Clare frowns, her voice flattened by sarcasm. “How kind of you. I’ll try remembering your generosity when Russia responds to the NSA’s provocation by moving troops into Ukraine.”
Hernandez shrugs. “Moscow does as Moscow wants.” He turns for the door.
“Can my people see the report? What F6 has come up with by way of analytics?” she asks to his back.
Hernandez barely pauses on his way out. “Keep checking your inbox, Madam Secretary.”
* * *
HAYLEY DOESN’T LEAVE the White House complex until ten that night. The fresh air and balmy temperature—a harbinger of muggy days to come—is a relief after being cooped up in the West Wing. Following the Metro attack, simmering concerns about the nation’s cyber security have exploded into a real crisis. Monroe rises to the occasion, of course, presenting just the right measure of calm leadership and firm resolve. He “plays” president well, which might explain why Moscow covertly drafted him as a candidate for the nation’s highest office. For the time being, at least, the Metro attack has had the positive effect of silencing Monroe’s critics. Among administration staffers, hopes for a second term have been reignited.
Hayley knows better. Over the past twenty months, she has witnessed the president’s terrible mood swings and depression. Even without the psychological training received at the deeper state’s training site in Oregon, she understands that Richard Monroe desperately craves escape from his impossible predicament.
She takes her time on the walk home. It had been an emotionally draining day, beginning with the unsettling visit to the Pentagon to see Charlie Hicks and only getting worse with the Metro derailment. Only now does she recall the voice mail on her office phone from Sam McGovern. He called the White House in the late afternoon, following up on their chance meeting at Darlington House. But his voice message barely registered in a day of seemingly unending chaos. Hayley’s mind works in such a peculiar way, her encyclopedic memory like an overstuffed closet. Essential items can become lost in the clutter. In her roundabout way, she only now recalls this effort Sam made to connect with her. Brooding on it, Hayley realizes his call was easily the best thing that happened in an otherwise dreadful day. As she strolls north, Hayley reaches for her phone and dials the number he left in his voice mail.
Sam answers on the second ring.
“How’s it going?” he asks brightly.
“I was on that train, slugger.”
“What? Are you okay?” Sam’s alarm seems authentic.
His concern moves her, an emotion she pushes down. “I’m fine, really. My paramedical training came in handy.”
“Gosh, I wish I could’ve been there to help. Our unit was working a building fire on Twenty-Fifth Street.”
“Honorable mention for being the first person in a long time to say ‘gosh.’ ” She thinks about it for a second. “Maybe ever.”
Sam is undoubtedly secure enough to laugh at himself. “I didn’t even realize I said it.”
“That’s okay. I like it.”
In his embarrassment, the fireman changes the subject.
“Cyber Jihad, huh?”
“If that’s what the TV says.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? Can I see you? Buy you a drink?”
“I’m whipped. Rain check?”
“Sure. Call me when you’re ready. I don’t want to be a pest.”
“You’re not a pest.” After a pause, she says, “I’m glad you called.”
Sam’s inordinately pleased she has said these words. “And I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
They continue talking for a few minutes, relieved that the hard part of just making the first phone call was over. Hayley tells him about the crash and suspicions of a Russian-sponsored cyberattack. He asks questions and never once acts like he knows more than she does. It feels easy, the banter between them. After they make their goodbyes, Hayley is surprised to be standing across the street from her apartment building. Without realizing it, their conversation has carried her the whole walk home. Recognition of her nearly immediate connection with the fireman troubles Hayley. Does she have the time and energy for something resembling a real relationship? For most of her adult life, the deeper state operative has adopted more of a “gun-and-run” romantic strategy. A prospective partner who seems, superficially, at least, to be a normal, well-adjusted man slightly unnerves her. As she crosses the street, approaching the entrance to her building, Hayley decides she won’t call him for at least a week. Better to allow the urgency of this thing between them, whatever it might be, to flatten out and test its durability. If she still has the itch to see Sam McGovern again after a cooling-off period, then maybe there’s something to it.
As Hayley punches the entry code to unlock the door to the building, she hears movement in the darkness to her right and instinctively braces for an attack.
“You look like shit,” a female voice says, without menace.
A young woman, wearing ripped jeans, a James Perse T-shirt, and a Chanel bouclé jacket, steps out from the shadows. Hayley hasn’t seen April Wu in more than two years, not since leaving the Publius training camp in central Oregon. They had a rocky start there, to the extent that Hayley broke April’s finger in a “test your mettle” fight over cafeteria seating. That hostile rivalry quickly evolved into a friendly one. Of the several dozen agent candidates vying for the assignment of the organization’s first operation, the deeper state would select only one. Mission details were unknown at that time. Hayley would eventually learn the truth, of course, but their superiors never informed the other agent candidates of Richard Monroe’s identity as a Russian mole.
Hayley is pleasantly surprised to see her rival from training camp. But she remains guarded, nonetheless. Her orders are clear. The exact nature of her operation at the White House must be withheld from April. Publius wants its agents compartmentalized when it comes to privileged information.
“Maybe I don’t feel like spending half of my annual income on clothes. What the hell are you doing here, April?”
April laughs, incredulous. “Half?” She gestures toward the door. “You mind?”
Hayley privately chides herself. Whatever her deeper state colleague has to say requires privacy. They head inside her building.
* * *
“YOU’VE BEEN IN DC all this time? Why didn’t you contact me? Are you active duty?” Hayley’s questions come rapid-fire. She wants to point out that she thought they were friends and that the army lieutenant’s negligence to visit has hurt her feelings, but she refrains from saying the words.
April isn’t the least bit contrite. “I didn’t know you were here, either. That is, not until I saw your name splayed all over the news after that business at Camp David,” she says, referring to the assassination attempt early in the president’s second year in office. “I don’t think they wanted us just hanging out.”
Hayley nods, in control of her emotions. Some unidentifiable thing about April seems off. What is it? Until she knows the reason for this surprise visit, the less said the better.
“Was that your mission? To protect the president from the… Shady Side cabal?” April asks, mockingly waggling all ten fingers.