture they can use to identify him."
"Any news on Mrs. Markinson?"
"She hasn't contacted Coulson or Seth again. FBI forensics are still working on the footprints and tire tracks they pulled from where Seth spotted an armed man. First analysis shows he was wearing combat-style boots and that he drove a pickup truck. A Ford, if I remember correctly, but don't pin me on that detail."
Del let out a deep sigh. "You know, before all this happened, I'd never have guessed how hard it could be to investigate a case like this. Not that I was foolish enough to ever believe series like CSI or NCIS were even close to reality, but I wasn't prepared for the snail's pace at which things seem to be moving now."
"Grinding is what Coulson calls it," Calix said. "They're going over every little bit of information, trying to find more details that could lead them to new discoveries."
"I guess patience is the name of the game."
"Good thing you have a lot of that." Calix wasn't joking. Del was about the most patient man he had ever met. The most even-tempered as well. He'd rarely seen him angry in all the years he'd been friends. It was one of the characteristics that made him so suitable to be president. No impulsive decisions, no judgments made in haste or anger. Del always took his time to gather all the facts and analyze them.
"Well, even my patience runs out at some point. Anyway, my next appointment is coming up in"—Del checked his watch—"five more minutes."
"This was all for me. I just wanted to make sure Levar knew about Thanksgiving."
"At least I'll get to pardon a turkey. You have to admit that's a pretty big perk of this job."
"Turkeys are weird. Have you ever seen one up close and personal? They're…strange. Very fierce."
"Please don't tell me you're afraid of a turkey."
Calix held up his hands. "I never said that. All I'm saying is I have a healthy respect for turkeys. For most animals, in fact."
"Speaking of, what are you doing for Thanksgiving? Want to join us?"
The temptation to say yes was overwhelming. After losing Matthew, Thanksgiving had become one of those days when the grief hit him all over again, when rage crashed over him, when he cried until he was exhausted and fell asleep. This would be the fifth Thanksgiving without him, and it hadn't gotten much easier.
Spending the day with Del and his family should be a welcome relief. Yet Calix didn't want to. He needed those days when he had a valid excuse to wallow in his grief. Every day, he felt like he had to keep it together, as if five years had been too much time for others to accept him mourning still. But five days a year, he permitted himself to feel, to cry, to get drunk off his ass, and to miss Matthew so much he couldn't breathe.
"I'll be fine.”
Del studied him, his eyes intense. "You know you're more than welcome."
"I know, but… I can't. But thank you."
"Mr. President," Del said, and Calix frowned. What now? "The correct phrase is 'thank you, Mr. President.' Preferably followed by 'I serve at the pleasure of the president.'"
Despite his earlier gloomy feeling, Calix laughed. "Thank you, Mr. President. I serve at your pleasure."
Del nodded, looking smug, and winked. "Damn right you do."
12
Rhett checked himself in the mirror of the bathroom right next to the Oval Office. "The most expensive place you could ever take a leak" was the running joke in the West Wing. Certainly, somewhere in the world had to be a building more expensive than this, but more imposing? More historically significant? Doubtful.
He liked his new haircut. After going with the same style for years, he'd finally told his hairdresser to do something new. The man had been all excited to work with this rough canvas, as he had called it, which Rhett figured to be a mixed metaphor, but whatever. Instead of the boring, conservative cut he'd had before, he now had a do that luckily didn't take as long to style as he had feared.
The result made him happy, though it didn't make him look older like he had hoped. Someday, he'd be grateful for not looking his age, but today was not that day. At least Levar and Henley had loved the new style, complimenting him for taking a risk. He'd been glad they liked it, but it had also reinforced his idea he was a rather sad case. Getting compliments because he dared to go for a new haircut? Definitely Loserville.
Satisfied it looked as good as he could expect at the end of a long workday, he stepped out of the bathroom, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. The president had a photo op with two new ambassadors. Those were the most straightforward shots ever, standard photographs of smiling people shaking hands. Every now and then, Rhett got lucky, and there were children involved. He loved photographing kids, and it always surprised him how well they responded to him.
He reported to the Oval Office at the agreed time, and as usual, the president was right on schedule. The president had his faults and weaknesses, just like every human being, but he was punctual. No wonder his assistant adored the man, though in a platonic way. Max was happily married to his husband who he’d been with for twenty years. After many years of working together, the president and Max had mastered a communication that was almost shorthand, signaling with gestures and quick words. Rhett loved watching them.
The photo shoot was as easy as he had expected, and the president thanked him, as usual. "Thank you, Mr. President," Rhett said, then quietly strode out of the Oval Office again.
"Did it go well?" Max asked. "I know it was a bit late in the day for you."
"Easy peasy."
"Calix asked if you could stop by. Something about the presidential turkey pardon next week."
Why was Calix getting involved in that? That didn't sound like something that should be on his desk. Not that Rhett would say that to Max. The man was only carrying out orders, and so would Rhett. "I'll stop by his office. I assume he's still working."
Max rolled his eyes. "Of course he is."
Rhett smiled as he walked out. The president's chief of staff had one of the best offices in the West Wing aside from the Oval Office, if not the best one. The gorgeous corner office had more light spilling in through the large windows than in most other offices, which resembled closets, Rhett's own minuscule broom closet included.