Two police cars, lights ablaze, pulled to a stop in the middle of the street where the man had cornered Hayley between two parked cars. The cops were able to throw him to the ground, rescuing Hayley, after he had only managed to hit her twice. Later, when her grandmother was treating the rock cuts in the palm of Hayley’s hand with iodine, the woman who lived next door appeared at the back door. Cleaned up and wearing dry, freshly laundered clothes, she hardly resembled the woman who had undergone such a horrific ordeal only two hours before. The woman offered nothing in the way of reward for Hayley’s help except for tearful thanks. “You are a gift sent from God” is exactly what the woman told the eleven-year-old Hayley. “You are a guardian angel.”
If this is who she is, Hayley ponders as she dries off from her shower, then this is who she must be. The solution had come to her in the middle of the night, when she had woken up with the realization that she must speak directly with the president. She must tell him everything she knows and in that way save his life. This is her duty. Certainly, buttonholing the president will cost Hayley her internship, if not get her arrested. She is completely willing to make that sacrifice. The real problem will be getting close to the president. There is no other way to convey her message. Hayley must speak to Monroe himself before Odom or any of his henchmen determine she has knowledge of their crimes.
She is just putting on her coat to leave the apartment when her phone rings. Hayley considers not answering it, being a few minutes late, but connects after the fourth ring. “This is Hayley.”
Karen Rey’s voice emerges from the pinhole speaker in Hayley’s cell phone like marbles poured from a tin can, clattering and scattershot. “Hayley, it’s Karen Rey. I wanted to catch you before you left for work. My apologies for calling you so early.”
Hayley glances at her watch. It’s 7:05 a.m., more than fifteen minutes later than she usually got out the door on work mornings. She must speak to the president today. The sooner she can get to work and get her hands on Monroe’s schedule, the sooner she can begin devising her plan. It would be best to speak to the president privately, but Hayley knows this is next to impossible. The fewer people who hear her message to POTUS, the better.
Rey continues, “We’re shifting you over to the Library of Congress for the remainder of your internship program, Hayley. You can report over there straightaway this morning. Ms. Spellman is expecting you. She’s a supervisory archivist with the library.”
Hayley is stunned. She has neglected to factor her supervisor’s obvious hostility into her equations. The transfer has caught her completely flat-footed, having been too focused on the bad men with guns to notice a bureaucratic, middle-management assassin right beside her. Hayley can scarcely believe her own stupidity in overlooking the enormous threat Rey represented. Buried in the Library of Congress, Hayley might as well be in Lincoln County.
“Ma’am?” Hayley is able to say.
“I’m sorry. I simply don’t think it was an ideal fit, Hayley. Best of luck to you.”
Rey disconnects the call to Hayley with a musketeer’s flourish and turns to her confidant and coworker, Harriet Cohen. “With Fedor Malkin in town, POTUS will never know she’s gone,” she tells Cohen, but really only assuring herself.
* * *
ASHER ARRIVES FOR work just after seven thirty a.m. The White House complex swarms with additional security personnel drawn from all of the usual law enforcement and US government entities. Russian security personnel are also present, distinguishable from their American counterparts only by the quality and cut of their business suits. Beyond the gates, demonstrations and assorted protestors have been kept farther away from the White House complex perimeter than usual. Traffic is diverted off Seventeenth Street for three blocks in either direction, and new portions of Pennsylvania Avenue are cordoned off as well. No chances are being taken with the very important person visiting the White House on this special day.
Making his way through the crowded and hectic corridor on the first floor of the West Wing, Asher enters the White House Operations office and stops in the doorway when he sees a petite young woman who is definitely not Hayley sitting at her desk. She smiles pleasantly at Asher, who continues to gape at her.
“Who are you?” he asks her in an unfriendly way.
“I’m Charlotte,” she tells Asher, offering him her hand.
He doesn’t take her hand. “Where’s Hayley?” he demands to know.
“Who?” she asks innocently. Charlotte had been interning in the scheduling office located on the second floor of the EEOB, and this morning is the first time she has set foot in the West Wing. An assignment with White House Operations is more than she had imagined in her wildest dreams, and she has already group-texted nearly all three thousand names in her contact list with the news. Having heard stories about Asher told by other White House interns, she is intimidated by him. Nevertheless, Charlotte is determined to perform above expectations. Her dad, a huge fan of Monroe, would kill her if she fails to score a selfie with the president.
Asher’s phone buzzes before he can say anything unkind to the new girl. He walks over to his desk and sits in order to answer it.
“It’s me,” Hayley tells him. She is seated at a small metal desk in the subbasement of the James Madison Memorial Building on Independence Avenue. The library’s stacks are silent and still as a mausoleum. Every other bank of overhead fluorescent lights has been turned off to save energy costs, casting even more gloom.
Asher is relieved to hear from his friend. “I’ve been trying to call! Where are you?”
“I turned my phone off. They’re all over that. They suspect I might know something.”
His eyes fall on Charlotte across the room. “There’s some strange person sitting at your desk. Why aren’t you here?”
“I’m at the Library of Congress. Karen Rey transferred me.”
Asher is stunned. “What? Why? Oh, God, is she part of all this, too?”
“No, at least I’m pretty sure she isn’t. This was just office politics.”
The awareness of his own complicity in the plot hangs over Asher like a noxious cloud. “But are you okay?”
A gap yawns in their conversation. The question strikes Hayley as odd. “Asher, did you know one of Odom’s guys came to my place last night?”
“Wait, what? One of them came to your place? When?” His alarm and dismay is genuine.
“Last night. Right after I got home.” Asher doesn’t respond, the words stuck in his throat. “It’s okay,” Hayley assures him. “He just asked a lot of questions and left. But I’m pretty sure they’ll still be following me.”
The silence from Asher continues. Everything has gone so dreadfully wrong, his betrayal of Hayley carving a pit out of his gut and filling it with anxiety. He no longer is frightened, just terribly fatigued. His willpower has deserted him to the extent he doubts whether he can summon the energy to retie the lace on his Ted Baker suede desert boot. All the beautiful objects with which he has adorned his existence now seem garish and wasteful. Self-loathing brings bile to his mouth. What would his parents think of their golden child now?
“Asher? Are you there?” Hayley’s voice is soft and kind, her West Virginia accent like a warm, comforting hand on his cheek.