One notch below a state visit, forgoing a twenty-one-gun salute and state dinner, President Malkin’s trip is nevertheless seen as a major diplomatic breakthrough between the two superpowers. Russia’s antagonisms toward neighboring Estonia, so close to Malkin’s visit, are an indication of Moscow’s disregard for old-line thinking and inhibitions. With a friend in the Oval Office, and a common foe in Beijing, the Kremlin intends to tidy up their side of the fence however they please. The vain hope of Washington establishment figures like Taylor Cox, of course, is that Monroe will exert pressure on his friend Malkin in the course of the Russian’s brief stay in Washington.
The five-hundred-million-dollar Russian-built upgraded Voronezh IL-96-300PU long-haul jetliner lands at Andrews Air Force Base about the same time James Odom sits down across the table from Asher in the Arlington Starbucks. Traveling with a police escort of significant size and extravagance, complete with MRAP (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected) vehicle, Malkin’s motorcade travels directly to the Embassy of the Russian Federation on Wisconsin Avenue, north of Georgetown, where a sizable throng of mostly Estonian protestors is waiting. Assembled on the sidewalk across Wisconsin Avenue from the embassy complex, the impassioned Estonians carry signs decrying Russia’s hostile actions toward the much smaller country and call out Malkin specifically for his tyrannical ways.
The Russian president’s armored limousine enters the complex through a secured gate and stops at the embassy entrance. More than three dozen bodyguards, dressed in dark suits and carrying an assortment of weapons, create a human barricade, shielding the Russian leader from the protestors, more than seventy-five yards away from the embassy entrance. As Malkin emerges from his vehicle, he looks to the Estonian protestors across the street and then gestures toward his head bodyguard, whispering into his ear over the din raised by the demonstration.
The bodyguard nods, then turns to have words with the men in his charge. Within seconds, the entire contingent of Russian bodyguards head toward the embassy gate as Malkin disappears inside the building. Sensing impeding attack, the unarmed Estonians begin to disperse in the face of an advancing phalanx of Russian bodyguards.
DC police on the scene, numbering less than a dozen, are unable to stop the bloodbath that ensues. Numerous protestors, males and females, are clubbed over the head with truncheons and then kicked after falling to the ground. The beatings continue for ten minutes, until the grim-faced bodyguards run out of potential victims. Police reinforcements arrive on the scene only after the Russians have already crossed Wisconsin again. Dozens of stunned Washingtonians in their cars, stopped in traffic lanes, watch the thugs troop back through the embassy gate.
When asked about the incident an hour later, a White House spokesman suggests the Estonian protestors had incited an admittedly too extreme response from the Russian security personnel when rocks were thrown at Malkin’s car. In the later days and weeks, no witnesses, except those connected with the embassy, could attest to seeing any objects hurled at the barricade. All in all, five Estonians were hospitalized, two of them with serious injuries.
* * *
IT WASN’T FEAR Hayley experienced learning Homer Stephens had been murdered, but impotent rage. The unfamiliarity and rawness of this emotion twists her guts into a knot and only diminishes her ability to devise an alternative plan. While she dawdles and remains inactive, her enemies become more entrenched. No amount of exercise or other diversions alleviate her roiling thoughts. She has been useless in the office, second only to Asher’s distraction. An impenetrable fog has descended on both, isolating them from each other.
Hayley arrives home well after eight p.m., her usual bus having broken down. Once inside her apartment, she shucks off her coat and collapses into a chair. There’s a knock at the door. Annoyed and wanting only to disappear for a few moments from her life, Hayley goes to the door but hesitates opening it.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“Secret Service,” comes the voice through the closed door, neither friendly nor officious.
Hayley checks the peephole and whatever she sees is enough for her to unlock and open the door partway. Bishop stands at the threshold, wearing jeans and an expensive-looking leather jacket. “Hayley Chill? Jim Christie, US Secret Service,” he tells her, holding out his credentials for her inspection.
She is on guard. Thoughts, questions, and hypotheticals careen inside her brain. Trust no one, Peter Hall said. It is impossible to miss the Sig Sauer P229 in the man’s vertical shoulder holster. Without checking, Hayley recalls a knife left on a cutting board in the tiny kitchen area behind her back. Her military instruction in Close Quarters Combat included scenarios in which an attacker is armed with a handgun. Hayley factors into the equation her estimation the man hasn’t been as diligent with his training as she has been.
“Yes? What is it?” Hayley retains cool detachment, betraying nothing.
“May I come in? Just have some questions for you.”
Hayley hesitates.
Bishop offers a seemingly genuine smile. “It’ll only take a few minutes, Ms. Chill. I promise.”
Hayley holds the door open wide for Bishop to enter. She leads him toward the small dining table at the other end of the cozy studio apartment, beside the kitchen alcove. In choosing a seat, Hayley takes the chair where she will be within arm’s reach of the knife on the cutting board. Bishop sits opposite her, taking a moment to gaze around the studio and its modest furnishings.
“Cozy place,” he offers.
Hayley remains silent, staring evenly at the operator.
“My apologies for intruding like this, Ms. Chill. Approaching you at home seemed like the better choice. Security reasons, you understand.”
“Security reasons?”
“It would appear a job at the White House is becoming a deadly proposition. In only the last week, the chief of staff and a Secret Service agent, both dead.”
“I thought those were both accidents. Are you saying Mr. Hall and Scott Billings were murdered?”
“Still under investigation, Ms. Chill.” As if an afterthought, he adds, “That’s why I’m here.”
Hayley won’t be rattled. “Isn’t the FBI leading those investigations, Agent Christie?”
“We take care of our own,” Bishop fires back. Sitting back in his chair, he places his right ankle across his left knee, in the process exposing the sole of his right boot. Linear x’s and dashes above an array of squares, she is only slightly surprised to see in a glance.
“What does any of this have to do with me?” she asks without any different modulation of voice or tenor.
Bishop gets to the point. “Did you have a relationship with Agent Billings?”
“Why would the Secret Service be interested in my romantic life?”
“Our sworn duty is to protect the president of the United States. That makes us extremely interested in any person who comes in contact with him, including Scott Billings and, by extension, you, Ms. Chill.”
“I believe the oath prospective agents take before service is to support and defend the Constitution of the United States.” As she finishes, Hayley checks the distance between her hand and the knife, estimating she can have it in hand within two seconds.
Bishop’s eyes seem kind enough but behind them is an impulse to throttle this young woman with his bare hands. “We can finish this at H Street. Makes no difference to me.”