Andrew Wilde is waiting for her on a bench near the Barry statue.
He says, “Too predictable. Too routine.”
Hayley does nothing to disagree with Wilde’s assessment. She finds herself marveling at Wilde’s deep tan. When they first met, the spy explained his skin tone was a result of a vacation home in Puerto Rico. Hayley assumes this is only one more cover story. The man’s inherent gravitas convinced Hayley of the significance of his recruitment pitch. As it turned out, that first impression was fully warranted. She has gotten enough gravitas in her association with the deeper state to last a lifetime.
“What’s up?” she asks, guarded. Andrew Wilde had only popped up like this once before when he first appeared at one of her amateur bouts at Fort Hood. Following her recruitment, their communications have been limited to encrypted messages, calls, and emails over the KryptAll phone.
Wilde shrugs. “Checking up, face-to-face. What with the break-in and all.” He says the second sentence archly and with a tinge of mockery.
“Are we okay here?” Her voice becomes sharper. “Am I okay?”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Have I done something to displease you or whoever it is that’s above you?”
“You’re insecure. Why?”
Hayley scoffs. “What’s going on? Please, sir. You owe me that much.”
“We all appreciate the challenges inherent in your mission, Hayley. It would be impossible for me to overstate the pressures you’re under.”
“I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.” She feels the heat of anger, her affliction, go up a few degrees. What does he actually want?
“Tell me more about this break-in. Could it have been a disgruntled lover?”
“If you know enough to find me here at thirteen minutes before six, you know ‘man trouble’ isn’t exactly in the cards.”
“Then… what?”
Hayley stares off.
Wilde doesn’t wait for her answer. “We’ve analyzed the images you forwarded last night. There is little question the individual is trained and professionally equipped.”
She cannot argue with that assessment. “Nothing was found. I’m good.”
“Why would you be targeted? A low-level staffer for an advisor to the president wouldn’t typically fall in the sphere of interest by foreign intelligence services.”
“But that’s a possibility, sir. Or, I’m simply the victim of a very meticulous junkie.”
Wilde stares at Hayley with a placid expression, his tan face infuriating in its impeccable smoothness. “Would you like to be replaced?”
The question is a thunderbolt, out of the blue and shocking.
“What? No!” Her mind races. Her worries that she has done something to displease Wilde were well placed. But why? She has filed her reports in a timely fashion and maintained perfect mission integrity. Hayley can’t think of one misstep or careless incident.
His gaze holds hers. With a long history in intelligence work and overseas covert operations, Wilde possesses a better understanding of human psychology than many trained mental health professionals. He has Hayley Chill’s number. She will do whatever it takes to succeed at an assigned task.
“If you’ve been compromised in any way, you’re done.”
Hayley controls her emotions. Life as an army boxer taught her many lessons. A rudimentary one is the art of the counterpunch. “If I’m compromised, someone in the organization screwed up. Not me. Maybe if you figured out who broke, the threat could be neutralized.”
“We’re working on it.” He doesn’t seem all that concerned, however. “This cyber business. Monroe is contacting his Russian handler?”
“Yes, sir. We should hear something in the next day or two.”
“Good.” Wilde stands. “We’re done here.”
Without further ceremony, he turns and strolls quickly away, heading toward I Street along the southern reaches of the park. The first pedestrians are entering the park a few hundred feet away.
Hayley watches her deeper state supervisor go, attempting to decipher the true meaning behind his final words. We’re done here. As with everything in this clandestine world of subterfuge and deceit, the surface of things is all for show. The real truth lies beneath that veneer. Trust no one. That was the first lesson she learned in this town, spoken to her by a mentor, the president’s assassinated chief of staff. They remain words to live by.
* * *
THURSDAY, 10:50 A.M. Four people await the president’s arrival in the Oval Office. Sitting in awkward silence on the couch and chairs at the opposite end of the room from the Resolute desk is Vice President Vincent Landers, National Security Agency director General Carlos Hernandez, and secretary of Homeland Security Clare Ryan. Standing nearby is senior advisor, Kyle Rodgers, with an attentive Hayley Chill at his side. She possesses the necessary security clearance in case someone needs a fresh cup of coffee, the identity of Russia’s State Duma chairman (Vyacheslav Viktorovich Volodin), or the technical name of the synthetic chemical compound more commonly known as the nerve agent VX (O-ethyl S-2-diisopropylaminoethyl methylphosphonothioate). Hayley impresses many of her colleagues in the White House with her astounding wealth of knowledge. Only her boss, Kyle Rodgers, knows her gift of eidetic memory is behind her erudition.
The attack on the nation’s newspapers required the president’s attention. With Hayley’s pressure on Kyle Rodgers the day before, time was made in Monroe’s schedule for a sit-down with the government officials most responsible for cyber preparedness. But the meeting’s participants have been waiting for some time, Monroe’s problems keeping to a meticulously crafted daily schedule legendary. Hernandez impatiently checks his wristwatch. Clare Ryan clears her throat. Rodgers is about to stand to check on the president when the door leading to a private study adjoining the Oval Office swings open. Richard Monroe enters the room like a summer storm. Everyone stands.
“Sorry for the delay, folks.” Monroe drops into an upholstered chair before the dark fireplace. The others take their seats as well, greeting the president respectfully. Hayley remains to the side of the room. The president knows she’s there but refuses to look in her direction.
“So, this cyber business. Who wants to start?” the president asks.
Clare Ryan, in her forties and possessing an efficient intensity that commands attention, beats the NSA director to the punch. “Mr. President, as you know, DHS hasn’t the mandate to provide network protection for the private sector. As much as we’d like defending the American people from these attacks—whether on the major newspapers or Iran’s Operation Ababil against the US banking system a few years back—our directives are clear. Government networks are the responsibility of Homeland Security. And we’re confident with those protections we have in place.”
Monroe looks to Hernandez, a lean man in his fifties with a prominent forehead and iron-gray hair. He wears his US Army uniform with enormous pride. “Cyber Command is responsible for defending military networks, Mr. President, while the NSA is by its mandate an offensive component,” he says.
“The private sector is expected to fend for itself?” asks Monroe.