“What do you think? Monroe installed him. I’ve lost more than forty percent of my funding, with more reappropriation to come. Early retirement has been muttered into my ear by his retinue of flying monkeys more times than I care to remember.”
“Maybe something we both should consider? Take our chips off the table,” Cox suggests, adding, “while we still can.”
“I grew up on a crabbing boat. Not ready to die on one, thanks.”
The senator sighs. He has no desire to exit the political stage, either. Colleagues who have disappeared from public life are exactly that: disappeared. Useless and inconsequential. Once you’ve tasted real power, willingly giving it away is nearly impossible. No one voluntarily leaves Washington. You’re either voted out, fired, or you die. Without his senate seat, Cox must admit, he is quite literally nothing. His wife dead now seven years, kids grown up with their own families, Cox’s entire reason for being is the US Senate. The perks aren’t half-bad, either.
“We’re inching precipitously close to jump off, James,” the senator warns his longtime DC ally. Both of them came to the capital in the same year and came up the ranks together. A bond like theirs is gold. They have each other’s back, that is, up to the point of self-preservation.
Odom nods somberly. “Yes.”
“The vice president—”
“Can be contained.” Odom has never been reluctant to finish Cox’s sentences for him.
The senator nods, concurring.
“There’s something else. A finite degree of exposure,” Odom admits to his friend.
“Finite degree,” Cox repeats, obviously finding the phrase unsettling.
“One or more individuals in play against us. They have the broad outlines only, if that. Making efforts to learn more. To stop us.”
“The infamous Second Passenger.”
Odom nods. “I’m thinking low profile. Bit players who attempted to solicit Homer Stephens’s assistance, who then called me.”
Cox reacts with alarm. “Stephens was shot and killed outside his house this morning!”
Odom’s expression is studied and mild. “No kidding?”
Cox panics on hearing Odom’s response but masks it as best he can. The effort to counteract the president’s reckless behavior in office has spun wildly out of control, in Cox’s private opinion. But there is no retreating now. The damage is done. As Cox stands abruptly, gesturing toward the door, he really wonders if his old friend has lost his mind. “Keep me posted, James. Thanks for stopping by.”
Odom stands and follows the senator to the door, well aware Cox is shrieking in silent, abject terror. It’s laughable. Some men simply aren’t equal to their office or standing. “More as it comes into focus,” he glibly tells Cox as he glides past him.
Odom strides through the office antechamber, ignoring the respectful salutations of the senator’s staff, and enters the marble-lined corridor. The thought strikes him the Russell Senate Office Building would make a wonderful residence. These weird and random thoughts he’s been having lately amuse him more than worry. Like imagining a leap from the subway platform as a train hurtles into the station, his daydreams are trifles of an overactive mind. Who doesn’t occasionally indulge in such fantastic speculations?
Leaving restricted parking at the Senate Office Building, the CIA deputy director calls Sinatra at the W Street safe house. Odom dispenses with small talk in dealing with Sinatra, who seems to prefer it that way. “What did you learn from analysis of the computer? Fingerprints?”
“Yours. Whoever used it last wiped it clean.”
Odom’s impatience and frustration get the better of him. “Nothing?!”
“Someone brought the device to the White House after the accident. Accessed minutes before you arrived at the West Wing or concurrently.”
“Data?” Odom asks guardedly.
“Not everything, but he had enough on there to cause problems.”
“How secure?”
“Impossible to crack, for an eight-year-old.” The silence from Odom communicates his disgust. Sinatra walks it back. “Not a fatal leak, just damaging. Suggestive.”
Odom mutters a curse. “What are the names of possibles on your list?”
“Put tails on all of them. Had to hire a dozen more guys. Nobody jumped and ran.”
Odom sighs. This minor annoyance is fast becoming something much more than that. “Your team was at the residence two hours after the guy’s car went off the bridge?”
“Someone set off our vehicle’s alarm while we were inside the house. In hindsight, clearly a diversion.” Sinatra ruefully admits, “Whoever we’re looking for was inside the residence while we were there.”
Odom broods, mentally shuffling the jigsaw pieces available to him and seeing if any of them fit together to form a recognizable image. Blurry outlines of a hypothetical scenario come to him.
“Your guy was fucking someone. She was in the car, had to erase her presence at his house.”
“First I’m hearing about it,” a defensive Sinatra is quick to confess.
In the privacy of his vehicle, Odom sneers. “Sit tight,” he orders his operative. “I’m digging deeper.”
“You’re going to hit up another asset in the West Wing.” Sinatra’s educated guess is more statement of fact.
“You know, for a psychopath, you’ve got a fine, analytical head on your shoulders.” Odom disconnects the call.
* * *
THE MIDAFTERNOON CROWD in the Starbucks on Stuart Street in Arlington, Virginia, is overwhelmingly underemployed adults of diverse ages exploiting unlimited Wi-Fi access for the price of a cup of coffee. Odom enters and makes a face, finding the acrid smell common to the franchise an affront. Such are the sacrifices one must make in defense of the country, he muses. Odom continues toward the rear of the store, where Asher Danes is waiting for him at a small table against the wall.
“Asher, my friend, how are you?”
The low-level White House aide is feeling a good deal less bonhomie than the older man. “All things considered, I’m grandly fucked. Thanks for asking.”
Odom sits opposite Asher. “These are trying times for sure. Defending our freedom and democracy isn’t a trivial matter.” A dark look comes over the White House aide. “What?” Odom presses, clocking Asher’s every mood swing.
“Is that what you call murdering the White House chief of staff?” Asher has assumed he was only providing privileged information to the president’s adversaries within the government and not playing a role in any active conspiracy aligned against Monroe. Having been swayed by Hayley’s intense convictions, Asher is finding it difficult to play both sides of the fence and requires assurances from the older man.
Odom seems uncomprehending enough. “Murder? What are you talking about?”
“Peter Hall. Kinda convenient him dying and everything.”
Odom smiles wearily at Asher in the way one would to a puppy that has just peed on the kitchen floor. No damage done. Just needs the quick swipe of a paper towel.
“Peter Hall died of a massive heart attack. Your suggestion I had anything to do with his untimely demise is paranoid and baseless.”