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.