Liam speaks up. “Madam Director, is Noa’s cell phone in your possession?”

  “My security detail has it.”

  “Get it,” he says. “Noa has something we both need to see.”

  Hannah listens carefully as Noa once again goes over the mission concerning Donna Otterson, a relatively obscure finance resource officer in the Directorate of Support. Noa has her phone in hand as she goes on.

  “We were scammed by the president,” Noa says. “We thought she was engaged in espionage with the Chinese, and we had these surveillance photos to prove it. It looks like she was passing along information to Chinese intelligence. I had my team dig deeper. It wasn’t the Chinese at all. It was this woman.”

  Hannah peers closer at the photos of the woman with the dark clothes and baseball cap pulled down tight over her face. “Do we know who this woman is?”

  Noa says, “No.”

  Liam sighs. “Yes.”

  She and Noa both stare at Liam. “Who is she?” Hannah asks.

  “That’s a Washington Post reporter,” Liam says.

  Noa says, “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” Liam says. “Her name is Kay Darcy, and she’s my ex-wife.”

  CHAPTER 79

  SPEAKER OF THE House Gwen Washington is sitting in her luxurious office, thinking, staring at the confident man sitting across from her, Congressman Fritz Deering of Ohio, the House majority leader and the traitorous son of a bitch who wants to be sitting on her side of the desk.

  He’s wearing a cheap black suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. His thick toupee is gray and white, and with his black eyebrows, it makes him look like some sort of angry badger or possum.

  Besides being the majority leader, he’s also the unofficial head of the Old Party Caucus, seeking to return the party to the roots of the working person, old-style manufacturing jobs, and dreams of the 1950s where the average man could support his wife and two kids on one salary, and have a comfortable life.

  An average white man, of course, but Gwen doesn’t feel like explaining that sensitive point once more to Fritz.

  Gwen says, “You asked for a meeting, so here it is. You have five minutes, Fritz. Go.”

  He folds his arms across his plump belly. “I’ve been trying to keep our House members in line, and it’s not working. There’s a move afoot to combine the three different House committees looking into your financial dealings into one investigative committee, with full subpoena powers. It won’t be pretty.”

  Gwen feels like her hands and feet are freezing from this news. “There’s no evidence that those documents are real. I assure you that they are not.”

  Fritz shrugs. “At this point, what difference does it make? The investigations here on the Hill and no doubt from the FBI are underway, and that work will take weeks to conduct, weeks where the people’s business won’t take place, and things here and in the Senate will be in lockdown.”

  She says, “Fritz, I really admire the way you say ‘the people’s business’ without that rug on your head bursting into flames. It sounds so noble, so pure, only being concerned with the people’s business. That’s utter horseshit and you know it.”

  Gwen glances over at the old wind-up clock in the corner of her office, once belonging to her great-grandfather, the son of slaves, alive, still working.

  “You have two minutes now,” the speaker of the House says. “Don’t waste them.”

  His face flushes. Gwen knows how much he hates his toupee, but it’s part of his “street cred” or whatever with his fellow caucus members and constituents that he wears something so cheap on his scalp.

  “It’s like this,” he says. “You have two choices ahead of you. Let the investigations kick in and have the Hill and the nation suffer. Or resign.”

  “The way you’re saying that, Fritz, it sounds pretty simple,” she says.

  “It’s the best thing for the party and the country, and you know it, Gwen,” he says. “Step down with your name and dignity intact and retire back home to California. I’m sure you can get a comfortable teaching job at some university or college.”

  “You think that’s what I really want? A comfortable teaching job?”

  “Why not?” he asks. “Leave the charges behind, slip on out—”

  Cold fury seizes her. “Congressman, my whole life I’ve never ‘slipped on out’ on any damn thing, and I’m not going to start it today.”

  “I was just suggesting—”

  “Take your suggestions and shove them where the proverbial sun don’t shine, Congressman,” Gwen says. “The charges are false. And I’m going to fight them every second, minute, and hour of every day, even with you egging on your Stone Age caucus.”

  “Fine,” he says, abruptly standing up. “The president is wavering on you, every day I get another phone call from a member who wants to see you gone. There’s too much that has to be done with a weakened speaker in charge. I came here in good faith, to help you out. I should have known I was wasting my time with the likes of you.”

  Gwen clenches a fist and gives him a steely smile. “What do you mean, the likes of you? An uppity Black woman who doesn’t know her place?”

  “Whatever,” he says, walking quickly to the door. “But I guarantee you, Gwen, in a week, my place will be here.”

  CHAPTER 80

  LIAM LOOKS TO Noa and Director Abrams, and says, “Kay’s working on a story about Barrett. She knows he’s funding and supporting private paramilitary teams, here and overseas. She doesn’t have all the pieces, but she’s got enough to keep working on it.”

  He takes in the surveillance photo. “That’s her. The way she’s dressed, the body frame, the way she holds her arms and the way her head is cocked. That’s Kay.”

  Noa says, “But why is she meeting with Donna Otterson? A finance resource officer?”

  “Kay’s thorough,” he says. “There has to be something there. She won’t go through official channels to get to her story. And as another incentive, she also hates the Agency for breaking up our marriage.”

  The director says, “Is she right?”

  Liam says, “Of course she’s right.”

  “Can you still see her?” Hannah asks. “Will she talk to you?”

  “If she thinks she can get a story out of it, yes,” Liam says. “I talked to her a couple of days ago.”

  Hannah says, “What about?”

  Liam stares at the director of the CIA. “My violation of my oath. I was confirming her information about President Barrett’s illegal activities, about setting up paramilitary teams here and abroad.”

  His boss’s eyes darken and narrow. “One hell of a violation, Mr. Grey.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But it was the right thing to do.”

  “Says who? Your supervisor, or your conscience?”

  “Me, only me,” Liam says, realizing that even in the midst of this crisis, he is out on a long, thin, creaking branch.

  The director smiles. “With what’s going on, that was minor, indeed, Liam. In fact, it’s going to help us. We have a reporter in the most respected and prestigious newspaper in this part of the world, and she’s already working on the story.”

  Noa says, “At the right time, Director Abrams, she could release a number of stories that would help you.”

  Abrams nods. “That’s what I’m thinking. Liam, can you meet with her? Safely?”

  “It’ll take some time, but yes, I can do that.”

  “Good. Meet up with her and we’ll set up a confidential pipeline to her. Feed her information, have her tell us what her editors think, have her tell us what she’s finding out from her own sources. A quid pro quo. It won’t do the job entirely, but it’ll be a help.”

  Noa clears her throat. “With all due respect, Director Abrams, what is our job?”

  Abrams says, “To have President Barrett resign before he kills us all.”

  Nearly an hour later, after more discussion, brainstorming, and setting up plans to contact his former wife—boy, he thinks, she is going to get one hell of a surprise in a few hours—Liam says, “With what the snatch team did to my Jeep, I’m going to need transportation, Director.”

  Hannah is about to reply when one of her two security officers, Ralph, steps into the room and says, “Sorry to interrupt, Madam Director, but there’s a phone call.”

  She gets up from a couch and says, “Probably my deputy director, wondering why in hell I’m so late getting to work.”

  Ralph’s tone is apologetic. “I’m sorry, Madam Director. The phone call is not for you.”

  Liam is frozen at the next words Ralph says.

  “The call is for Liam Grey.”

  CHAPTER 81

  J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Washington, DC

  FBI DEPUTY DIRECTOR Edie Hicks is in Director Warren Jablonski’s office on the seventh floor of the FBI building at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, trying to keep her patience in place.

  The director looks at a two-page memo that Edie had earlier deposited on his wide, shiny, and spotless wooden desk. He stares at it like a dinner at a fine French restaurant, ready to send the blanquette de veau back to the kitchen because it’s two degrees too cool.

  The office is huge, with a conference room table, fine furniture, bookshelves, and, behind the director, American flags and the flag of the FBI. Edie has been in this office numerous times, with both Jablonski and his predecessor. Edie came up the ranks of the FBI the old-fashioned way, assigned to the Criminal Division in the New York Field Office, working the streets, even joining the SWAT team. More assignments followed, from Counterterrorism to even serving two tours in Afghanistan, and running the FBI office in Chicago before being promoted here.

  The FBI director talks in a slow voice, like every word is being carefully weighed and chosen.

  “That’s quick work, Edie,” he says. “Very impressive. A nice reflection on the agents you chose to do such a sensitive job.”

  “Thank you, Director.”

  Then he shuts up.

  Edie feels like sighing. The gaunt man in front of her with the sad basset hound eyes and thick black hair has come up a different way through the Department of Justice, by never making waves and never doing anything controversial. Not an approach that was respected by most of the FBI field agents, but when a crisis ever hit the DoJ or the attorney general’s office, he was always the compromise candidate who’d get the job to “clean things up.”

  She doubts he’s ever made an arrest in the field in his entire career.

  But now he’s here, as director, and Edie loathes one of his habits, which is keeping his mouth shut and letting the other party speak.

  She waits.

  A grandfather clock in the corner goes tick-tick-tick.

  Screw this, she thinks.

  “Do you have any questions, Director?”

  He still stares at the offending memo. “No, you did a thorough job, thank you.”

  Another pause.

  Tick-tick-tick.

  “In case you have any questions, Director,” she says, “I’ll just point out that we were able to get a jump on the investigation because of the accusation that the speaker’s deceased husband used some sort of influence to secure funds years back after Congress passed its latest version of the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act. His bank seemed to be first in line to get the financing, weeks before it was set to be seized by the FDIC.”

  The director just nods.

  Not a word.

  Words are weapons and can be used against you once uttered.

  Edie says, “For lack of a better phrase, that accusation was the low-hanging fruit from all those charges made against the speaker. Following the attorney general’s request, we had a forensic accounting team examine the records in question at the Treasury Department.”

  “I see,” he finally says.

  Edie is now losing her patience. “Director, our accounting team reached the conclusion that the documents were fake. A clever fake indeed, but the type of paper used in those records recovered from the Treasury Department were the wrong bond used during that year. There was also a mistake in recording the address of Mr. Washington’s bank, and the name of the primary bank inspector listed belonged to a Treasury official who had retired three weeks earlier. Other supporting documents that should have been there were missing. To my team, it looked like the documents were made up and planted there.”

  He stays quiet.

  Tick-tick-tick.

  “Director, do you see what we’ve discovered? Speaker Washington is correct. The charges against her are fake. Well-done and apparently incriminating, but fake nonetheless.”

  “So?” he asks.

  CHAPTER 82

  DEPUTY DIRECTOR EDIE Hicks clenches her jaw at the director’s response.

  “Sir, I hope you’re understanding the gravity of this situation.”

  The barest of nods, and he stirs himself just a bit, like an old man waking up after twelve hours of sleep. “But that’s just one charge. There are many others. And your teams haven’t completed their initial investigations.”

  “Yes,” she says, frustrated. “But the fact that the most devastating accusation is fake…well…”

  The director seems to be finally paying attention. “Well, what, Edie? What are you trying to say?”

  Edie is never sure of her status with the director, and what she’s about to say next will probably mean a big hit to her career, but so what?

  What is right is right.

  And the women in this horrible town need to watch out for each other.

  “Sir, my gut is telling me that somehow, somewhere, an enemy or enemies of the speaker are working to either weaken her politically, or to force her out.”

  Another slow nod. “Sounds like a reasonable position.”

  “Sir, someone is attacking a constitutional officer of the United States. We need to do something about it.”

  He says, “We are doing something about it. We’re conducting a quiet and professional investigation.”

  “Yes, sir, but once we’re finished, it’ll be too late,” she says. “There are hearings being planned up on the Hill. Even if they don’t force her out, they will weaken her tremendously, impacting how well she can perform her governmental responsibilities. Saying months later that oops, it was all false…the damage will already have been done.”

  Tick-tick-tick.

  More waiting.

  “Well,” he finally says, “I don’t see any way around it. As unfortunate as it might be for the speaker.”

  “But you can do something, Director. This afternoon. Today.”

  His eyes look troubled. “What is that?”

  She says, “With your permission, Director, I can reach out to a friendly reporter at the New York Times Washington bureau. On deep background, no direct connection to the Bureau, we can have a story appear tomorrow that according to a reliable source, the initial investigation into Speaker Washington’s affairs show that fake documents are being used to smear her.”

  There.

  It’s out.

  Dangling like a balloon between them.

  He clears his throat. The balloon turns into a dirigible, then to the Hindenberg, and everything bursts into flames.

  “Not on your life,” he says.

  “But Director—”

  “No,” he says, voice more firm and resonant. “You know how many previous directors got into trouble for appearing to interfere in political investigations? Too many. And I’m not going to join that list. Not ever. My term of office is not going to include charges that my Bureau was politicized. We’re going to do this by the book, and that’s it. And to make it clear, you are forbidden to discuss this investigation with anyone not in the Bureau. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Utterly,” she says, disgusted.

  “Good,” he says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”

  “Thank you, Director,” she says, getting up and walking away.

  Back in her office and restless, Edie thinks about making a call to a friend of hers, at the “other agency,” but holds off. What would that call accomplish, except for a chance for Edie to bitch at the unfairness of it all? Besides, her friend is no doubt busy with her own problems.

  Edie picks up a copy of that day’s Washington Post, with yet another update on the continuing mystery of the vice president’s coma and condition over at Walter Reed.

  There were days when she and others in this building thought Director Jablonski was in a walking coma, by the way he acted, and one thing that continues to puzzle her is why he’s still here. There were rumors some months ago, after President Keegan Barrett’s inauguration, that he would ask for the director’s resignation and put in one of his own to run the Bureau.

  But no, President Barrett kept this bland and nearly lifeless cipher on board.

  Why the hell would he do that?

  CHAPTER 83

  CIA DIRECTOR ABRAMS leads Liam and Noa into her office at the other side of her home. Liam feels like he’s in the audience of some play and has just been dragged out of the seats to come up onstage and start performing, with no idea of the story or script.

  Her office is neat with built-in bookshelves and only a few framed photos on the walls, and two large windows overlooking a wide rear lawn. Liam has been in offices for military or intelligence leaders where the walls fairly groaned from holding up all the plaques, awards, and light boxes with challenge medals.