In the weeks Hayley has been in the West Wing, she has yet to see the RTINTBM in use. It’s also usually locked and secure from unauthorized entry. If Hayley were to mention her plan A to Asher, then he really would have good reason for outrage. Better to lead with the slightly less dumb plan and not even mention unauthorized use of the RTINTBM. She puts her hand on the doorknob, turning to face Asher, who sits in his chair with arms defiantly folded across his chest.
“If Rey comes around, tell her I’m in the bathroom.”
“You’re forgetting she can go check for you in the women’s lavatory,” Asher reminds her. But Hayley ignores this comment and disappears out the door.
* * *
THE ROW HOUSE on W Street is remarkable in its utter un-remarkableness. Sinatra had been able to rent it furnished and on a month-to-month basis. All of his guys are from out of town, and he prefers keeping them together and under close supervision. They’re bored, sometimes spending whole days without leaving the generic, little clapboard row house, but they’re also being well compensated for doing nothing. Operations really are like life while on active duty in a war zone, long stretches of doing nothing followed by short bursts of intense combat and hair-raising action. Except for the hit on Peter Hall, which went flawlessly, Sinatra and his team have done nothing but wait for orders.
While some of his men are sleeping, watching television, or playing video games (Bishop absolutely rules at Counter-Strike), Sinatra checks Redfin on his tablet for new listings. His agent has emailed him late the night before that an offer on the house on King James Place had been accepted by the seller, which distressed Sinatra more than was really appropriate. Scrolling through the listings in and around Alexandria, Sinatra recognizes his manic house search is just compensation for how much he misses his ex-wife. This kind of thinking often devolves into robust self-loathing, and when his cell phone vibrates, Sinatra welcomes the distraction from his own obsessions.
“Hello,” is all he says in answering the phone. The caller ID tells him it’s the Bearded Man calling.
The Bearded Man drives his Buick in moderate traffic on the northbound side of Interstate 395, exiting at Fourteenth Street. He can’t explain the vague depression he has felt since leaving the meeting at Andy’s Crab House but surmises the place brings back unpleasant memories of his father. Andy’s dad had been a drinking pal of the old man. No doubt Andy bears some of the same emotional scars. The Bearded Man recalls gossip regarding Andy suggesting a stint in state prison. Remembering this lifts the cloud hanging over him. Life could’ve turned out a lot worse. It’s important to count one’s blessings. Always. Placing the call to Sinatra, getting back to work and in control of things just makes him feel that much better.
“What do you hear?” the Bearded Man demands to know.
“Police are widening their search of the river. They’re pretty convinced there was a passenger in the car. We know there was.”
“Incidental surveillance?”
“Nothing happens on the DC city streets without a hundred cameras recording it. Our analytics team located tape clearly showing a second person in the car, but video quality and angles are reportedly bad. Can’t even determine gender.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
The Bearded Man’s taking the Lord’s name in vain, with an obscenity no less, offends Sinatra, who never misses Sunday mass. He reaches for a cigarette, self-medication for his habitually short temper.
“Analytics believes the passenger made it out of the river,” Sinatra adds after lighting up.
“That’s unfortunate.” The optimism and glow the Bearded Man had been feeling just a minute before is fast disappearing. Checking his watch, he sees he’s late for his next meeting.
“Who knows? Maybe the police will find something,” Sinatra offers as consolation, far too casually for the Bearded Man’s taste. Not for the first time he wishes he’d hired Israelis for this job.
“Anything else?” he asks, ignoring Sinatra’s lame assurances.
“The FBI is still pushing the Hall investigation.” Sinatra pauses before revealing this next piece of news, but then plunges ahead. It’s not like the Bearded Man won’t find out anyway. “They found trace Xylocaine in the autopsy.”
If there’s a silver lining of this call with Sinatra, it’s that it came after the meeting at Andy’s Crab House.
“I’m working on a fix. Adjusting dosages,” Sinatra promises him.
“A little late for that, don’t you think?” The Bearded Man’s cold fury comes over the phone line like an Arctic blast. “Anything else?”
“One more thing. We didn’t find our man’s computer at his house. We’re thinking it was lost in the accident. If not, we’ll have a location the second it’s turned on.” With a brave burst of optimism, Sinatra adds, “It might be just the lead we need to find the passenger.”
“Who must suspect something amiss. Otherwise he or she would’ve gone to the police by now.”
“How do we know the passenger isn’t halfway to Alexandria, swept conveniently downstream?”
“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.