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.