James Odom, seated behind his desk with landline phone pressed to his ear, stares at the musket as he waits for a call to be picked up by its recipient. He ponders the human race’s instinct for war, to settle all disagreements with violence and submission. These ruminations are not self-righteous or ethical judgments but rather simple observations of fact. All that he has achieved, his position with the agency and stature within the intelligence community at large, will not be taken from him without a fight. The undeniable fact that his needs dovetail with those of the nation renders his actions unassailable and pristine. His cause is virtuous.
The call goes through. A male’s voice comes across the line. “Yes?”
Odom is somber. History is made with phone calls like this one. He must not ever forget the moment. Two words suffice. “It’s time.” He replaces the phone receiver in its cradle, stands up from his seat, and turns toward a coatrack standing next to the office door.
A few minutes later, the deputy director exits the building through the main entrance and, wearing a navy-blue duffel coat and astrakhan cap, hurries toward the parking lot. Despite clear, blue skies, Odom hunches over as if carrying a heavy burden over his back. The air has gone cold and the wind blows steady.
* * *
HAYLEY IS DRAWN to the protest in Lafayette Square, a spectacle that cannot be ignored. Normal human behavior has seemingly been suspended, replaced by temporary insanity and rule of the mob. The city police, joined by units from federal agencies, attempt to tame the beast, but it is too large and unpredictable. Barricades have been trampled, and demonstrators pour into the streets like supercharged, hometown fans onto a football field after a come-from-behind victory.
More phalanxes of police march into the fray. Hayley stands on the sidelines, watching the police go about the business of establishing order with a frenzy that matches the mob’s fury. They swing their clubs and truncheons with crisp flicks of their wrist, relentless and methodical as seasoned farmworkers.
But the furious protestors, having submitted to their beatdowns at the hands of the Russian security personnel the day before, refuse to capitulate to the US authorities. They fight back with sticks, improvised weapons, and fists. Hayley watches, horrified by the violence. Somewhere a tear gas canister expels its noxious fumes. A mounted policeman swings his baton from high up in the saddle, clubbing heads. The screams of demonstrators who have been injured merge with the howls of their compatriots who avenge those injuries. Hayley shouts but cannot hear her own voice over the clang and blare of the riot.
It is a nightmare in daylight. The sight of a Park Police officer repeatedly striking a female protestor with his baton fixates Hayley. The woman has ceased all resistance. Though still conscious, she seems to have given up all willpower for self-preservation. Finally, the shock paralyzing Hayley becomes rage, and she moves forward with balled fists. “Stop! Stop hitting her! She’s not resisting! What’s wrong with you?” Drawing close, Hayley grips the policeman by the arm holding the baton.
Without losing his rhythm, the policeman shakes Hayley’s hand off and strikes her across the temple with his riot stick. Hayley drops to her knees, stunned. The policeman pushes her facedown on the pavement, retrieves a plastic zip tie from his utility belt, and secures her hands behind her back. With the assistance of a second officer, the policeman lifts Hayley up by her armpits and drags her toward a waiting police van.
Hayley regains her senses. “Wait. I work in the White House. My credentials are in my pocket!” she tells the cops frantically.
The policemen are deaf to Hayley’s protestations, dragging her roughly across the street to the van, where more officers oversee loading of the arrested protestors. She is dumped into the back of the van, joining a dozen other bleeding and bruised citizens, the vehicle doors slammed shut after her. Struggling to sit up, her back against the cold sheet metal walls of the police van, Hayley fights to find emotional equilibrium, thinking back to the morning. Was it just a few hours ago she had enjoyed her usual predawn run?
* * *
MONROE PAUSES IN the doorway of the Cabinet Room, where the Russian president and his clutch of advisors have gathered, and takes in the scene. The Russians are on one side of the long table, facing the Rose Garden windows, while Deputy Chief of Staff Rodgers and other aides wait for him to join them on the opposite side. The US president enters; the room instantly becomes quiet and alert. This long-anticipated and controversial meeting between superpower leaders is moments from commencing. Nothing is more important than its success. No sound or racket of the riot in Lafayette Square permeates into the room.
The new intern, Charlotte, enters unnoticed. She carries the president’s all-important briefing book, significant in its leather binding and historic background. The young female intern scarcely breathes. Blood pounds through her vessels, head buzzing. Not in a million years would she have imagined this moment would be a reality. As instructed by Karen Rey, Charlotte has triple-checked the contents of the briefing book, compiled by the staff only within the last thirty minutes, and delivers it to the president’s seat at the table opposite the Russian president. “Neither seen nor heard” was Rey’s admonition an hour earlier and not difficult for Charlotte to obey. Her anxiety level is off the charts as she places the briefing book on the table.
“Who the hell is this?” Charlotte hears someone say, unsure who has said it and to whom it is in reference. She looks timidly in the direction of the president and is horrified to realize it was Monroe speaking about her! Karen Rey, standing next to POTUS, gapes at her like Charlotte is on fire, or worse. What would be worse than being on fire? Bewildered and ashamed, Charlotte cannot begin to find the answer to that question.
* * *
KAREN REY IS defined by her position as a senior aide in the West Wing. When she wakes up in the morning, she is an assistant to the president, White House Operations. When she goes to bed at night, she is an assistant to the president, White House Operations. When Karen Rey dreams, she dreams as an assistant to the president, White House Operations. Six months ago, at the prodding of her colleagues, Rey composed a profile on Bumble, the dating app, and dutifully fielded dozens of suitors before settling on a modestly good-looking lobbyist with thinning hair and dad body. A dozen desultory “dates” followed their first coffee. Sexual intercourse was achieved on two occasions but even in those interludes, Karen Rey remained, essentially, an assistant to the president, White House Operations. The lobbyist, understandably, grew bored with Rey’s shoptalk and decamped for further, more productive swiping.
Job security is not a hallmark with any administration, but Peter Hall’s shocking death has raised Rey’s employment anxiety to a high pitch. A new chief of staff will want his or her own people for the most important West Wing positions. To shore up her defenses against this probable outcome, Rey has been waging a campaign to ingratiate herself with the president and make herself the “indispensable woman” in the West Wing. She has never gotten the sense the former general really likes her very much, and Rey frets she isn’t “female” enough for the traditional-minded president. His eyes always seem to soften in the presence of Suzy Powell, the assistant to the president for presidential personnel, who has curves going in just about every direction but down. If she had the time and, more critically, the money for breast implants, Rey unhesitatingly would purchase them.